Author: Arthur Hailey
Category: Literature
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“Do many people know about this—what’s happened?”
“As far as I know, not many.” The detective added, “The longer we can keep it that way, the better.”
“Why?”
“With a kidnapping, Mr. Sloane, publicity can be harmful. We may be hearing from the kidnappers—they’ll probably try to contact you first. Then we, or more likely the FBI, will want a dialog with them, a start to negotiating. We won’t want the whole world in on that. Nor will they because …”
Sloane interrupted. “Detective, I’ll talk to you later. Right now there are things I have to do.”
Aware of activity around the Horseshoe and knowing what it meant, Sloane wanted to curb precipitate action. Hurrying from his office he called out, “Where’s Les Chippingham?”
“In the newsroom,” a senior producer said. Then, more gently, “Crawf, we’re all damn sorry, but it looks as if we’re going on the air.”
Sloane scarcely heard. He raced for the stairs and descended them swiftly. Ahead he could see the news president in hasty conference with several others around the national desk. Chippingham was asking, “How sure are we of that Larchmont stringer?”
Ernie LaSalle answered, “WCBA say he’s a little old guy they’ve had for years—foursquare, reliable.”
“Then I guess we should go with what we have.”
Sloane broke into the circle. “No, no, no! Les, don’t go with it. We need more time. The police just told me they may hear from the kidnappers. Publicity could harm my family.”
LaSalle said, “Crawf, we know what you’re going through. But this is a big story and others have it. They won’t hold off. WNBC—”
Sloane shook his head. “I still say no!” He faced the news president directly. “Les, I beg of you—delay!”
There was an embarrassed silence. Everyone knew that in other circumstances, Sloane would be the first to urge going ahead. But no one had the heart to say, Crawf, you’re not thinking coherently.
Chippingham glanced at the newsroom clock: 11:54.
LaSalle had taken over the phone call from Insen. Now he reported, “Chuck says everyone’s set to go. He wants to know: Are we breaking into the network or not?”
Chippingham said, “Tell him I’m still deciding.” He was debating: Should they wait until noon? On monitors overhead he could see the national feeds of all networks. On CBA a popular soap opera was still in progress; when it concluded, commercials would follow. Cutting in now would be a costly disruption. Would less than another six minutes make much difference?
At that moment, simultaneously, several newsroom computers emitted a “beep.” On screens a bright “B” appeared—the signal for an urgent press wire bulletin. Someone reading a screen called out, “AP has the Sloane kidnap story.”
On the national desk another phone rang. LaSalle answered, listened, then said quietly, “Thank you for telling us.” Hanging up, he informed the news president, “That was NBC. They called us as a courtesy to say they have the story. They’re going with it on the hour.”
The time was fifteen seconds short of 11:55.
Making a decision, Chippingham said, “We go now!” Then to LaSalle, “Tell Chuck to break the network.”
17
In the CBA News headquarters building, two floors below street level in a small, plain room, two male operators sat facing complex switching systems with a galaxy of colored lights and dials, computer terminals and television monitors. Two sides of the room had glass surrounds looking out onto drab corridors. Passersby, if so inclined, could look in. This was network master control, technical command post for the entire CBA national network.
Through here all network programming flowed—entertainment, news, sports, documentaries, presidents’ addresses, Capitol Hill follies, assorted live coverage and prerecordings, and national commercials. Surprisingly, for all its importance as an electronic pulse center, master control’s location and appearance were uninspiring.
At master control, each day usually advanced routinely according to a meticulous plan which codified each twenty-four hours of broadcasting in terms of minutes, sometimes seconds. Principally, execution of the plan was by computer, with the two operators overseeing—and occasionally interceding when unexpected events required regular programming to be interrupted.
An interruption was occurring now.
Moments earlier on a direct line from the News Division control room, Chuck Insen had instructed, “We have a news special. It’s for the full network. We’re taking air—now!”
As Insen spoke, the slide “CBA News Special Bulletin,” fed from the news control room, came up on a master control monitor.
The experienced master control operator who received the call knew the command “now” meant exactly that. In the absence of that word, if a program in progress were within a minute and a half of finishing, he would wait until its conclusion before breaking into the network feed. Similarly, if a commercial were airing, he would allow it to finish.
But “now” meant no delay, no holding. A one-minute commercial was being broadcast and had thirty seconds to go. But moving a switch, the operator cut it, thereby costing CBA in lost revenue some $25,000. With another switch he put the “Special Bulletin” slide on the network video feed. Instantly the bright red words appeared on the screens of more than twelve million television sets.
For five seconds, as he watched a digital clock in front of him, the master control operator kept the audio feed silent. This was to allow control rooms of affiliate stations which had not been broadcasting the network program to interrupt their local programming and take the special bulletin. Most did.
At the end of five seconds the audio feed was opened and an announcer’s voice heard.
“We interrupt our regular programming to bring you a special report from CBA News. Now, from New York, here is correspondent Don Kettering.”
In the news control room, the director ordered, “Cue Don!”
Across the nation, the face of CBA’s business correspondent filled television screens.
His voice and expression serious, Kettering began, “Police in Larchmont, New York, have reported the apparent kidnapping of the wife, young son and father of CBA News anchorman Crawford Sloane.”
A slide of Sloane’s familiar face appeared as Kettering continued, “The kidnapping, by unidentified persons, occurred about forty minutes ago. According to police and a witness at the scene, it was preceded by a violent assault …”
The time was 11:56 A.M.
Beating out its competitors, CBA News had broken the story first.
PART
TWO
1
The aftereffects of CBA’s special bulletin announcing the Sloane family kidnap were instantaneous and widespread.
NBC News, whose decent, courteous gesture of informing CBA had robbed it of a possible lead, followed with its own bulletin barely a minute later—ahead of its original plan to break the story at noon.
CBS, ABC and CNN, alerted by wire reports from AP and Reuters, were all on the air with the news within minutes. So were TV stations across the country not connected to a network, but with their own news services.
Canadian television also made the Sloane kidnapping the lead item on noon news broadcasts.
Radio stations, with their lightning immediacy, were even faster than television in spreading the story.
From coast to coast, afternoon newspapers at once began replating front pages with banner headlines. Major out-of-state papers instructed their New York correspondents to work on individual by-line stories.
News photo agencies began a frantic search for pictures of Jessica, Nicholas and Angus Sloane. There was no shortage of Crawford Sloane photos.
The main switchboard of CBA was flooded with calls for Crawford Sloane. When the callers were told politely that Mr. Sloane was not available, most left sympathetic messages.
The press and other media reporters, knowing better than to call a switchbo
ard, used direct lines into CBA News. As a result, some telephones were constantly blocked, making outside communication difficult. Journalists who got through, wanting to interview Sloane, were advised that he was too distressed to talk with anyone and that, in any case, there was no more information than had already been broadcast.
One caller who did reach Sloane was the President of the United States.
“Crawf, I’ve just been told this awful news,” the President said. “I know you have too much on your mind to talk right now, but I wanted you to know that Barbara and I are thinking about you and your family, and hoping for good news very soon. Like you, we want this ordeal to be over.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Sloane said. “That means a lot.”
“I’ve given orders to the Justice Department,” the President said, “that the FBI’s search for your family is to have priority, and any other resources of government that are needed will be used.”
Sloane repeated his thanks.
The substance of the President’s call was immediately made public by a White House spokesman, adding to the growing flow of information which clearly would dominate the evening news broadcasts of all networks.
TV camera crews from New York stations and the networks reached Larchmont shortly after the initial bulletins, and interviewed—as an observer put it—“almost every breathing body in sight,” including some with only a tenuous connection to the case. The ex-schoolteacher, Priscilla Rhea, blossoming under all the attention, proved to be the favorite interviewee, with the Larchmont police chief a close second.
A startling new development emerged when several people living near the Sloanes came forward with information that the Sloane house had apparently been under observation for several weeks, perhaps a month. A succession of different cars, and several times a truck, had been seen to arrive. They remained parked near the house for long periods, with whoever came in the vehicles remaining inconspicuously inside. Some makes of cars were mentioned, though detailed information was sketchy. There was agreement among the observers that sometimes the cars had New York license plates, at other times New Jersey’s. No one, though, remembered numbers.
One of the cars described by a neighbor matched the description of that seen by the Sloanes’ maid, Florence—the same car that followed Jessica Sloane’s Volvo when Jessica, Nicky and Angus left to do the household shopping.
Press and TV interviewers asked the obvious question: Why had no one reported the apparent surveillance to the police?
In each case the answer was the same. It was assumed that some kind of security protection was being provided for the famous Mr. Crawford Sloane, and why would neighbors interfere with that?
Now, belatedly, information about the various vehicles was being sought by police.
Overseas media, too, were showing keen interest in the kidnap story. While the face and voice of Crawford Sloane were not as familiar to foreigners as to North Americans, the involvement of a major TV personality seemed of international consequence in itself.
This overwhelming reaction was proof that the modern network anchorman—species Homo promulgare ancora, as the next day’s Wall Street Journal would dub it—had become a special breed, ranking in public idolization with kings and queens, movie and rock stars, popes, presidents and princes.
Crawford Sloane’s mind was a turmoil of emotions.
He moved through the next several hours partly in a daze, half-expecting to learn at any moment that the entire episode was a misunderstanding, a readily explained mistake. But as time went by, with Jessica’s Volvo still standing unclaimed in the Larchmont supermarket parking lot, this seemed increasingly less likely.
What troubled Sloane greatly was the memory of his conversation the preceding evening with Jessica. It was he who had brought up the possibility of kidnap, and it was not the coincidence which exercised him—he knew from long experience that real life and real news were full of coincidences, sometimes incredible ones. But, as he saw it at this moment, his own selfishness and self-importance made him assume that only he could be a kidnap victim. Jessica had even asked, “What about families? Could they be targets too?” But he had dismissed the idea, not believing it could happen or that Jessica and Nicky should be protected. Now, blaming himself for indifference and neglect, his sense of guilt was overwhelming.
He was greatly concerned, of course, about his father, though clearly Angus’s inclusion in today’s events was accidental. He had arrived unexpectedly and, unhappily, had been caught in the kidnappers’ net.
At other moments during the day Sloane fretted impatiently, wanting to take some action, any action, yet knowing there was little he could do. He considered going to Larchmont, then realized he would gain nothing and would be out of touch if any fresh news broke. Another reason for staying put was the arrival of three FBI field agents who began a flurry of activity centering around Sloane.
Special Agent Otis Havelock, who was senior in the trio, at once demonstrated himself to be, in the words of an observing Horseshoe producer, “a take-charge guy.” He insisted on being conducted directly to Crawford Sloane’s office and there, after introducing himself to Sloane, demanded from his escort the presence of the head of the network’s security force. Next, the FBI agent used a telephone to summon help from the New York City Police Department.
Havelock—small, dapper and balding—had deep-set green eyes and a direct gaze which seldom shifted from the person with whom he was conversing. His permanently suspicious expression appeared to say, I’ve seen and heard it all before. Later, Sloane and others would learn that the unspoken assertion was the truth. A twenty-year FBI veteran, Otis Havelock had spent the greater part of his life dealing with the worst of human infamies.
CBA’s security chief, a grizzled retired New York police detective, arrived speedily. Havelock told him, “I want this entire floor secured immediately. The people who’ve taken Mr. Sloane’s family may make an attempt on Mr. Sloane himself. Station two of your security guards at the elevators and post other guards at any stairways. They’re to check, carefully check, the identity of all persons entering or leaving the floor. As soon as that’s done, begin a thorough check of everyone who is on this floor already. Is that clear?”
The older man protested, “Sure it’s clear, and we’re all concerned for Mr. Sloane. But I don’t have unlimited people and what you’re asking is excessive. I have other security responsibilities I can’t neglect.”
“You’ve neglected them already,” Havelock snapped. He produced a plastic identity card. “Look at this! I used it to get in this building. Just showed it to the guard downstairs and he waved me past.”
The security head peered at the card on which was a photo of a man in uniform. “Whose picture is that?”
“Ask Mr. Sloane.” Havelock handed Crawford Sloane the card.
As Sloane glanced at it, despite his anxieties he burst out laughing. “It’s Colonel Qaddafi.”
“I had it specially made,” the FBI man said. “I use it sometimes to prove to companies like this how lousy their security is.” He told the crestfallen security chief, “Now get on with what I said. Secure this floor and tell your people to look at ID cards carefully, including pictures.”
When the other man had gone, Havelock told Sloane, “The reason security’s bad in most big companies is because security’s not a revenue-producing department; therefore budget people cut it to the bone. If you’d had proper security here, it would have included protection for you and your family at home.”
Sloane said ruefully, “I wish you’d been around to suggest it.”
A few minutes earlier, when Havelock phoned the New York Police Department, he had spoken with the chief of detectives, explaining that a kidnapping had taken place and asking for police protection of Crawford Sloane. Now, from outside, the sound of several rapidly approaching sirens grew louder, then stopped. Minutes later a uniformed police lieutenant and a sergeant marched in.
�
��What I’d like you to do,” Havelock told the lieutenant after introductions, “is keep a couple of radio cars outside to advertise police presence, also post an officer at every outside entrance, with one inside the main lobby. Tell your men to stop and question anyone suspicious.”
The police lieutenant said, “Will do.” To Crawford Sloane, he added almost reverently, “We’ll take good care of you, sir. Whenever I’m home, my wife and I always watch you on the news. We like the way you do it.”
Sloane nodded. “Thank you.”
The policemen, looking around them, seemed inclined to linger, but Havelock had other ideas. “You can do a perimeter check by sending someone up to the roof. Take a look at the building from above. Make sure all exits are covered.”
With assurances that everything possible would be done, the lieutenant and the sergeant left.
“You’ll be seeing a lot of me, I’m afraid, Mr. Sloane,” the special agent said when they were alone. “I’ve been ordered to stay close to you. You heard me say that we think you could be a kidnap target too.”
“I’ve sometimes thought I might be,” Sloane said. Then, expressing the guilt that had been building in him, “It never occurred to me that my family could be in danger.”
“That’s because you were thinking rationally. But clever criminals are unpredictable.”
Sloane asked nervously, “You think that’s the kind of people we may be dealing with?”
The FBI man’s expression did not change; he seldom wasted time with words of comfort. “We don’t know yet what kind they are. But I’ve found it useful never to underestimate the enemy. Then if it turns out later that I overrated him, that’s to my advantage.”
Havelock continued, “Some more of our people will be moving in soon, here and at your home, with electronic gadgetry. We’ll want to monitor your incoming phone calls, so while in this building you should take all calls on your regular line.” He motioned to Sloane’s desk. “If there’s a call from the kidnappers, do the obvious thing—keep talking as long as possible, though nowadays calls can be traced much faster than they used to be, and criminals know that too.”