A King's ransom

by James Grippando

  “For Sonia Bernal, yes, it would be very dangerous. If she were alive. But she was stabbed five times in the back and left for dead in a gutter at the side of the road outside Cali almost fifteen years ago.”

  “Sonia was your real name?”

  “That was my FARC name. And to answer your question, none of that seems real to me anymore.”

  “I’m beginning to know how you feel.”

  She came toward me and patted me gently on the cheek, sort of symbolically slapping me out of my daze. “Don’t worry. It only makes me tougher inside. More determined to get your father back. Good night, Nick.”

  I watched as she turned and headed back to her bedroom alone. I tried not to stare, but I was strangely fixated on the scars on her back.

  It was wild to think of her as having been one of them.

  For some reason I thought back to that first day we’d spent together in Bogota, when she’d snapped at me for trying to inject even the slightest diversion into her scheduled itinerary. To prove her point, she’d angrily driven me up to the top of the hill to see the once-pleasant neighborhoods of northern Bogota that crime had transformed into little fortresses. I’d wondered back then if her concern went beyond my safety. Even now I didn’t know what to think, though one thing I was sure of.

  I’d never known a woman like Alex.

  51

  Customs at Miami International Airport was a breeze. At least it was for Alex. She sailed through without a bag search. Apparently an unmarried white male in his late twenties who’d made two very short trips between Miami and Colombia in the last month set off all kinds of bells and whistles. My bags they wanted to see.

  I told Alex to go on without me.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. We’ll talk later.”

  She was gone just a second before the customs agents exposed to the world my dependency on American-made toilet paper. I stuffed my personal items back in the bag, closed it up, and was ready to move on.

  “Would you mind coming with us, please?” asked the agent.

  I took a half step back, surprised. The elderly couple behind me took about five steps back, as if to announce that they weren’t traveling with me.

  “What’s this about?”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions. Could you please step out of the line?”

  At this point my lawyerly instincts were kicking in, but I didn’t want to make a scene. “Sure,” I said. I grabbed my bag and followed the agent through an exit designated for airport employees and law enforcement. The agent used his electronic passkey to get us through another set of secured doors. On the other side was FBI Agent Huitt.

  “Long time no see, Nick,” he said.

  His sidekick was with him, the young female agent who rarely said anything but looked as if she could break me in two if she’d wanted to.

  “Am I being detained?” I asked, knowing the legal significance of the word.

  “Not at all,” said Huitt. “Just want to ask you some questions. You’re free to go if you don’t want to talk.”

  “Then it was nice talking to you,” I said. “See ya.”

  As I turned, he said, “Where’d you get the two hundred and four thousand dollars?”

  I stopped, but I didn’t answer. Two-oh-four was the exact amount we’d wire-transferred, even though we’d ended up paying only a hundred.

  He said, “Your Miami bank filled out a suspicious-transaction report. You must have acted nervous when you went in to wire the money, Nick.”

  “It’s my money. If I want to wire it to Bogota and walk out of the bank with a suitcase full of cash, that’s my business.”

  “Sure, so long as it really is your money. For your sake, I hope it didn’t come from your father’s partner.”

  The remark had me thinking of Alex’s advice to borrow the full ransom from Guillermo. “It didn’t come from him.”

  “I promised to get you and your entire family full immunity if you’d help me expose Guillermo Cruz for what he is. No way in hell the U.S. Attorney’s going to go for that deal if you start spreading around dirty money.”

  “I pulled together every penny of that money with help from no one but my closest friends. I mortgaged my house, I-”

  “Yeah, yeah. Spare me the sob story.”

  “Then spare me the grief. We don’t need your immunity.”

  “Let me give you a little advice. You keep crawling around with snakes, you’re going to get bitten. It happened to your old man, it can happen to you.”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  He stepped closer and spoke in a low, threatening tone. “I know that kidnappings like this one are rarely a case of an innocent person being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know that your father went down to Colombia with five Nicaraguans to buy three shrimp boats that I suspect haven’t been used for shrimping in a very long time. I know all about the people he bought the boats from, and I know how vindictive they can be when someone double-crosses them in their particularly unseemly line of commerce. What do you know about your father, Nick?”

  His words hung in the air, more an accusation than a question. I looked at him coldly and said, “Enough to know that you’re totally full of shit.”

  I picked up my bag and walked out the door.

  From the airport I drove straight downtown to the Miami-Dade County Courthouse. Though I’d refused to let him see it, Huitt had gotten to me. He made me realize that no matter how badly I needed the ransom, Guillermo really wasn’t an option. I had to do everything possible to get the money out of Quality Insurance Company.

  I reached the courthouse just a few minutes before the lunch hour, and I planted myself at the top of the tiered granite steps at the south entrance to the building. In the shadows of massive stone columns, I waited. Though she clearly hadn’t remembered me, I’d second-chaired a weeklong trial in front of Judge Korvan about eight months earlier, which meant that I did little more than carry the trial bags back and forth from the courthouse to the offices of Cool Cash. If nothing else, the experience had taught me that Judge Korvan was a creature of habit when it came to the lunch hour. I knew she’d be passing by any minute on her way to the Boston Sub Shop.

  “Judge Korvan,” I called out.

  She kept walking, donning her huge dark sunglasses. I followed her down the first tier of steps, calling her name once more. She slowed her pace but didn’t stop.

  “I’m Nick Rey,” I said, walking alongside her.

  “I know who you are.”

  We passed the hot dog cart on the street, then continued to the crosswalk. For an older woman, she walked at quite a clip.

  “I have to talk to you, Judge.”

  “Is this what I think it’s about?”

  “My father’s case against Quality Insurance.”

  “Then stop right there. You have a new judge.”

  “Are you aware that the case has been put on hold?”

  “I have nothing to say about that.”

  The light changed, and we continued across busy Flagler Street.

  “Do you think that’s a fair result?”

  “I’ve recused myself. It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “It’s completely inappropriate for you to confront me this way.”

  “You’re right, but I’m running out of options.”

  “Maybe I should report you to the Florida Bar, and we can see what they think.”

  “Maybe I should invite you to my father’s funeral so that it’s clear I don’t care what they think.”

  She stopped cold on the sidewalk. “Did something happen?”

  “It’s about to. I have a week to raise three million dollars or they’re going to kill him.”

  From the look on her face I could see that I’d pegged her correctly. She had a well-known reputation for fairness, and I’d sensed that she was a woman of compassion.

  “I wish I could help y
ou, but I can’t.”

  “Why did you remove yourself from the case?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Judge, a man’s life is at stake here.”

  Cars were passing in the street, a steady flow of pedestrians racing by us on the sidewalk. She seemed edgy. “This discussion should not be taking place.”

  “I know what the rules of ethics say.”

  “I’m not talking about the rules of ethics,” she said in a hushed but urgent voice. “I’m telling you this for your own good and mine. This conversation should not be taking place.”

  Her tone chilled me. I thought I knew what she was telling me, but I wasn’t sure. “Are you saying that you stepped down because-”

  “Every judge has skeletons in her closet. They found mine.”

  I stood mute. She clearly had more of a conscience than I’d thought, and the shocking candor was perhaps her way of apologizing for having bailed out of my father’s case.

  She touched my hand and said, “Watch yourself, young man. Quality Insurance Company does not intend to lose this case.”

  With that she left me. She was well out of earshot by the time I uttered my reply.

  “Neither do I,” I said beneath my breath. I cut across Flagler Street to my Jeep.

  52

  Matthew got a new pair of boots. “Replacement” boots was a more apt description. They were better than the old ones, but definitely not new. He recognized them as the Swede’s.

  “What happened to Jan?” he asked the guerrilla.

  It was the fat guy with the tattoo on his face, Cerdo. “He’s gone.”

  “Home?”

  He smirked, then said with a chuckle, “Yeah, home. Now, let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Matthew rose slowly. He didn’t like the vibes, but he tried to be rational. They wouldn’t have brought him a better pair of boots just to take him out and shoot him.

  “Bring everything with you.”

  “Everything?”

  “Are you deaf? Yes, everything.”

  Matthew pulled on the boots and buttoned his coat. It was a cold morning, so he was already wearing every stitch of clothing he owned. Two shirts, a pair of pants, a wool sweater, and a knit cap that one of the guerrillas had pitched aside because it was too full of holes. He also had two pairs of socks, one for his feet and one that served as mittens on really cold nights.

  He looked around his sleep area beneath the canvas tarp, making a mental inventory of “everything.” Beyond the clothes on his back, there wasn’t much. He unfastened the tarp from the trees and shook out the water. He rolled his blanket inside and strapped the bundle to his back. He felt like a Great Depression-era hobo about to hop a train.

  “Got it all?” asked the guerrilla.

  “That’s everything.”

  “Make sure. We’re not coming back.”

  “What a pity,” said Matthew.

  Matthew’s spot was down the hill from the guerrillas’ main hut. He followed Cerdo up the path, then stopped short, startled by what sounded like machine-gun fire in the distance. It was faint, but he recognized the sounds from his tour in Vietnam.

  “What’s the shooting?”

  “Chulos,” he replied. That was the guerrillas’ word for the Colombian army.

  Was the army moving in for a rescue?

  That had been Matthew’s first thought, but his hope faded quickly. Rescue didn’t seem possible. This place was too remote. It had to be just another skirmish in the decades-old war between the army and the leftist guerrillas. Or the guerrillas and the right-wing paramilitaries. Or the guerrillas and some group of Ecuadorian or Peruvian bandits. Or a turf war between FARC and the ELN. Or right-wing extremists dragging unarmed campesinos into the street and murdering them in front of their families just because they were suspected of being sympathetic to the guerrillas.

  Out here, there were just so many ways to get killed in the crossfire.

  They reached the hut at the top of the hill. Matthew followed the guerrilla to the front, then stopped short at the sight.

  The camp had been completely transformed. Joaquin and his men were standing to one side, guns in hand and their packs strapped to their backs. Several dozen other guerrillas-men and women whom Matthew didn’t recognize-had taken positions around the hut, including a long trench that they’d dug and fortified with fallen trees. Near the hut, guerrillas were rolling black ink onto their weapons and striping their faces with black greasepaint. Someone was anticipating some night fighting. From the dragon insignia on the fatigues, Matthew recognized them as FARC.

  “Sit here,” said Cerdo.

  Matthew quickly searched for the driest patch of earth and seated himself in front of the hut, to the right of the door.

  “Matthew,” someone whispered.

  He peered around the corner of the hut and spotted Emilio, the Colombian prisoner, seated along the side of the hut just a few feet away.

  “What’s going on?” asked Matthew.

  “Army’s getting close. FARC’s gearing up for a battle.”

  “I thought Joaquin wasn’t part of FARC.”

  “He’s not. They’re kicking him out of their territory. FARC commanders put up with him so long as he was selling his kidnap victims to them. But he’s been asking for too much money lately.”

  “Where are the other captives?”

  “FARC took them.”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s like back rent. Joaquin’s been a squatter on their turf, so they just took four of his prisoners. They let him keep two.”

  “Why us?”

  “Just a guess on my part. Joaquin thinks I’m the least trouble. And you’re worth the most money.”

  It sickened Matthew to think that things were so bad with Joaquin he almost wished he’d been sold to FARC.

  “Up,” said the guerrilla. It was a girl this time. Cerdo was gone. At gunpoint she marched Matthew and Emilio across the busy camp toward Joaquin and the rest of his band. Joaquin was in a serious-looking conversation with one of the FARC commanders. They were checking a map, apparently deciding on the best way out.

  Matthew glanced back toward the hut. From about thirty meters away he caught sight of Nisho and the Colombian woman seated on the ground near the campfire. On the other side of the fire, closer to Matthew, Cerdo was talking with two FARC guerrillas. He was laughing and pointing back toward the women. Finally, he got down on his knees, hands together in the praying position, whining and begging in Spanish, “Please, stop, you’re hurting me!”

  The men all laughed, but Cerdo laughed hardest, and Matthew realized what was happening. He was recounting their rape of Nisho, as if telling the FARC boys what they had to look forward to.

  Joaquin called his men together. He had his map, and he apparently had FARC’s blessing on his way out. Turning over Nisho and the Colombian woman had guaranteed his right of passage.

  “Vamos,” said Joaquin. Cerdo came running along, his belly bouncing.

  Matthew glanced back one last time at their camp, toward the two women prisoners. He thought of his own wife and daughter and felt an almost uncontrollable urge to grab a gun and do the right thing. But between Joaquin’s group of bandits and the FARC guerrillas, he would have been killed before firing a single shot.

  “?Te amo, Nishooooooo!” shouted Cerdo. A chorus of laughter followed from Joaquin and the others who’d been at the river that day.

  Filled with anger, Matthew forced himself to put one foot in front of the other as they marched down the side of the mountain. He didn’t know where they were going, and it no longer mattered. At that moment he vowed that wherever they ended up, he’d seize the first opportunity. He’d kill Joaquin first, Cerdo second.

  Whoever else he could take with him would just be gravy.

  53

  I’d wanted to sleep on things, but that night was fitful. I needed three million dollars. Time wa
s short and options were limited. I could go the legal route and be stonewalled by the insurance company. Or I could ply quick and dirty money from Guillermo and worry about the consequences later. Problem was, Guillermo, too, had stonewalled me on my visit to Nicaragua.

  By morning I’d settled on a new angle.

  I knew from my visit to Nicaragua that Guillermo’s wife spent six months a year in Palm Beach. According to Lindsey, that was the reason she hadn’t known Guillermo was married. I wasn’t sure I completely believed her on that, but he certainly could have led her to believe that he wasn’t happily married. The important thing was that with just an introductory phone call from me that morning, Vivien Cruz had agreed to a noon meeting at the historic Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach.

  “Mrs. Cruz?” I said, approaching her at poolside.

  She was reclining in a chaise longue, wearing a bright yellow bathing suit that set off her dark suntan. The suit was cut high at the hips, giving her shapely legs the illusion of even greater length. She sat up and removed her designer sunglasses, revealing a face much younger than I’d expected. There were a few telltale lines at the eyes, but it was still clear that Guillermo had not married his high-school sweetheart.

  “My, don’t you look like your father,” she said, smiling. “You must be Nick.”

  We shook hands, and she settled back into her chaise. I sat in the deck chair facing her, the hotel in the background. The Breakers was a beautiful old hotel that evoked the grandeur and style of the Italian Renaissance, its impressive towers, ornamental stonework, and iron balconies inspired by the Villa Medici in Rome. The manicured croquet grounds were adjacent to the pool, and the ocean was just a short walk east, beyond the seawall. Aside from the usual old money, it catered to a wealthy international clientele-Arabs, Germans, and, evidently, pretty wives of rich Nicaraguans.

  “Something to drink?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I’d say you’re extremely fine, but you still must be thirsty.” She signaled to the waitress, who headed off to the bar for two of whatever Vivien had been drinking.