The Evening News Read online

  After breakfast, prowling around the apartment in pajamas, he observed, “This place is getting tacky. It needs repainting and new furniture.”

  “I know,” Vivien acknowledged. “I’ve been after the building owners about repainting. But they say this apartment isn’t due to have money spent on it.”

  “Screw ’em! Do it without the owners. You find a painter and order whatever’s needed. I’ll leave enough money before I go.”

  “You’re always generous about that,” she said; then added, “do you still have that wonderful arrangement where you don’t pay income tax?”

  He grinned. “Sure do.”

  “To anybody, anywhere?”

  “Not to anyone, and it’s perfectly legal and honest. I don’t file any income tax return, don’t have to. Saves a lot of time and money.”

  “I’ve never understood how you manage it.”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” he said, “though normally I don’t talk about it. People who pay income tax get jealous; that’s because misery likes company.”

  The critical factor, he explained, was being a Canadian citizen, using a Canadian passport, and working overseas.

  “What a lot of people don’t realize is that the United States is the only major country in the world that taxes its citizens no matter where they live. Even when Americans reside outside the U.S., they still get taxed by Uncle Sam. Canada doesn’t do that. Canadians who move out of the country aren’t liable for Canadian taxes, and once the revenue service is satisfied you’re gone, they’ve no further interest in you. The British are the same.”

  He continued, “The way it works is that CBA News pays my salary each month into a New York account I have at Chase Manhattan. From there I move the money to accounts in other countries—the Bahamas, Singapore, the Channel Islands, where savings earn interest, totally tax-free.”

  “What about taxes in countries you go to—those you work in?”

  “As a TV correspondent I’m never in one place long enough to be liable for tax. That even includes the U.S., provided I’m there no more than 120 days a year, and you can be sure I never stay that long. As for Canada, I don’t have a domicile here, not even this one. This is solely your place, Viv, as we both know.”

  Partridge added, “The important thing is not to cheat—tax evasion’s not only illegal, it’s stupid and not worth the risk. Tax avoidance is quite different …” He stopped. “Hold it! I have something here.”

  Partridge produced a wallet and from it extracted a folded, well-fingered news clipping. “This is from a 1934 decision by Judge Learned Hand, one of America’s great jurists. It’s been used by other judges many times.”

  He read aloud, “‘Any one may so arrange his affairs that his taxes shall be as low as possible; he is not bound to choose that pattern which will best pay the Treasury; there is not even a patriotic duty to increase one’s taxes.’”

  “I can understand why people envy you,” Vivien said. “Are there others in TV who do the same?”

  “You’d be surprised how many. The tax advantages are a reason Canadians like to work overseas for American networks.”

  Though he didn’t mention them, there were other reasons, including U.S. network pay scales, which were substantially higher. But even more important, to work for an American network was to have made the prestigious “big time” and be on the exciting center stage of world affairs.

  For their part, the U.S. networks were delighted to have Canadian correspondents, who came to them well trained by CBC and CTV. They had learned also that American viewers liked a Canadian accent; it was a contributing reason for the popularity of many news figures—Peter Jennings, Robert MacNeil, Morley Safer, Allen Pizzey, Barrie Dunsmore, Peter Kent, John Blackstone, Hilary Bowker, Harry Partridge, others …

  Continuing to prowl through the apartment, Partridge saw on a sideboard the tickets for the Mozart concert the next day. He knew he would enjoy it and was grateful once more to Vivien for remembering his tastes.

  He was grateful too for the three weeks of vacation—restful idleness, as he thought of it—that lay ahead.

  11

  Jessica went household shopping every Thursday morning and she intended to follow her usual routine today. When Angus learned this, he volunteered to accompany her. Nicky, who was home because of a school holiday, asked to go as well so he could be with his grandfather.

  Jessica asked doubtfully, “Don’t you have some music to practice?”

  “Yes, Mom. But I can do it later. I’ll have time.”

  Knowing that Nicky was conscientious about practicing, sometimes for as long as six hours a day, Jessica raised no objection.

  The three of them left the Park Avenue house in Jessica’s Volvo station wagon shortly before 11 A.M., about an hour and a quarter after Crawford’s departure. It was a beautiful morning, the trees rich with fall colors and sunlight glistening off Long Island Sound.

  The Sloanes’ day maid, Florence, was in the house at the time and, through a window, watched the trio leave. She also saw a car parked on a side street start up and follow in the same direction as the Volvo. At the time she gave no thought to the second vehicle.

  Jessica’s first stop was, as usual, the Grand Union supermarket on Chatsworth Avenue. She parked the Volvo in the store lot, then, accompanied by Angus and Nicky, went inside.

  The Colombians, Julio and Carlos, in the Chevrolet Celebrity which had trailed the station wagon from a discreet distance, observed their movements. Carlos, who had already reported the departure from the house, now made another cellular phone call, announcing that “the three packages are in container number one.”

  This time Julio was driving, and he did not turn into the store parking lot, instead making observations from the street outside. Following instructions given earlier by Miguel, Carlos now left the Chevy and moved on foot to a position near the store. Unlike other days when he had been casually dressed, today he was wearing a neat brown suit and tie.

  When Carlos was in place, Julio drove the Chevrolet away, in case it had been noticed, to the safe seclusion of the Hackensack operating center.

  When the first of the two phone messages reached Miguel, he was in the Nissan passenger van, parked near the New Haven Railroad’s Larchmont station. The van was inconspicuous, surrounded by other parked vehicles left by New York commuters. With Miguel were Luís, Rafael and Baudelio, though all four occupants were mostly out of sight because of dark, thin plastic sheets covering the side and rear windows. Luís, because of his specialized driving skills, was at the wheel.

  When it became known that three people had left the house, Rafael exclaimed, “¡Ay! That means the viejo’s along. He’ll be in our goddamn way.”

  “Then we’ll ‘off’ the old fart,” Luís said. He touched a bulge in his suede jacket. “One bullet will do.”

  Miguel snapped, “You’ll follow the orders you have. Do nothing else without my say-so.” He was aware that Rafael and Luís were perpetually aggressive, like smoldering fires likely to burst into angry flame. Rafael, heavily built, had been a professional boxer for a while and bore visible fight scars. Luís had been in the Colombian army—a harsh, rough schooling. There could be a time when the belligerence of both men would be useful, but until then it needed to be curbed.

  Miguel was already considering the complication of the third person. Their long-standing plan had involved, at this point, only the Sloane woman and the boy. All along, they—not Crawford Sloane—had been the Sendero Luminoso/Medellín objective. The two were to be seized and held as hostages for as yet unspecified demands.

  But now the question was how to handle the old man? Killing him, as Luís suggested, would be easy, but that could create other problems. Most probably Miguel would not make up his mind until the crucial moment, which was coming soon.

  One thing was fortunate. The woman and the boy were now together. The several weeks of careful surveillance had shown that the woman always shopped on Thursd
ay mornings. Miguel had also known that the boy had a school holiday today. Carlos, posing on the telephone as a parent, had obtained that information from the Chatsworth Avenue grammar school, which Nicholas attended. What had remained in doubt was how to corral the woman and the boy together. Now, without knowing it, they had solved that problem for him.

  When the second message from Carlos came, indicating that all three Sloanes were inside the supermarket, Miguel nodded to Luís. “Okay. Roll!”

  Luís put the Nissan van in gear. The next stop, just a half-dozen blocks away, would be the store parking lot.

  While they were moving, Miguel turned his head to look at Baudelio, the American in the Medellín group, who continued to be a source of worry.

  Baudelio—the name had been chosen for him and, like the others, it was an alias—was in his mid-fifties but looked twenty years older. Gaunt, lantern-jawed, with a sallow skin and a droopy gray mustache he seldom trimmed, he had the appearance of a walking ghost. He had once been a medical doctor, a specialist in anesthesiology practicing in Boston, and a drunk. When left to his own devices he was still a drunk, but no longer a doctor, at least officially. A decade earlier Baudelio’s license to practice medicine had been revoked for life, because while in an alcoholic haze he had overanesthetized a patient undergoing surgery. There had been similar lapses before and colleagues had covered for him, but in this instance it cost the patient’s life and could not be overlooked.

  There had been no future for him in the United States, no family ties, no children. Even his wife had left him several years before. He had visited Colombia several times and, for want of a better place, decided to go there. After a while he found he could use his considerable medical skills for shady, sometimes criminal purposes, without arousing any questions. He was in no position to be particular and took whatever came his way. Amid it all he managed, by reading medical journals, to stay up to date in his specialty. This last was why he had been chosen for this assignment by the Medellín cartel, for whom he had worked before.

  All of this background had been made known to Miguel in advance, with a warning that while the assignment lasted Baudelio was to be deprived of any alcohol. Antabuse pills would be used to enforce the prohibition, one pill to be taken by the ex-doctor every day. The effect of Antabuse was that anyone drinking liquor afterward became violently ill, a fact of which Baudelio was well aware.

  Since it was common practice among alcoholics to spit out the pill secretly if they wanted to cheat, Miguel was cautioned to be sure the Antabuse was always swallowed. While Miguel carried out the instructions, they did not please him. In the comparatively short time available he had a multitude of responsibilities and acting as a “wet nurse” was one he could have done without.

  Also in light of Baudelio’s weakness, Miguel decided not to trust him with a firearm. Thus he was the only one in the group not armed.

  Now, regarding Baudelio warily, Miguel asked, “Are you ready? Do you understand everything that is to be done?”

  The ex-doctor nodded. Briefly a vestige of professional pride returned to him. Looking Miguel directly in the eye, he said, “I know precisely what is necessary. When the moment comes, you may rely on me, and concentrate on what you have to do yourself.”

  Not entirely reassured, Miguel turned away. The Grand Union supermarket was now directly ahead.

  Carlos saw the Nissan passenger van arrive. The parking lot was not crowded and the Nissan entered a conveniently vacant slot alongside Jessica’s Volvo station wagon. When Carlos had observed this, he turned into the store.

  Jessica gestured to her partly filled shopping cart and told Angus, “If there’s something you especially like, just drop it in.”

  Nicky said, “Gramps likes caviar.”

  “I should have remembered that,” Jessica said. “Let’s get some.”

  They moved to the gourmet section to discover it was featuring a special caviar assortment. Angus, inspecting prices, said, “It’s awfully expensive.”

  Jessica said softly, “Have you any idea how much that son of yours earns?”

  The old man smiled; he kept his voice low too. “Well, I did read somewhere it was close to three million dollars a year.”

  “Close is right.” Jessica laughed; being with Angus always made her feel good. “Let’s blow some of it.” She pointed to a seven-ounce can of beluga caviar in a locked display case, priced at $199.95. “We’ll have some of this with drinks before dinner tonight.”

  It was at that moment that Jessica noticed a young man, slightly built and well dressed, approaching another woman shopper nearby. He appeared to ask a question. The woman shook her head. The young man approached a second shopper. Again an apparent question and a negative reply. Mildly curious, Jessica watched the young man as he approached her.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Carlos said. “I’m trying to locate someone.” He had been aware of Jessica all the time but deliberately had not gone to her first, instead positioning himself so that she could see him speaking with the other people.

  Jessica noticed a Spanish accent, though that was not unusual in New York. She also thought the speaker had cold, hard eyes, but that was none of her business. All she said was, “Oh?”

  “It’s a Mrs. Crawford Sloane.”

  Jessica was startled. “I’m Mrs. Sloane.”

  “Oh ma’am, I have some bad news for you.” The facial expression of Carlos was serious; he was playing his part well. “Your husband has been in an accident. He’s badly injured. The ambulance took him to Doctors Hospital. I was sent to find you and take you there. The maid at your house told me you would be here.”

  Jessica gasped and turned deathly pale. Instinctively her hand went to her throat. Nicky, who had returned in time to hear the last few words, looked stunned.

  Angus, though equally shocked, was the first to recover and take charge. He gestured to the shopping cart. “Jessie, leave all this. Just let’s go.”

  “It’s Dad, isn’t it?” Nicky said.

  Carlos answered gravely, “I’m afraid so.”

  Jessica put her arm around Nicky. “Yes, dear. We’re going to him now.”

  “Please come with me, Mrs. Sloane,” Carlos said. Jessica and Nicky, still dazed by the sudden shattering news, went quickly with the brown-suited young man toward the store’s main door. Angus followed. Something was bothering him, though he wasn’t quite sure what.

  Outside in the parking lot, Carlos preceded the others. He moved toward the Nissan van. Both doors on the side next to the Volvo were open. Carlos could see that the Nissan’s engine was running and Luís was in the driver’s seat. A shadowy form in the back had to be Baudelio. Rafael and Miguel were out of sight.

  Alongside the Nissan, Carlos said, “We’ll go in this vehicle, ma’am. It will be …”

  “No, no!” Jessica, tense and anxious, was groping in her purse for car keys. “I’ll take my car. I know where Doctors Hospital—”

  Carlos interposed himself between the Volvo and Jessica. Grasping her arm, he said, “Ma’am, we’d rather you—”

  Jessica attempted to withdraw her arm; as she did, Carlos held her more firmly and pushed her forward. She said indignantly, “Stop that! What is this?” For the first time Jessica began to think beyond the impact of the awful news she had been given.

  A few feet behind, Angus now realized what had been troubling him. Inside the store the strange young man had said, “He’s badly injured. The ambulance took him to Doctors Hospital.”

  But Doctors Hospital didn’t take emergencies. Angus happened to know because over several months the year before he had visited an old Army Air Forces comrade who was a patient there and got to know the hospital well. Doctors Hospital was big and famous; it was close to Gracie Mansion, the mayor’s residence, and alongside the route Crawford used on the way to work. But emergencies were sent to New York Hospital, a few blocks south … Every ambulance driver knew it.

  So the young man was lying! The setu
p in the store had been a fake! What was happening out here wasn’t right either. Two men—Angus didn’t like their looks at all—had just appeared from around the back of the passenger van. One of them, a huge bruiser, had joined the first man; they were forcing Jessica inside! Nicholas, a little way behind, was not yet involved.

  Angus shouted, “Jessica, don’t go! Nicky, run! Get—”

  The sentence was never finished. A pistol butt crashed down on Angus’s head. There was a fierce, searing pain, everything around him spun, then he fell to the ground unconscious. It was Luís who had jumped out of the driver’s seat, rushed around, and attacked him from behind. In almost the same motion, Luís grabbed Nicholas.

  Jessica began screaming and crying out. “Help! Someone—anyone—please help!”

  The burly Rafael, who had joined Carlos in seizing Jessica, now clamped a massive hand across her mouth, set another in her back and flung her inside the van. Then, jumping in himself, he continued to hold her while she screamed and struggled. Jessica’s eyes were wild. Rafael snarled at Baudelio, “¡Apúrate!”

  The ex-doctor, with a medical bag open on the seat beside him, produced a gauze pad which moments earlier he had soaked in ethyl chloride. He slapped the pad over Jessica’s nose and mouth and held it there. Instantly Jessica’s eyes closed, her body sagged and she became unconscious. Baudelio gave a grunt of satisfaction, though he knew the effect of ethyl chloride would last only five minutes.

  By now, Nicholas, struggling too, had been hauled inside. Carlos held him while he received the same treatment.

  Baudelio, still working quickly, used scissors to cut the sleeve of Jessica’s dress, then injected the contents of a hypodermic syringe intramuscularly into her upper arm. The drug was midazolam, a strong sedative that would ensure continued unconsciousness for at least an hour. He gave the boy a similar injection.