The Marchand Woman

Mort covered her hand with his own; he scowled earnestly. “He’ll get out of it, darling. I know he will.”

“I hope he does it before I fly to pieces,” she replied.

Chapter 2

At eight that night she couldn’t stand it any more. She backed the car out viciously against the mailbox post and drove away leaving bits of red glass in the street.

She walked into the lobby in high dudgeon, browbeat the clerk into revealing the room number and went up in the elevator with a tourist couple and a bellboy. The Iowans were talking about Knott’s Berry Farm. She had to curb her tongue to keep from screaming at them to shut up.

Howard answered the door in T-shirt and shaving cream; evidently he’d been expecting room service. He went all colors at the sight of her.

She thrust past him into the room and kicked the door shut.

Howard said, “I’m sorry. You don’t know what a day it’s been. This problem came up at the conference and then I had to drive one of the Japanese to the airport and of all the damn stupid things the car had a flat and the idiots hadn’t included a spare, and the poor bastard missed his plane and we had a hell of a flap—”

“Soon to be made into a major motion picture,” she said with icy disbelief. “You left instructions with the desk that you weren’t taking calls from me, didn’t you. I’ve been phoning you for six hours.”

“Carole, damn it, I’ve got nothing to tell you. They’ve had nothing to tell me.”

“It was on the car radio just now. It’s been on the news for hours. They’re Cubans.”

“All right. What of it? Nobody knows where Robert is. Isn’t that the bottom line?”

“You might have had the courtesy to call me. At least to let me know they’re getting somewhere.”

“They’re going in circles,” he said. “Accumulating useless facts. Don’t you think I’ve been keeping in touch with Washington? There’s nothing. Nothing hard.”

She sat down, handbag in lap. “If it’s not too much strain I’d appreciate your telling me everything you know.”

“I could give you twenty minutes of utterly useless information. Would that help?”

“What I want from you,” she said with quaking control, “is the stuff that hasn’t been in the news. And don’t give me any of that need-to-know horseshit. I’m his mother. I need to know.”

He went to the bureau where he’d scattered the contents of his pockets; he picked up the wristwatch and looked at it. He actually looked at his watch. She wanted to scream at him.

“I’ve got a plane to catch,” he explained.

“You don’t go out this door until you’ve talked to me.”

He wiped the foam off his jaw with a towel. “Over the years it’s belatedly occurred to me that you have an abrasive wit and the acidulous instincts of a barracuda but just possibly, behind those defenses, you’re as vulnerable as any of us. So I’m going to ignore this fishwife assault. Now if you’ll just take it easy for a moment—”

“I don’t want your goddamned forgiveness, Howard. I want information.”

He found a cigarette in the litter. “All right. If it’ll ease your mind. There’s nothing in it that helps us. First you must understand that it isn’t my department. I’ve been on the horn with Mark Blaisedell but it’s been hard to get a clear picture so early. To some extent it’s a Central Intelligence Agency matter and I’m sure you know how jealous they are of information—they don’t share it with State unless they’re forced to. I don’t have the clout to force them. It’s possible they know things we don’t know but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Just tell me what you do know.”

“Well it’s our best judgment that the terrorists probably are Cuban exiles. We don’t know who they are, actually, but the circumstantial evidence points to that conclusion. This morning a ransom demand, a penciled note, was received through the mail slot of a Venezuelan newspaper in Caracas.”

“Howard, I know that much. I’ve heard the radio. What did the ransom note say?”

“They want ten million dollars. In cash. American dollars. Small bills, unmarked. And they want eleven political prisoners released from jails in Latin America.”

“What prisoners?”

“Five in Venezuelan prisons, four in Colombia, two in Mexico. They were convicted of various guerrilla crimes—hijacking, violating gun laws, murdering Cuban communist rebel organizers, so forth. What they have in common is that all eleven are anti-Castro people. They’re not all Cubans but they’re all right-wing. Two of them are Germans from Paraguay. Therefore we’re assuming the people who kidnaped Harrison Gordon and Robert must be anti-Castro Cuban exiles who want to get their leaders out of jail and raise money to finance guerrilla action against Cuba.”

“What’s being done to rescue the hostages?”

“Very little, I imagine. It’s not like Entebbe, you know. Nobody knows where the hostages are. How can you mount a rescue expedition if you don’t know where to send it?”

She said, “Will the ransom be paid?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t know whether the eleven prisoners will be released. It’s not up to me, Carole.”

“What’s Washington doing about it?”

“I don’t know what pressures are being applied. This thing’s in the laps of the governments of Mexico and Venezuela and Colombia. It’s up to them to decide whether to meet the demands or not. They’re the ones against whom the demands were levied. Officially it’s not Washington’s problem—only indirectly, since some of the hostages are Americans.”

“Including a United States Ambassador. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Of course it does. But it’s an awkward situation—”

“Awkward situation. Good Christ.”

“Carole, there simply isn’t a hell of a lot we can do about it right now. Our hands are tied, on top of which we’re blindfolded.”

He stubbed out the cigarette and looked at his watch again, strapped it to his wrist, and collected the shirt from its hanger. Howard’s once athletic physique had been worn down by an unstable and lazy personality; he was no longer trim but neither was he a wreck.

He buttoned it, top to bottom, and reached for his tie. “I don’t know what else to tell you. Does any of this help? I don’t see how it could. I don’t know about you but I feel just as much in the dark as I did this morning.”

She realized the extent of the difficulty with which he was keeping up the calm front. He had to knot the tie three times before he got it right; by the end of the performance he was reduced to oaths and savage jerks at the fabric.

She felt a residue of affection toward him. It was not any wish for reconciliation—too much blood had flowed under the bridge—but she felt sorrow for him and it made her soften her tone when she spoke. “Of course there’s one thing you haven’t told me.”

He was distributing things in his pockets. “Don’t be silly.”

“Of course there is, Howard. I’m not an absolute fool. You don’t kidnap people for ransom and leave the delivery date wide open. There’s a deadline, isn’t there?”

His hands became still. His eyes closed briefly, his lips worked and finally he said, “Today’s Tuesday. They want the money and the release of the eleven political prisoners by Friday noon. Two and a half days from now.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. She got up to leave. “I do wish you’d make some attempt to make things a bit easier for me. Do you think I enjoy prying things from you with a crowbar?”

“I didn’t want to upset you—”

“Upset me? As if I weren’t already distraught, you mean? Didn’t it occur to you that knowing there’s a finite limit to this suspense might be preferable to dragging out the agony indefinitely?”

“I’m sorry.” He actually sounded miserable. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Please think next time. Don’t keep things from me—it’s cruel.”