Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  * * *

  Every bone, every muscle in Bianca’s body hurts. Her legs feel heavy as lead. She can hardly lift her feet. The rather steep climb up the mountainside has drained her of her last ounce of strength. She is even beyond fright of what is going to happen, numb to any feelings. She also is thirsty and again disoriented, but doesn’t dare to ask for water. They might drug her again and then she would not know what is happening to her. Suffering and thirst she prefers to another memory blank.

  She begins to stumble and then falls. The man behind helps her up and without uttering a word drapes her arm over his shoulder, hooks his arm around her waist, holding her upright, and keeps her going. It seems to take an interminable time before they reach a small settlement, tucked into the side of a mountain.

  She is vaguely aware being helped to lie down on a mattress. At one point somebody shakes her awake. Dutifully, she empties the cup of water given to her and then sinks back into oblivion almost instantly.

  Warmth on her face wakes her. She does not know how long she has slept. For an instance, she thinks Franco’s soft warm hand is caressing her cheek, like he did after the first time they made love. She opens her eyes, at first almost blinded by the bright sunlight shining through a small and dirty window. She is in a low-ceiling room, just twice the size of the lumpy mattress she is lying on. The walls are rough wood. The only other item in the room besides the mattress is a rusty bucket in the corner under the window. It takes her a moment to figure out its purpose. When she does, the horror of reality rushes back. A bucket to relieve herself? She winces. They are going to keep her incarcerated in this miserable room. For how long? She does not even know how many days she has already been in captivity.

  The force of nature is stronger. She badly needs to empty both her bladder and bowels. She almost gags when she discovers the dried-up stains of shit in the bucket. However, she feels greatly relieved when she is done and uses one of her tissues to wipe herself. She does not even mind the stench slowly settling over the room. After a while, she tries to open the window. It is nailed solid into the frame. Next, she tries the door, knowing beforehand that it will be locked too.

  Shortly afterward, she hears footsteps coming from beyond the door and a second later the scraping of a bolt. Apprehension makes her shiver. What are they going to do to her? A young man enters. She guesses he is not yet out of his teens. His features are still soft. There is no cruelty in his eyes, only curiosity. Without a word he hands her a bowl of lukewarm corn mash, a spoon and a cup of water. He looks at the bucket, wrinkling his nose, and removes it. The sight of food makes her hungry, and she eats rapidly, as if afraid it might be taken away from her before she is finished. A few minutes later he brings her a pail of water.

  "For washing, señorita," he mutters.

  He collects her empty bowl and spoon and leaves. The scraping of the bolt signals that the door is locked. She inspects the pail. The water looks clean, but she wonders how to wash herself. Without soap, nor a washcloth or towel, all she can do is to splash water into her face and rinse her hands.

  There is nothing for her to do but remain lying on the mattress. Despair and fright creep back. No matter how hard she fights, the tears prove stronger. Convulsive sobs shake her until exhaustion claims her again.

  The sound of the door opening wakes her. It is dark. She is cold. A bright flashlight sweeps over her and the room. The same young man brings her a large cup of water and a bowl of kidney beans in a thick reddish sauce. She thanks him. He murmurs something she does not grasp and averts his eyes embarrassed.

  The dish tastes like chili beans. She cannot even remember when she last ate any. It is surprisingly good, but maybe it is the hunger rather than the food itself that makes it so. When he comes to pick up the empty bowl, she begs him for a blanket. A few minutes later he brings her a coarse horse blanket.

  Having slept most of the day, she feels wide-awake. She does not know what to do. She would have liked some fresh air, to get some exercise, go for a short walk. André’s voice echoes in her mind, admonishing her that she must direct her effort into remaining sane. If he believed in his own words, why did he kill himself? Why did he abandon her? She knows that only his calm presence prevented her from becoming hysterical when the kidnappers seized them. Had she but listened to him, she wishes ruefully, when he begged her not to go across the river. All she did was to mock him after he said that he had a premonition that something bad was going to happen. Again, she wonders what he knew and held back from her.

  And then an insidious suspicion worms itself into her mind. Could he have been in on the plot? Did he just play a part? Was that why he managed to remain so calm when they were captured? But then killing himself doesn’t make any sense. But maybe he didn’t kill himself. Maybe that scream and the disappearance of the two men was just another part of the plot, to remove any suspicion on her part that he was one of them. He may already be on his way back to Pitalito, having a laugh at her expense, rubbing his hands in expectation of touching part of the ransom. Suddenly, she is more and more convinced that this is what must have happened, that he is one of them. It fits with his behavior. She never took his wooing seriously. It was all an act. Even his plea not to go across the river was an act, just another thing to remove any suspicion from him. She let herself be completely fooled by him, but no more.

  He won’t win, he won’t gain at my expense, she vows, wiping the tears on her shirt sleeves. I will get out of this alive, and Franco will trace him and bring him to justice. He may already have initiated it. He may have hired a detective to help the police. But it doesn’t ease her distress. How can she survive this ordeal? Didn’t the scoundrel say that it might take weeks, even months before she will be freed? He knew all these details. Another proof that he was part of the plot. It stokes her hatred for the Swiss.

  As a thin strip of moonlight sneaks through the window and gradually expands, chasing away the worst of the dark, she finds a measure of calm. Standing under the window, her face in the light, she closes her eyes, letting the inside of her eyelids turn a reddish hue. Then she strides diagonally back and forth from corner to corner, counting. When she reaches one thousand, she stops and lies down again.

  Whenever despair threatens to take over, she forces herself to think of pleasant things, of Franco, of her father, of Gabriela, her younger sister, always ready for fun and mischief — how she misses her — of her grandparents on Elba, of her room in her parents’ villa in the hills south of Rome, the view down to the round lake, its color a deep green. She wishes she had faith in prayers. But in spite of her strict catholic upbringing, she has no trust that praying to the Madonna or a saint will do any good. She is not even sure that she believes there is a God who cares.

  She daydreams about her future married life with Franco. Not only will his aristocratic ancestry confer a special status to her, but his position as a university professor and as an internationally eminent authority in archaeology will enhance her standing in society both in Italy and abroad. She is going to accompany him to international conferences in many parts of the world, sit into his erudite lectures and rejoice in the applause and recognition he deserves. She will meet other famous experts in the field. Some might even come and visit them in Rome, and she will be the perfect hostess that will make Franco proud. He might even allow her to undertake research for him, to look up things, find relevant references, even quotes by other experts, and then to word-process his drafts of research papers and make suggestions for more elegant ways of expressing his findings. He would be pleased with her and praise her and this will strengthen their love for each other. Three or four years down the track, they will have their first child. She wants at least two, a boy and a girl. She is convinced that he will dote over them, that they will be his pride and joy. He will agree with her that his current house isn’t suitable anymore, once they have children, and will allow her father to buy or build something more appropriate to his standing and the growing fam
ily’s needs.

  * * *

  André wakes to the dawn chorus of birds. Images of the night’s dreams still lie heavy on his mind. Twice, he woke to the scream of a man falling to his death, except that the second time it was he himself. He cannot shake off the sense of the rocks rushing toward him at ever increasing speed.

  "Get up," he admonishes himself. The sun does not yet reach into the narrow valley. He washes thoroughly in the cold waters of the river. It feels invigorating, chasing away the ghosts of the dream. He uses the soap sparingly. It may have to last for quite a while and sooner or later for two people. The pain on the right side of his chest reminds him that he may have a broken rib. The spot has turned a dark hue of blue.

  Later, he eats the leftover of the corn mash from last night’s dinner and then brushes his teeth with the airline-issue kit ‘la bête’ so disdainfully shoved back into the pocket of his rain jacket. By the time the sun warms the air, he is packed and ready to pick up the trail. He has just come out of the short canyon into the other valley, when voices and laughter float across from the direction of the track where it crosses the river. Quickly, he retreats two steps into the shade under the trees and freezes. His green rain gear and brown pants blend into his immediate surroundings, but even the slightest movement could give him away. All he hopes is that the men — he is sure that the voices are male — will continue crossing the valley without stopping or looking back. When they come into view, he recognizes one of them as ‘le premier’ who always walked between Bianca and him. They are striding out at a fast pace, engrossed in their apparently humorous exchange.

  After they disappear in the trees, he hides behind boulders in the canyon and waits, just in case one or two more might follow. He guesses the two are going back to either bury their dead comrade or bring him back up the mountain. In the latter case, they may be joined by two others to help carry the body. He reckons that they will not be back before late afternoon.

  However, their fortuitous appearance reveals much more. Their permanent or temporary camp cannot be far from here, unless they changed crew again and took Bianca over the mountain range into the upper reaches of the Caqueta River. But this is highly unlikely given her expected state of exhaustion. So she must be less than an hour away from where he is. He doubts that the two men left their camp before sunrise. It is more likely that they only started out after a healthy breakfast.

  While he waits, he debates what to do next. To work out a feasible rescue plan, he needs to learn the layout of the camp and the routine of its inhabitants without being discovered. Doing this with the heavy pack is not practical. It is better to hide it not too far away from the camp. For scouting out the area, all he needs is the hunting knife, the rope, and AK47, hoping that it is functioning properly. He must also make sure none of its metal parts will ever reflect the sun. A flash of reflected sun could easily be spotted from far away and would without fail alert people’s attention. Wrapping it into a garment is no option. He needs to have instant access to the weapon. Caked-on dirt would do the trick provided it does not interfere with any of its mechanisms, he figures.

  The little clearing where he spent the night seems just ideal for hiding the pack, and he remembers seeing clay along the riverbank there. He retraces his steps and drops the pack. Using the little pot, he makes a thick slurry of clay and carefully smears a thin coat on all metal surfaces. While he lets it dry in the sun, he finds a suitable hiding place up a tree for the pack. Half an hour later, he checks the weapon for reflections by walking back and forth at various distances from where he has it leaning against a rock in the sun.

  He sticks the shielded knife under his belt, wraps the rope several times around his waist, making sure it does not restrict his breathing or movement, and shoulders the AK47, ready to be off. What about food? He needs some, should the scouting trip take longer than a few hours. Should he try chewing coca leaves to suppress hunger, he ponders? But might this not lower his alertness? Not knowing the right quantities, he decides against it and instead opts for the chocolate bar and dried figs, the only food he has that does not need cooking. He stuffs them into a pocket.

  He has little choice but to use the track, at least initially until he can see the camp. Hacking and pushing his way through the forest undercover is impractical, too noisy and prone to unpleasant surprises. He doesn’t want to get lost or stuck in a canyon or ravine, having to backtrack and lose precious time. The route of the track was chosen to avoid such obstacles.

  If yesterday he exercised caution, it is nothing compared to what he is doing now. He proceeds slowly, keeping low, watching carefully where he places each step to avoid loosening any stones, to prevent any scraping noise or breaking of twigs or leave visible imprints of his soles on soft earth. At the same time he pricks his ears for any foreign sound that announces the approach of people. If this should happen, he would noiselessly find a good hiding place in the undergrowth near the track. So he is also regularly scouting the forest for suitable hiding places. At a little creek, he drinks from the clear water. He may not have access to water again for quite a while.

  It takes him more than an hour for what he is certain is no more than a twenty minutes walk before he reaches the end of fairly steep incline and a vista into the distance opens. About a quarter mile further on is a cluster of half a dozen small wooden houses tucked into a sloping terrace nature cut into the mountain. After a quick glance at the surrounding terrain he withdraws a short stretch to where he earlier spotted a small ravine above the track. He scrambles up along it making sure not to disturb the edge of the track. When he is confident to be no longer visible from the track, he begins to traverse the slope in the direction of the houses, doubly careful to avoid any noise or dislodge stones. The going is even slower than before. Judging by the sun, it is late morning by the time he is about fifty meters above the hamlet. After scouting around a bit, he finds a flat rock under a low bush slightly beyond the houses, which offers a good view down, while hiding him.

  Lying on the rock and only showing his hair and eyes, he takes in the scene. The gently sloping terrace is about 60 yards wide. Six houses, a row of three one on each side of the track, are hugging its back. Their walls are wood planks, rough-sawn from local trees most likely right on site. Stone and mortar walls form their foundations. Several steps lead up to a door for those above the track, while those below must have an open space underneath each house, space that may once have been used as shelter for domestic animals. It becomes quickly obvious that the three situated below the path are unoccupied. Their windowpanes are either broken or missing and so are the shutters. One house has its front door smashed open. Two mongrel dogs are sunning themselves in front of the one farthest away. That is not good news.

  He hears a faint bleating. Having grown up in a small village, he immediately recognizes it is the bleating of a goat that is grazing out of sight below the houses.

  There seem to be no guards anywhere. These people must feel fairly safe in their hideout and rely on the dogs to warn them of unknown intruders, he figures.

  Bluish smoke rises from the nearest and most substantial house. Its size indicates that it has several rooms. He wonders whether Bianca is locked into one of them. It has two chimneys, one built of stone toward the front entrance, the other one of copper at the very back of the house, probably a later addition. That is the one emitting smoke. The kitchen, he assumes. It has a door leading into a small yard, fenced in by wire mesh. Several chicken are pecking the ground, occasionally running away from a rooster. A shirt, a pair of socks and some underwear are drying on a clothesline. The murmur of running water reaches him. Near the front of the house and partially hidden behind a bush stands a wooden water trough. He can’t see a spout. The overflow leaves a wet patch across the path.

  The other two houses that seem occupied have at most two rooms judging by their size and number of windows. The farthest away also has washing hanging out to dry. A rusty metal bucket sits at the bot
tom of the steps up to the middle house. The settlement gives the impression of being a permanent camp, most likely the place they intend to keep Bianca prisoner.

  A young man, still in his teens, comes out of the kitchen door, carrying a pail, which he fills in the trough. It is the first human activity André observes. He labels him ‘la bonne’ — the servant. For some reason he prefers female nicknames. Both dogs lift their head when ‘la bonne’ appears and then let them sink down again.

  André studies the beasts more carefully. They look ugly. Their coats are motley, matt and unkempt, their bodies excessively lean, ribs showing. He reckons that they are underfed, permanently hungry and therefore all the more dangerous. But that also offers an opportunity. Thrown a good-size chunk of meat each, they can be distracted from their guard duty. But he has no meat and even if he had, how could he get it to them before they bark, raising the alarm, or worse attack if they roam free at night.

  It is past noon by the stand of the sun when two men issue from the front door of the big house. He recognizes the smaller of the two as ‘le vilain’. Both men take a drink from the trough and then enter the middle house. A while later, they come out again, accompanied by a third, and go back into the big house. He discerns fleeting movement behind the window of the front room. The most likely reason for them assembling there is to eat lunch.

  That makes a total of six men so far, counting the two he saw going down the track. He doubts that there are more or else they would have joined the other three for lunch, except that there may be one more guarding Bianca. He still hasn’t discovered for certain where she is kept. He reasons that sooner or later, somebody will bring her food, maybe empty a bucket of night soil. If nobody leaves the house with a bowl of food, then she must be imprisoned in the big house.