Author: Arthur Hailey
Category: Literature
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When he reached the café Miguel could see that only a few people were inside. Entering, he headed for the phone, which was at the rear, and dialed a number he had memorized. After three rings Salaverry answered. “’Allo,” he said with a strong Spanish accent.
Miguel tapped three times on the phone mouthpiece with a fingernail, a signal that identified him. Then he said, keeping his voice low, “Tomorrow morning. Fifty cases.” A “case” was a thousand dollars.
He heard a quick gasp at the other end. The voice which came back sounded frightened. “¿Estás loco?, phoning here tonight? Where are you? Can this call be traced?”
Miguel said contemptuously, “Do you think I am a pendejo?” At the same time he realized that Salaverry had connected him with today’s events; therefore meeting him would be dangerous. Still, there was no alternative. He needed cash to purchase—among other things—the additional casket for Angus Sloane. Also, Miguel knew there was plenty left in the New York account and wanted some extra money for himself before leaving the country. He was certain that more than just commissions had stuck to José Antonio Salaverry’s grubby fingers.
“We cannot meet tomorrow,” Salaverry said. “It is too soon, and too short notice for the money. You must not …”
“¡Cállate! Do not waste my time.” Miguel gripped the phone tightly, controlling his anger, still speaking softly so others in the café would not hear. “I am giving you an order. Get the fifty cases early. I will come to you in the usual way, shortly before noon. If you fail, you know how furious our mutual friends will be, and their arm has a long reach.”
“No, no! There is no need for their concern.” There was a hasty, conciliatory change in Salaverry’s voice. A threat of vengeance by the infamous Medellín cartel was not to be taken lightly. “I will do my best.”
Miguel said curtly, “Do better than that. I will see you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone and left the café.
Inside the Hackensack hideaway the three captives remained sedated under Socorro’s watchful guard. Throughout the night she administered additional dosages of propofol as Baudelio had instructed; she monitored vital signs and kept a record. Shortly before daylight Baudelio awakened from his own sedated sleep. After studying Socorro’s medical log he nodded approval, then relieved her.
In the early morning Miguel, who had slept only fitfully, watched TV news again. The Sloane kidnapping was still the top item, though there were no reports of new leads.
Soon after, Miguel informed Luís that at eleven o’clock the two of them would be driving into Manhattan in the hearse.
The hearse was the group’s sixth vehicle, a Cadillac in good condition, bought secondhand. So far they had only used it twice. The remainder of the time the hearse had stayed out of sight at the Hackensack house, where it was referred to by the others as el angel negro, the black angel. The vehicle’s inside floor, where a casket normally rested, was of handsome rosewood; built-in rubber rollers ensured that a casket’s passage would be smooth. Interior sides and roof were lined with dark blue velvet.
Miguel had originally planned to use the hearse only as a final means of transportation before the air journey to Peru, but now, clearly, it was their safest vehicle. The cars and the GMC truck had had too much exposure, especially during the Larchmont surveillance, and it was possible that descriptions of them had by this time been given to police and circulated.
The weather had changed to pouring rain, with fiercely blowing gusts, the sky a sullen gray.
With Luís driving, they took a circuitous route from Hackensack, several times changing direction and twice stopping to be sure they were not followed. Luís handled the hearse with extra care because of slick roads and poor forward visibility beyond the monotonously slapping windshield wipers. Having gone south on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River as far as Weehawken, they entered the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged in Manhattan at 11:45 A.M.
Both Miguel and Luís were wearing dark suits and ties, appropriate to their presence in a hearse.
After leaving the tunnel they headed east on Fortieth Street. The heavy rain made for bumper-to-bumper crosstown traffic and painfully slow progress. Miguel watched pedestrians moving slowly and uncomfortably on crowded sidewalks.
The paradox of riding through New York City in a hearse amused him. On one hand the vehicle was far too conspicuous for their purpose; on the other it commanded respect. At a previous intersection, a uniformed traffic agent—a “brownie,” as New Yorkers called them—had even stopped other vehicles and waved them by.
Miguel also noticed that many people who glanced at the hearse immediately looked away. He had observed the same thing before and wondered: Was it the reminder of death, the great oblivion, that disturbed them? He had never feared his own death, though he had no intention of making it easy for others to hasten its arrival.
But whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. What did was that no one in the crowds around them was likely to consider that this particular hearse, so close that they could touch it, contained two of the most sought-after criminals in the country, perpetrators of a crime that was the nation’s hottest news story. The thought intrigued Miguel. It was also reassuring.
They turned north onto Third Avenue, and a little short of Forty-fourth Street Luís pulled over to the curb and let Miguel out. Turning his collar up against the driving rain, Miguel walked the last two blocks east to United Nations headquarters. Despite his earlier thoughts about the hearse, arriving in it would court attention he didn’t need. In the meantime Luís had instructions to keep moving and come back to the drop-off point in an hour. If Miguel did not appear, Luís would return every subsequent half hour.
On the corner of Forty-fourth, Miguel bought an umbrella from a street vendor but found it hard to handle in the wind. A few minutes later he crossed First Avenue to the white-fronted UN General Assembly Building. Because of the rain, the many flagpoles stood forlornly bare, bereft of flags. Passing an iron-grille fence and the delegates’ entrance, he ascended steps to a wide platform where visitors were admitted. Miguel, empty-handed, was quickly cleared through a checkpoint inside where others were having their handbags and packages opened for inspection.
In the large hall beyond, benches were filled with waiting visitors, their faces and clothes as diverse as the UN itself. A Bolivian woman in a bowler hat sat stoically. Beside her a small black child played with a stuffed white lamb. Nearby sat an old, weathered man wearing Afghan-type headgear. Two bearded Israelis argued over papers spread between them. And interspersed throughout the crowd were white-skinned Americans and British tourists.
Ignoring those waiting, Miguel walked toward a prominent “Guided Tours” sign at the far end of the hall. Beside it, holding an attaché case, José Antonio Salaverry was waiting.
Just like a weasel, Miguel thought, as he took in Salaverry’s narrow, pinched face, receding hair and thin mustache. The Peruvian diplomat, usually exuding self importance, today appeared ill at ease.
They exchanged the slightest of nods, then Salaverry led the way to an information desk where, with a delegate’s authority, he signed Miguel in, using a bogus name. Miguel received a visitor’s pass.
As the two walked down an avenue flanked by pillars, a garden was visible through glass panels, and beyond it the East River. An escalator took them upward to the next floor where they entered the Indonesian Lounge, available only to diplomats and guests.
The large, impressive room, where heads of state were entertained, contained magnificent art including the curtain of the Holy Kaabe entry to Mecca, a black tapestry inlaid with gold and silver and presented by the Saudis. A deep green carpet’ complemented white leather sofas and chairs, the furnishings ingeniously arranged so that several meetings could take place at once, with none intruding on another. Miguel and Salaverry seated themselves in a small private section.
As they faced each other, José Antonio Salaverry’s thin lips twisted with displeasure. “I warned you it was
dangerous to come here! There is already enough risk without creating more.”
Miguel asked calmly, “Why is coming here a risk?” He needed to find out how much this weakling knew.
“You fool! You know why. The television, the newspapers, are full of what you have done, those people you have seized. The FBI, the police, are throwing everything into the search for you.” Salaverry swallowed, then asked anxiously, “When are you going—all of you getting out of the country?”
“Assuming what you say is true, why do you want to know? What difference does it make to you?”
“Because Helga is frantic with anxiety. So am I.”
So the loose-tongued idiot had shared what he knew with his whoring woman banker. It meant that the original breach of security had widened and was now an imminent danger which had to be erased. Though Salaverry had no means of knowing, his foolish admission had sealed the fate of his woman and himself.
“Before I answer,” Miguel said, “give me the money.”
Salaverry manipulated a combination lock on his attaché case. From the case he removed a bulging pressboard wallet tied with tape, and passed it over.
Miguel opened the wallet, surveyed the money inside, then retied the tape.
Salaverry asked petulantly, “Don’t you want to count it?”
Miguel shrugged. “You would not dare cheat me.” He considered, then said with apparent casualness, “So you want to know when I and certain others will leave.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Where will you and the woman be tonight?”
“In my apartment. We are too upset to go out.”
Miguel had been to the apartment and remembered the address. He told Salaverry, “Stay there. I cannot telephone because of reasons which will become clear. Therefore a messenger will come to you tonight with the information you want. He will use the name Plato. When you hear that name, it is safe to let him in.”
Salaverry nodded eagerly. He seemed relieved.
Miguel added, “I am doing you this service in return for your obtaining the money promptly.” He touched the press-board wallet.
“Thank you. You understand I have no wish to be unreasonable …”
“I understand. But stay home tonight.”
“Oh, I will.”
From the UN building, Miguel crossed First Avenue to the United Nations Plaza Hotel. On the main floor he went to a pay phone near the newsstand.
He tapped out the memorized digits for a call to Queens. When a voice answered, he knew he was connected with a fortress-like private house in the Little Colombia distict of Jackson Heights. Miguel spoke briefly, avoiding use of names, gave the number of the pay phone from which he was calling and then hung up.
He waited patiently by the phone; on two occasions when other people approached, he pretended to be using it. After seven minutes it rang. A voice confirmed that it was speaking from another pay phone. The call would not be traced or overheard.
Speaking softly, Miguel stated his requirements. He was assured they could be met. A contract was arranged, a price of six thousand dollars agreed. Miguel gave Salaverry’s apartment address and explained that the name “Plato” would ensure admittance. He emphasized, “It is to be done tonight and must appear to be a murder-suicide.”
His instructions, he was promised, would be carried out precisely.
Miguel arrived at the Third Avenue rendezvous point a little less than an hour from the time he had left. Moments later Luís brought the hearse to the curb.
Getting in, out of the rain, Miguel told Luís, “We go now to the funeral place—the same one as before. You remember?”
Luís nodded and, soon after, turned east toward the Queensboro Bridge.
5
At times, when news was quiet, a network news organization was like a slumbering giant.
It operated at considerably less than a hundred percent utilization and a substantial number of its talented people had what was referred to in the trade as “down time”—meaning they were not actively at work.
Which was why, when a major news event occurred, there were experienced hands who could be—as another trade phrase went—“grabbed and fired up.”
On Friday morning, one day after the Sloane family kidnapping, the firing-up process had begun as the special task force headed by Harry Partridge, with Rita Abrams as senior producer, began assembling within CBA News headquarters.
Rita, who had reached New York from Minnesota late the night before, came in to the newly assigned task force offices at 8 A.M. Harry Partridge, having spent the night in a luxury suite provided by the network at the Inter-Continental Hotel, joined her soon after.
Wasting no time, he asked, “Any new developments?”
“Zilch on the kidnap,” Rita answered. “But there’s a mob scane outside Crawf’s house.”
“What kind of mob?”
The two were in what would be the group conference room and Rita leaned back in a swivel chair. Despite the brevity of her vacation, she seemed refreshed, her usual vitality and drive restored. Nor had she lost the quirky cynicism which those who worked with her enjoyed.
“These days, everyone wants to touch the hem of an anchorman. Now that they’ve learned his address, Crawf’s fans are pouring into Larchmont. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The police are having trouble coping and they’re setting up road barriers.”
“We have a camera crew on site?”
“Sure have. They camped out all night. I’ve told them to stay in place until Crawf leaves for work. By then, I’ll have another crew out to replace them.”
Partridge nodded his approval.
“It makes sense to assume the kidnappers, and therefore the action, have moved on from Larchmont,” Rita said, “but I think we should protect ourselves by being around for a couple of days in case anything fresh breaks. That is, unless you have other ideas.”
“Not yet,” he said; then added, “you know we’ve been given pretty much a blank check where talent is concerned?”
“I was told last night. So I’ve asked for three producers to begin—Norman Jaeger, Iris Everly and Karl Owens. They’ll be here soon.”
“Great choices.” Partridge knew all three well. Their abilities were among the best in CBA News.
“Oh, I’ve allocated offices. Do you want to see yours?”
Rita led the way around five adjoining offices which would constitute the task force operating base. Network news departments were perpetually in a state of flux, with temporary projects being created and disbanded, so when need arose, required accommodation could usually be found.
Partridge would have an office to himself, as would Rita. Two other offices, already jammed with desks, would be shared by the additional producers, camera crews and support staff, some of whom were already moving in. Partridge and Rita exchanged greetings with them before returning to the fifth and largest office, the conference room, to continue planning.
“What I’d like,” Partridge said, “is to have a meeting as soon as possible with everyone who’ll be working with us. We can allocate responsibilities, then begin work on a spot for tonight’s news.”
Rita glanced at her watch: 8:45 A.M.
“I’ll set it up for ten o’clock,” she said. “Right now I want to find out more about what’s happening at Larchmont.”
“In all the years I’ve lived here,” the Larchmont police sergeant said, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He was speaking with FBI Special Agent Havelock who had emerged from the Sloane house a few minutes earlier to survey a throng of spectators outside. The crowd had been growing in size since dawn and now packed the sidewalks in front of the house. In some places they spilled onto the road where police officers were trying, not too successfully, to control the crowd and keep passing cars moving. Otis Havelock, having stayed in the house overnight, was concerned that Sloane, who was inside getting ready for work, might be mobbed on his way out.
Clustered by the
front gate were television crews and other reporters. As Havelock appeared, TV cameras swung toward him amid shouted questions:
“Have you heard from the kidnappers?”
“How’s Sloane holding up?”
“Can we talk to Crawford?”
“Who are you?”
In response Havelock shook his head and waved his hands dismissingly.
Beyond the press group, the crowd appeared orderly, though Havelock’s appearance had increased the buzz of conversation.
The FBI man complained to the police sergeant, “Can’t you people keep this street clear?”
“We’re trying. The Chief has ordered barriers. We’ll stop traffic and pedestrians, except for those who live on the street, then we’ll try to clear these others out. It’ll take at least an hour. The Chief doesn’t want anyone hassled, not with all those cameras around.”
“Any idea where these people are from?”
“I asked a few,” the sergeant said. “They mostly drove in from outside Larchmont. I guess it’s seeing all that excitement on TV, and wanting a glimpse of Mr. Sloane. The streets around are full of their cars.”
Rain had begun to fall, but it didn’t seem to discourage the watchers. Instead they put up umbrellas or huddled in their coats.
Havelock returned to the house. Inside he told Crawford Sloane, who looked tired and gaunt, “When we leave, it will be in two unmarked FBI cars. I want you in the second. Crouch down in the back and we’ll drive away fast.”
“No way,” Sloane said. “There are media people out there. I’m one of them and I can’t sail by as if I were the President.”
“There may also be someone out there from the people who seized your wife and family.” Havelock’s voice sharpened. “Who knows what they might try, including shooting you? So don’t be a damn fool, Mr. Sloane. And remember I’m responsible for your safety.”
In the end they agreed to invite the camera crews and reporters into the hallway of the house for an impromptu press conference which Sloane would handle. As the journalists trooped in they looked around the luxurious home with curiosity, some with unconcealed envy. The questions and answers that followed were mostly repetitive of those the preceding day, the only new information being that there had been no communication from the kidnappers during the night.