A King's ransom

by James Grippando

  The last sound he’d heard before dozing off to sleep was the patter of raindrops on canvas. It continued until he woke at the crack of dawn the next morning.

  “Up,” said one of the guerrillas.

  His eyes opened to instant disappointment. The shooting and kidnapping on the boat, the daylong ride in the back of a truck, and the hike through mountains had all seemed like a bad dream. The sight of a girl almost ten years younger than his daughter, armed with an M-1.30-caliber carbine, only confirmed how real it was. She poked him with the barrel.

  “Por favor,” said Matthew, pushing the barrel aside. All the guerrillas had the dangerous habit of misusing weapons as pointers and prods.

  For Matthew, breakfast was a cold, chewy roll. He ate alone beneath his dripping-wet military canvas. By the time he’d finished, the rain had stopped. The guerrillas started a fire with wood they’d kept dry beneath a canvas tarp that was far superior to the so-called tent they’d given to Matthew. Something was sizzling in a pan over the fire. It didn’t smell very appetizing to Matthew, but he would have preferred it if only because it was hot. They gathered around the fire to eat as Matthew watched from several meters away. He noted that Joaquin, the leader, was not around. A minute later he was coming through the forest, instantly recognizable with his Australian-style hat.

  “For you,” he said as he handed Matthew a plastic sack.

  Inside were a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a roll of toilet paper, and a bar of soap. Matthew was torn as to whether he should say “Gracias” or “Don’t do me any favors, you murdering pigs.” Showing appreciation toward these thugs wasn’t going to be easy, but they did hold his life in their hands. A rapport on some level was essential to his survival.

  “All the comforts of home,” he said. It was as close to “thank you” as he could muster.

  “Later. Come with me now.”

  Joaquin and two other guerrillas led him back by the same route Joaquin had just taken. They walked for almost fifteen minutes along the edge of the poppy field, then another twenty minutes deep into the forest. Joaquin seemed to know where he was headed, even as the foliage grew thicker. Again the thought of escape crossed Matthew’s mind, but it was quickly dismissed. Even if he could break away, he doubted that he could ever find his way out of this jungle.

  Finally he heard voices ahead. In a minute they reached a clearing in the forest. A large cottage stood on stilts in the center. It was constructed of roughly hewn logs and a thatched roof. Several smaller huts were nearby, two with the doors open, three with the doors closed. It was a busy place, like a way station. Almost a hundred men and women in combat fatigues were standing around, sitting on rocks, walking from one place to another. A team of pack mules was hitched behind the cottage, munching hay. Goats picked at the garbage near the latrine.

  Joaquin was smiling as he walked into camp with his catch. Matthew once again wanted to deck him, but he was even more incensed by the reaction of the other guerrillas. They whistled, some cheered. He felt like the prize fish on the dock.

  “El gringo,” said one of the guerrillas, smiling.

  “La mina,” said Joaquin. The name seemed to be sticking. Matthew was the gold mine.

  Joaquin led them toward the cottage, slowly, so that he could soak up the praise. He especially enjoyed the adoring glances from guerrillas of the opposite sex. He even removed his hat once and took a bow. The girls-and they were just girls-giggled in response. Joaquin winked. He obviously fancied himself the ladies’ man.

  Matthew thought they were headed for the main cottage, but Joaquin led him past the entrance to a smaller hut behind it. Two armed guards were posted outside the door. One of them unlocked it. Joaquin pushed Matthew inside.

  Inside it was dark. The floor was dirt, not even flat. The air was thick with a musty odor emitted from a thatched roof that was perpetually rain-soaked. A small rectangular opening in the door was the only source of daylight. Matthew peered through it and watched as Joaquin disappeared into the cottage. A noise from behind gave him a start. Rats, he feared, or worse.

  “Hola,” a man said.

  Slowly, Matthew’s eyes adjusted. The man was one of four seated on the floor, far in the corner. With all the shadows, Matthew hadn’t noticed them upon entering.

  “Hola,” said Matthew.

  “Are you the American?”

  Just one word, and the man could tell. His friend Hector had been right: He was Juanito Carson. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “An unlucky son of a bitch. Just like you.”

  The man rose and said, “Emilio Sanchez. From Bogota.”

  Matthew shook his hand and introduced himself. “Who are these people?”

  He took Matthew to the door. Together, they peered out. “See the insignia on the left sleeve?” he said, pointing toward the guard outside the door.

  Matthew squinted to make out what appeared to be a dragon holding a sword of equal height. “Yes, I see it.”

  “That’s FARC.”

  His heart sank. He’d heard of FARC, and what he’d heard wasn’t good. “I didn’t notice that insignia on the guerrillas who kidnapped me.”

  “That’s because those guys aren’t FARC.”

  “What are they?”

  “Worse than FARC.”

  Matthew almost scoffed. “What could be worse?”

  “You have to understand, kidnapping has become like an industry in this country, especially for groups like FARC. It’s gotten to the point where they basically subcontract their work. They hire negotiators, intermediaries, people to house the kidnap victims, even people who pull off the abductions. All these extras might have nothing to do with FARC. They’re just part of the industry.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “This is the second time I’ve been kidnapped in three years.”

  “Damn. That’s awful.”

  “Tell me about it. But you learn. Some guards can be a good source of information if you talk to them the right way. That’s how I got the goods on you. I know all about Joaquin, too.”

  “My kidnapper?”

  “Si. I saw him prancing around the cottage earlier this morning when I had my bathroom break. He was strutting like a big shot, so I asked the guards about him. They said he was bringing in an American.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Who knows? Just some ex-guerrilla who’s decided he can make good money selling kidnap victims to FARC.”

  “I’m being sold to FARC?”

  “He’s trying to sell you. The guards told me that he was asking for too much money. I guess he decided to come back with you live and in person, give it one more try. But if he doesn’t strike a deal, you may be stuck with him.”

  Matthew looked around the hut. The other three men were silent, not part of the conversation in English. “Who brought you in? FARC?”

  “No. The same group who got you.”

  “Joaquin?”

  “Not him, personally. His group. The guard tells me he has about twenty followers. Not sure where they’re from. Not even sure they’re all Colombian. Part of his band brought you in. The others pulled a reten outside Cali three days ago.”

  “What’s a reten?”

  “Roadblock. They just throw some tires in the road, stop any cars that come along. They have a computer with Internet access right on site to run a background check on each person they nab. Anyone who looks like they have money goes in the back of their truck. The others lose their cars and walk home.”

  “How many did they take?”

  “Six, including me.”

  “I only see four here.”

  “The women are in the other hut.”

  It sickened him that they’d take women, too. He thought of his wife or daughter at the mercy of teenage boys with automatic weapons.

  Joaquin stepped out of the cottage. He didn’t look happy as he walked toward the hut. Matthew and Emilio stepped back from the door. It opened, and the guard ordered everyone out.
Matthew and the four others stepped into the daylight. The day was overcast, but Emilio and the others who’d been in the hut for hours still had trouble with their eyes. Joaquin walked to the other hut, the same drill. Out walked the women. One looked close to Cathy’s age; the other, about the age of their daughter, Lindsey.

  Joaquin and his two men herded the seven prisoners together. Four FARC guerrillas assisted. It seemed to be an unwritten rule that there were always at least as many guards as prisoners. Joaquin spoke to the group in Spanish.

  “Welcome to the valley of smiles,” he said.

  The group was silent, unamused by his humor. He continued, “Some of you will remain here in the good hands of FARC. Some of you will leave here today. I have only one way to decide who stays and who goes.”

  He reached inside his knapsack and removed two billfolds. He opened one and held it up so all could see. It was a picture of a young boy. “Who is this?”

  “My son,” said Emilio.

  “How old?”

  “Six.”

  “Come forward.”

  Emilio stepped up, apart from the group. The younger woman started crying. “Please, please, senor. I have children, too.”

  Joaquin pulled another billfold from the pack and displayed it the same way, so that all could see. There were two children in this photograph, a boy and girl. “How old?” he asked.

  “Rafael is two,” she said, her voice cracking. “Alicia is four.”

  “Come here.”

  “Thank you, oh, thank you,” she said.

  With just a signal from Joaquin, the FARC guards herded the three remaining men and one woman back into the huts. They went quietly, though the expressions on their tired faces screamed with despair. The young mother was still crying and thanking Joaquin, even kissing his hand, as if he were the pope. She obviously thought they were going home.

  Matthew could only assume that Joaquin had been unable to persuade FARC to pay the high price he wanted for the American. But that didn’t explain why Emilio and the young mother had been segregated from the group along with him. Could this be some kind of humanitarian gesture? Maybe they somehow knew that his wife was pregnant, and they’d pulled out the mother, the father, and the father-to-be for special consideration.

  “We have a long journey ahead of us,” said Joaquin, still speaking in Spanish.

  Then he looked at Matthew and spoke in English. “And these are the rules. Don Matthew, do not try to escape. If you try to escape and are captured, we kill the daddy. If you try to escape and succeed, we kill the mommy. And I assure you, it won’t be quick and painless.”

  He patted the large knife attached to his belt, then reverted to Spanish. “Any questions?”

  Emilio said nothing, having understood it all. The young woman looked confused, as she spoke only Spanish. Matthew was angry, but he felt foolish, too, for even having considered the possibility that this animal was capable of a humanitarian gesture.

  “Bueno,” said Joaquin. “Vamos.”

  At gunpoint, the three prisoners marched past the FARC cottage, across the clearing, and back into the forest, back to the rebel campsite near the beautiful red fields of poppy.

  13

  My chance to confront Guillermo came and went. Two days had passed since my meeting with Agent Huitt, and I’d spoken to my father’s business partner on the telephone at least a half dozen times. He was still in Colombia, still the family’s representative in dealing with the local police. Each time we spoke, I resolved to ask the questions that needed to be asked. Each time, I let it go. I needed more than vague innuendo from an FBI agent before questioning the integrity of a man who might be completely innocent. The last thing I needed was to alienate Guillermo and end up having to deal with the Colombian police on my own.

  At least for now, I dealt with Guillermo as if the conversation with Agent Huitt had never taken place. Things were so normal that he was even delegating work to me in my father’s absence. I spent the afternoon at the port checking on a shipment of scuba equipment to the lobster divers in Nicaragua.

  I’d visited the port once before with my father, when I was a teenager. I remembered it well, because it had shocked me. I’d expected to see the big white cruise ships docked like a string of pearls in the shadow of beautiful downtown Miami. This was an entirely different port, up the Miami River near the airport. Chain-link fences and barbed wire cordoned off ugly metal warehouses and mountains of metal container trucks stacked one on top of the other. The boats were rusty old freighters that looked barely capable of making it to the mouth of the river, let alone to the Panama Canal. Overall, it reminded me of the kind of place a serial killer might dump his bodies. In fact, I think one had a few years back.

  This time I took my best friend with me. J.C. Paez was christened Juan Carlos by his Cuban parents, but his friends knew him only as J.C. We’d been friends since we were nine years old. In fact, it was J.C. who’d set me up with Jenna. It was a toss-up as to which of us had taken the breakup harder-a toss-up between me and J.C., not me and Jenna.

  “I saw Jenna on Miami Beach the other night,” he said.

  I was trying to negotiate a parking space. I didn’t say anything.

  “She looked great,” he continued.

  I had to wonder, what was it that compelled friends to carry on about how incredible your ex was looking since the breakup? She wasn’t Bigfoot; I didn’t need every reported sighting. But now that he’d opened the door, I had to ask, “Was she with anyone?”

  “You mean when she came in or when she left?”

  “Don’t mess with me. I know Jenna’s not picking up guys at bars.”

  “She was with a girlfriend.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she say anything about me?”

  He smiled coyly. “Now why would you be interested in that?”

  “Just forget it.”

  “Wait a sec, she did say something about you.”

  “What?”

  “Something like, ‘Wow, J.C., you do kiss much better than Nick.’ ”

  I just rolled my eyes and applied the parking brake. He laughed as we got down from the Jeep. “You should call her sometime.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Seriously. I think there’s still something there.”

  As much as I would have liked to believe that, I didn’t. J.C.’s parents had divorced when he was twelve, and some fifteen years later he was still clinging to the notion that someday his folks would remarry. That had a way of putting anything he said about Jenna in perspective.

  “We’ll see,” I said, noncommittal.

  We went around to the back of warehouse Number 3 to see a man named Paco. Shipments had a strange way of not making it onto the boat if you didn’t see Paco-more precisely, if you and Ben Franklin didn’t see Paco. He was busy, so we waited outside his office door. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, bright blue skies. I wished I’d had my sunglasses.

  “Hey, isn’t that your Jeep?” asked J.C.

  I looked over and saw a forklift pulling my Jeep toward a huge freighter. I nearly knocked J.C. over, I flew past him so fast.

  “What the hell are you guys doing?”

  The forklift stopped. The driver shrugged and laughed. He said something in Spanish that I couldn’t quite catch with all the engine noise. J.C. translated for me.

  “He says you were blocking traffic. He was making room for the trucks to pass.”

  It was possible he was telling the truth, though it was also possible that if J.C. hadn’t caught them, my beloved Jeep would have been a boat ride away from South American license plates. Four-wheel-drive vehicles were in hot demand down there-just ask any Miamian who used to own a Range Rover.

  J.C. and I moved my Jeep to a safer place, a parking spot beside the warehouse that was inaccessible by forklift. As I killed the engine, I noticed the goofy expression on J.C.’s face.

  “What?” I asked.
/>   “I was just thinking, this is broad daylight. What must go on down here at one o’clock in the morning?”

  “God only knows.”

  “Actually, I think God must look the other way.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “God and my old man.”

  “Get out. Your dad’s as straight as they come.”

  “You and I know that. But I have this feeling that everybody else lumps him together with every snake who’s ever slithered down the Miami River.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? It’s like you just said, this is the day shift. Who do you think works here at night? Nuns?”

  “You’re making too much of that. So what if your dad spends a lot of time at the port. He travels back and forth from Nicaragua on fishing business. He has the bad luck of being kidnapped by Colombians. That doesn’t mean. .”

  He stopped in midsentence, as if saying those things had made him see my point. “It’s just a perception thing,” he added.

  The forklift drove by. The driver beeped his horn and waved. He was hauling a pallet of frozen grouper fingers. Or at least that’s what the markings on the box said. Who knew what was really in there?

  I looked at J.C. and asked, “What would you say if I told you that my old man had been shaken down by customs nineteen times in the past five years?”

  He was trying hard not to look shocked. “Was he ever charged with anything?”

  “Nope. Not a single time could anyone tag him with anything illegal.”

  “Then I’d say he’s being harassed.”

  “Spoken like a true best friend,” I said, though the accusatory look of Agent Huitt was still burning in my mind. “Of course, another man might say he’s just lucky as hell he never got caught.”

  J.C. looked away, saying nothing. In silence, we walked back into the warehouse to see my father’s friend Paco.