Arthur Hailey - Evening News

There had been a stressful silence in the hearse since the encounter with the State Police. But with tensions easing, Socorro told Miguel, "Back there you were magnifico”

“Yeah,” Luis added.

Miguel shrugged.”Don't relax. There may be more to come.”

As they neared the airport fence, he checked his watch: 8:25. They were already a half hour late, also ten minutes after the time he had asked for the south gate to stay open.

When the headlights of the hearse lit up the gate, it was closed and locked. Beyond was darkness—no one in sight. Frustrated, Miguel slammed a fist onto the dashboard, exclaiming, "Mierda”

Luis got out of the hearse to inspect the lock. From the truck behind, Rafael joined him, then walked back to the hearse.”I can blow that mother open with one bullet,” he told Miguel.

Miguel shook his head, wondering why one of the Learjet pilots had not met them here. In the darkness he could make out several parked aircraft inside the fence, but no lights or activity. Could the flight have been delayed? Whatever the answer, he knew they must use the Brunswick Aviation main entrance.

He told Luis and Rafael, "Get back in.”

As they turned away from the south gate, the Plymouth Reliant fell in behind. Obviously, Carlos had come safely through the police roadblock. His instructions were to follow as far as the airport entrance, then wait outside until the hearse and truck returned.

Approaching the brightly lit Brunswick building, they saw that another gate blocked their way. Beside it, at the doorway to a guard post, stood a uniformed security man. Next to him a tall, balding man in civilian clothes was peering intently at the oncoming hearse. A police detective? Once more Miguel felt a tightening of his gut.

The second man stepped forward. Probably in his early fifties, he moved with authority. Luis lowered his window and the man asked, "Do you have an uncommon shipment for Seftor Pizarro?”

A wave of relief swept over Miguel. It was a coded question, prearranged. He used an answering code he had memorized, "The consignment is ready for transfer and all papers are in order.”

The newcomer nodded.”I'm your pilot. Name's Underhill.” His accent was American.”Goddamn, you're late!”

"We had problems.”

"Don't bother me with them. I've filed a flight plan. Let's get going.” As he went around to the passenger side, Underhill motioned to the guard and the gate swung open.

Clearly, there was to be no security check, no police inspection. Their cover story, so painstakingly prepared, was not needed. Miguel found he didn't mind at all.

It was a squeeze with four on the hearse front seat, but they managed to close the door. The pilot directed Luis as the hearse moved onto a taxi strip between blue lights and headed for the airport's south side. The GMC truck was behind.

Several aircraft loomed ahead. The pilot pointed to the largest, a Learjet 55LR. From its shadows a figure emerged.

Underhill said tersely, "Faulkner. Copilot.”

On the Learjet's left side a clamshell door was open; the lower half included steps from the fuselage to the ground. The copilot had gone inside and lights were coming on.

Luis maneuvered the back of the hearse close to the Lear's steps for unloading. The truck stopped a short distance away and from it, Julio, Rafael and Baudelio jumped down.

With everyone assembled around the Learjet doorway, Underhill asked, "How many live ones are flying?”

"Four,” Miguel answered.

”I need those names for the manifest,” the pilot said, "also the names of the dead. Apart from that, Faulkner and I don't want to, know anything about you or your business. We're providing a contract charter flight. Nothing else.”

Miguel nodded. He had no doubt both pilots would earn golden pay for this journey tonight. The Latin America-U.S. air routes were loaded with air crews, Americans and others, who flirted with the law, taking high risks for big money. As for these two, Miguel didn't care one way or the other about their wish to distance themselves from what was happening. He doubted, though, that it would make any difference if they fell into real trouble. The pilots would share it too.

With the copilot supervising and Rafael, Julio, Luis and Miguel lifting, the first casket containing Jessica was transferred from the hearse to the jet. Making the turn through the fuselage doorway was difficult, with barely an inch to spare. Inside, the right-side seats had been removed. Straps to hold cargo in place—in this instance the caskets—were attached to tracks on the floor and other fittings overhead.

By the time the first casket was loaded, the hearse had been moved away and the truck backed in. The other two caskets followed speedily, after which Miguel, Baudelio, Socorro and Rafael boarded and the clamshell door was closed. No one bothered with goodbyes. As Miguel seated himself and looked through a window, the lights of the two vehicles were already receding.

With the copilot still fastening straps around the caskets, the pilot flipped switches in the cockpit and the whine of engines began. The copilot went forward and the radio crackled as tower clearance was asked for and received. Moments later they were taxiing.

Reaching over from his seat, Baudelio began connecting external monitoring equipment to the caskets. He continued to work at it as the Learjet took off, climbed swiftly through the darkness and headed south for Florida.

* * *

On the ground, some unfinished business remained.

As the hearse and GMC truck emerged from the airport, Carlos, waiting outside, put the Plymouth in gear and followed the hearse to Paterson, some ten miles west. There Luis drove the hearse to a modest funeral home which had been randomly selected in advance and parked on the establishment's lot. He left the keys inside, walked quickly to the Plymouth and drove away with Carlos.

Perhaps, in the morning, the funeral home owner would wrestle with his conscience about calling police or waiting to see what happened, if anything, about an apparent gift of a valuable hearse. Whatever the outcome, Carlos, Luis and the others would be far away.

From Paterson, Carlos and Luis traveled six miles north to Ridgewood where Julio had, by this time, driven the GMC truck. He left it outside the premises of a used-truck dealership which had closed for the night. It seemed possible that an unclaimed, almost-new truck might eventually be absorbed, its presence never reported.

The other two picked up Julio at a prearranged point nearby, then the trio returned to the Hackensack hideaway for the last time. There, Julio and Luis switched to the Chevrolet Celebrity and Ford Tempo. Without further delay, they and Carlos dispersed.

They would leave the cars at widely divergent points, with the doors unlocked and ignition keys in place—the last in the hope that someone would steal the cars, thus making any connection with the Sloane family kidnapping highly improbable.

It was not until after the first-feed Saturday National Evening News that the special task force meeting, interrupted by that morning's harrowing events at White Plains, resumed at CDA News headquarters. By then it was 7:10 P.m. and the task force members had resignedly canceled any weekend plans. It was often said of TV news people that their irregular working hours, long absences from home and the impossibility of leading any predictable social life produced one of the highest occupational divorce rates.

Seated once more at the head of the conference-room table, Harry Partridge surveyed the others—Rita, Norman Jaeger, Iris Everly, Karl Owens, Teddy Cooper. Most looked tired; Iris, for once, was less than immaculate, her hair awry and white blouse ink-stained. Jaeger, in shirtsleeves, had his chair tilted back, feet up on the table.