Arthur Hailey - Evening News

The dead man inside was gross, having put on tremendous weight since issuance of the passport. Even worse, death and a botched embalming job had horribly bloated the body, causing it to putrefy and produce an unbelievably offensive stench. As Amsler breathed the disgusting air, he frantically motioned for the coffin to be closed. Then he ran outside and was violently sick. The sense of sickness and that awful smell remained with him for days afterward and the memory, never eclipsed, came back to him now.

Yet stronger than memory, stronger than his fears, was that inflexible sense of duty. He told Miguel, "I'm truly sorry, but regulations require that the caskets be opened for inspection.”

It was what Miguel had most feared. He made one last attempt to win by reason.”Oh, please, officer. I beg of you! There has been so much anguish, so much pain. We are friends of America. Surely, for compassion's sake, an exception can be made.”

He spoke in Spanish to Socorro, "El hombre quiere abrir los atades.”

She screamed in horror, "ay, no! Madre de Dios, no!”

Rafael joined in. 'Le suplicarnos, senor. En el nombre de decencia, Por favor, nol”

Baudelio, his face ashen, whispered, "Por favor, no lo haga, senior! No lo haga!”

Without knowing all the words, Amsler grasped the essentials of what was being said. He told Miguel, "Please inform your friends that I did not write the regulations. Sometimes I have no pleasure in enforcing them, but it is my job, my duty.”

Miguel didn't bother. There was no point in prolonging this charade. A moment of decision had arrived.

The Customs idiot was prattling on.”I suggest the caskets be taken from the airplane to somewhere private. Your pilot can arrange it. He will get help from Hangar One.”

Miguel knew he could not allow it. The caskets must not leave the plane. Therefore only one recourse remained—armed force. They had not come this far to be defeated by a single Customs cabron, and he would either kill the man here in the airplane or take him prisoner and execute him later in Peru. The next few seconds would decide. The pilots, too, must be held at gunpoint; otherwise, fearful of later consequences, they would refuse to take off. Miguel's hand slipped under his coat. He felt the Makarov nine-millimeter pistol he was carrying and slid off the safety. Glancing at Rafael, he saw the big man nod. Socorro had reached into her handbag.

”No,” Miguel said, "the caskets will not be moved.” He shifted position slightly, placing himself between the Customs man, both pilots and the clamshell door. His fingers tightened on the gun. This was the moment. Now!

In that same instant, a new voice spoke.”Echo one-seven-two. Sector.”

It startled everyone except Wally Amsler, who was used to hearing the walkie-talkie he carried on his belt. Unaware that anything had changed, he lifted the radio to his lips.”Sector, this is Echo one-seven-two.”

"Echo one-seven-two,” the male voice rasped back, "Alpha two-six-eight requests you terminate present assignment and contact him immediately by landline at four-six-seven twentyfour twenty-four. Do not, repeat do not, use radio.”

"Sector. Ten-four. This is Echo one-seven-two out.” Transmitting the acknowledgment, Amsler found it hard to keep elation from his voice. At this very last moment before removing the caskets he had received an honorable reprieve—a clear order he could not disobey. Alpha two-six-eight was the code number of his sector boss for the Miami area and "immediately,” in his superior's parlance, meant "move your ass!” Amsler also recognized the phone number given; it was in the cargo section at Miami International.

What the message most likely meant was that an intelligence tip had been received about an incoming flight carrying contraband—most big Customs breaks came that way—and Amsler was needed to assist. A need to protect the intelligence would be the reason for using landline instead of radio. He must get to a phone fast.

”I have been summoned away, Senior Palacios,” he said.”Therefore I will clear your flight now and you may leave.”

Scribbling to complete the needed paper work, Amsler was unaware of the suddenly lowered tension and relief, not only of the passengers but of the pilots. Underhill and Miguel exchanged glances. The pilot, who had sensed that guns were about to be produced, wondered if he should demand that they be turned over to him before takeoff. Then, assessing Miguel and those glacial eyes, he decided to leave well enough alone. There had already been delay and complication. They would take their clearance and go.

Moments later, as Amsler hurried toward the interior of Hangar One and a phone, he heard the Lerjet's clamshell door close and the engines turning over. He was glad to have that minor episode behind him and wondered what was ahead at Miami International. Would it be the big, important opportunity he had waited for so long?

* * *

The Learjet 55LR, clear of United States air space and on course for Sion, Peru, climbed . . . upward, upward . . . through the night.

Within CBA News, Arthur Nalesworth— urbane, dignified and nowadays known to everyone as Uncle Arthur—had, in his younger years, been a very big wheel. During three decades at the network he worked his way to a series of top appointments, among them vice president of world news coverage, executive producer of the National Evening News,. and executive vice president of the entire News Division. Then his luck changed and, like many before and since, he was shunted to the sidelines at age fifty-six, informed that his days of big responsibility were over and given the choice of early retirement or a minor, makework post.

Most people faced with those alternatives chose retirement out of pride. Arthur Nalesworth, not consumed by self-importance but with a great deal of eclectic philosophy, chose to keep a job—any job. The network, not having expected that decision, then had to find him something to do. First they made it known he would have the title of vice president.

As Uncle Arthur himself was apt to tell it later, "Around here we have three kinds of vice presidents—working veeps who do honest, productive jobs and earn their keep; headquarters—bureaucrat vice presidents who are nonproducing but positioned to take the blame for those above them if anything goes wrong; and 'has-been' vice presidents, now in charge of paper clips, and I am one of those.”

Then, if encouraged, he would confide still further, "One thing those of us who achieve some success in this business should all prepare for, but most don't, is the day we cease to be important. Near the top of the greasy pole we ought to remind ourselves that sooner than we think we'll be discarded, quickly forgotten, replaced by someone younger and probably better. Of course”. . . and here Uncle Arthur liked to quote Tennyson's Ulysses . . .” Death closes all but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done ...”

Unexpectedly, after his high-flying days ended, and surprising both the network and himself, Uncle Arthur found his own "work of noble note.”

It involved young people, candidates for jobs.

TV executives found it a nuisance and sometimes a dilemma when asked an almost identical question by a succession of people—friends, relatives, business contacts, politicos, doctors, dentists, optometrists, stockbrokers, guests at parties, a list ad infinitum. The question was: "Will you help my son/daughter/ nephew/niece/godchild/pupil/protege get a job in television news?”

There were days, especially at college graduation time, when it seemed to those already in the business that an entire generation of young people was attempting to batter down the gates and enter.