Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  To overcome her embarrassment she asks: "Why did you substitute the guns? Isn’t the machine gun more powerful than the rifle you took?"

  "It is for close engagements, but not for shooting at distant targets. Not accurate enough. The rifle is. And I’ve no intention of getting into a close fight."

  "Oh, I hope we’ll manage to get to safety without a fight. They’ll kill us if they catch up with us." She fervently wishes that they will be able to outrun them, to lose them, and then get the protection of the police.

  "Yes, if they get us, they’ll kill me. That’s for sure, but not you. You are only worth something if you are alive. But they’ll first have to get us. Only five of them can take up the pursuit. El commandante won’t walk for weeks and he’ll want somebody around to serve him. That leaves four and they’ll not be as desperate as I am."

  How can he talk about death like this? She senses that it isn’t bravado, but that he is utterly serious. "Aren’t you afraid of dying?" she murmurs.

  "That’s a hard question to answer. I don’t know what I will feel when the moment comes, but thinking about it right now, no I’m not afraid. I’ll fight with all the means I have at my disposal and that isn’t just weapons."

  Yes, she muses, he has just proven that last bit by snatching me away from amidst six well-armed, callous guerrillas and two guard dogs without a single person getting hurt, except el commandante, and even that wasn’t necessary. She feels he did it more out of revenge or maybe to prevent him from leading the pursuit. To her, André is such a confusing, unpredictable man. She still doesn’t have the measure of him. All she knows is that she wants to trust him and that he seems to know what he is doing.

  * * *

  After the meal, André cleans the pot in a nearby puddle. He sees Bianca disappear behind a boulder and assumes that she went there to relieve herself. When she returns, she carries the extra clothing she wore during the night and stows it in the pack.

  The sun is breaking through the clouds when they take off again. He welcomes its warmth. It will help dry out their clothing. Everything is slightly humid from the dew. The cartographic map he stole shows that the grasslands are on the spine of the mountain chain he intends to cross. Furthermore, he does not necessarily want to continue on the track which the map shows will veer southwest. He would prefer to keep straight west. But for that he needs to learn more about the lay of the land, details that are difficult to assess from the map. So he aims for a pronounced ridge a bit to the northwest that rises about six hundred feet above the superpàramo. The side facing them consists mainly of loose rocks and shingle, making the ascent difficult.

  By the time they reach the ridge, they are hot. Both have removed their jackets. André scans the land beyond the ridge with the binoculars, comparing what he sees with the map. He guesses the deep valleys shown on the map in the northwest. The terrain is shades of gray and brown — difficult wasteland, he reckons, offering no protection, hot during the day, cold at night. Straight west extends a rounded ridge that forms the watershed between the Rio Patïa flowing into the Pacific and the Caqueta emptying into the Amazon. To its north the terrain forms a broken up bowl sloping down toward the wasteland to the north, while to the south lies another shallow basin with clouds hugging the wooded slopes, so typical for this region. His map shows a little lake below that ridge as one of the sources of the Caqueta River. The track they have followed skirts past that lake south and dipping into the basin. It ultimately connects to the road from Santa Rosa to San Sebastian where that road makes a big loop east around the chain of mountains that forms the western boundary of the basin. Distance-wise it is much shorter to join that road by following the ridge. But is that wise? The terrain could be difficult, slow going, and they might get lost in the cloud forest that closes off any vistas into the distance. Reluctantly, he decides to stick to the track, at least for another while.

  He turns back east to discover the route of the track and the best way to join it again. A split-second flash of reflected sun catches his eye. In the multitude of frailejones it takes him a while before he spots four men approach last night’s campsite. Two dogs run ahead of them, occasionally stopping and waiting for the men to catch up.

  6

  "Our friends are already on our heels," André tells Bianca. "Crouch down so they can’t see us." He pulls her behind the nearest sizable boulder.

  "Shouldn’t we run and try to get away from them?" Her voice sounds anxious.

  "No, they’re faster than us and they’ve the dogs. There’s no way to lose them. I should have killed these damned beasts instead of the goat. Right now, all we can do is sit tight and see where they go. If they follow the track, we wait until noon to see what happens, and if they don’t return we strike out west along the ridge, although I don’t like taking that route."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it may be treacherous."

  "And if they return?"

  "Then we do the same as if they had come straight to us."

  "You are talking in riddles."

  "No. My first ‘if’ implied another choice for them, namely letting the nose of the dogs guide them to us directly."

  "And if they do that?" she exclaims alarmed.

  "Then I’ll find out if my aim is still as good as it was two years ago."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I’ll shoot them when they’re still about two to three hundred yards away. I have the advantage. I can shoot from above. And you stay firmly hidden behind this boulder. Promise?"

  "Yes. Oh, André, I’m frightened."

  He hugs her shoulder. "It’s all right to be frightened. It’s natural. Look, Bianca, I’m fairly confident I’ll be able to stop them if they come. They don’t know that somebody is waiting for them. Fugitives run as fast and as far as they can. They rarely stop to fight back. These guys might not even have noticed that I stole their high-powered rifle. That’s why I put the AK47 in its place."

  "You mean you thought of that already then?"

  "Yes, that’s what I meant when I said I will use all means at my disposal and the most powerful of those is the brain, don’t you agree."

  He smiles at her and she responds with a fleeting, anxious smile.

  He now crawls back to a vantage point between two boulders where he can see their old campsite and the approach over the superpàramo to the ridge. The group has discovered the site too. Watching them through the binoculars, he observes one guy poke a stick into the ashes he doused before they left, he guesses to check whether it is recent. They are not carrying any packs, just their AK47s. That’s why they caught up so fast, he concludes. They look around and watch their dogs circle the site, sniffing the ground. Suddenly, one dog takes off in the direction of the ridge. The other follows quickly. The group of four jogs after them. In only a few minutes they get to the bottom of the scree slope where the grass tufts peter out and no place to hide remains. That is the spot André has chosen to stop them.

  Although he tried to sound confident when he reassured Bianca a few minutes ago, he does not like what he may have to do next. He may have to kill. It is too dicey to try injuring them only. At a distance of two to three hundred yards, he has to target the chest, and that could kill.

  He has the man in front in the cross-hairs of the telescopic sight and pulls the trigger. The man falls. Probably before he hears the retort of the weapon, André reckons, as he ejects the spent cartridge and takes aim again. The other three are now in disarray, running away in different direction in the shelterless terrain. His second bullet hits the one who seeks shelter in the scree slope.

  The dogs are still racing uphill. He now aims at the one in front, tracking him and pulls the trigger through. The dog yelps and tumbles down the scree before smashing into a large rock. It takes two shots to stop the second. There is still one bullet left in the magazine. He quickly pushes in five more from the top to have a full magazine of six. Then he waits.

  The two men who have sought refuge i
n the superpàramo are both hiding behind tall tufts, their boots just visible. His first victim presses a hand on his thigh. Through the telescopic sight André sees blood oozing out. His face looks familiar and he recognizes him as the one he nicknamed ‘le premier’. He points the telescope to the second victim. That man is lying face down, but occasionally his right hand twitches. There is blood under his shoulder. He is relieved that both are only injured and that their injuries do not seem fatal, provided they get medical attention.

  He rises.

  "What are you doing? Get down, André," Bianca whispers. She has abandoned the safety of the boulder and is lying on the ground near him.

  He smiles at her. "No need to whisper. I just want to communicate with them."

  He puts his hands like a bullhorn in front of his mouth and shouts: "Come back … Help your wounded comrades … I will not shoot again unless you shoot."

  He repeats it a second time. ‘Le premier’ raises himself into a sitting position, still pressing both hands on his thigh. The second lifts his head and shouts something André does not catch. The other two guys only get up when ‘le premier’ orders them to come, and then they approach cautiously.

  "You have first-aid stuff?" André shouts.

  The man shakes his head.

  "Tell your men to leave the guns in the grass and I will bring you some."

  "André, you’re crazy. You aren’t going to them and leave me here alone."

  "No, Bianca, I’m not crazy, and you can come with me. If I help their wounded I may be able to convince them to go back to their camp and leave us alone."

  "Oh, André," she moans. "I’m frightened. Why are you always so reckless?"

  He watches the two uninjured guys remove all guns and place them a good sixty feet away from their wounded comrades. He shoulders his pack, holds his own rifle at the ready, and says: "Come, Bianca. Courage."

  He carefully negotiates his way down, Bianca at his heels, and stops some fifteen feet in front of the two men standing next to ‘le premier’.

  "Gracias, señores. Let’s have a truce and help the injured. Agreed? But don’t think that you can take me by surprise. Have you heard of karate?"

  Both nod.

  "I am a black belt. I can kill you with my bare hands. So no sudden movements. Always move slowly. OK?"

  Again they nod. He asks Bianca to find the first-aid box in the pack and quickly inspects both wounded men. He tells ‘le premier’ that the other man’s shoulder wound needs help more urgently to stem the bleeding.

  "You have any aguardiente?"

  ‘Le premier’ pulls a small metal flask from his front pocket.

  André orders the other two to free the man’s shoulder and offers him several swallows of the aguardiente.

  "Your knife," he says to one of them and the man passes it to him without hesitation. He disinfects it with alcohol. He tells the two to hold the wounded man’s upper body rigid. Then he hands him one of the socks in the pack, saying: "Bite down hard on this."

  After carefully extracting the bullet, he stems the bleeding with a wad of dressing gauze and tells the man to hold it firmly in place. Although still in pain, his face relaxes. He murmurs: "Gracias, señor."

  Next, André offers ‘le premier’ the aguardiente before he starts working on his wound. It takes a bit longer to find the bullet and the man cries out several times. But finally it is out and André stops the blood. By that time, the wound of the first is no longer bleeding. He tapes the remainder of the gauze on both wounds.

  Not much is spoken while he works, except for his orders. André notices that Bianca always stays close by him, holding the rifle within easy reach. He takes it back when he is finished.

  "And now, señores, I suggest you return to your camp so that the wounded get prompt medical attention, and that you let la señorita and me go unhindered on our way. I’ll check that the dogs are dead."

  "Si, de acuerdo, señor. Gracias," ‘le premier’ replies. "Buen viaje, señores. Gracias." he repeats, bending his head forward several times.

  "Bien," André answers and says to Bianca in Italian without turning away from the men: "Up you go, Bianca. I’ll follow."

  He retreats, walking sideways, one eye constantly on the four men, his weapon ready to fire, should any of them make a false move. But they do not. They seem to be totally bewildered by the turn of events. When he is some fifty yards above them he starts climbing properly, checking every two or three steps what they are doing. He passes by both dogs. They are dead. He and Bianca reach the top when the two wounded ones are finally helped to their feet. They slowly walk away, ‘le premier’ leaning heavily on the shoulders of the uninjured guys.

  * * *

  "So, that’s done," remarks André, Bianca reckons more to himself, while he sets down the pack and takes some things from an outside pocket.

  The emotional stress of the last twenty-four hours, coupled with André’s unpredictable and confusing behavior is more than she can take. "Is that all you find to say? So that’s done… After what you just did? Providing first aid to the people you shot because they were after your skin? And they accept it as if this were the most natural thing? … Who are you really? I don’t believe you are a journalist."

  "Why?" He proffers her the bar of chocolate and the bag of figs. "Here have some. That’s our lunch."

  "See, now that I’ve found you out, you try to distract me. You knew something was going to happen when we were in San Agustin. I want to know who you really are." She does not take the items he holds out for her.

  "Take some. There’s no other food for lunch," he urges, pushing the bar and figs into her hands. "You want to know my life’s story? OK. I’m André Villier, 28 years old, born in the general hospital in Montreux —"

  "See, you’re still avoiding to give me straight answer," she cuts in.

  "— My father is a carpenter," he continues without interruption, "who has lived his whole life in the village of Cherneux above Montreux overlooking the Lake of Geneva. My mother is a seamstress, a very good one I dare say, originally from the Ticino — you know where that is? — and I don’t know how she ever ended up marrying my father. She’s much smarter than him, but they still love each other after almost forty years of marriage. I’ve got an older sister, married with two children, a cute girl of eight and a stroppy boy of ten. I went to highschool in Montreux, naturally did my compulsory four-months military training as any good Swiss citizen does, and then did a degree in philosophy at the Università della Svizzera Italiana in Lugano. After that I traveled for more than two years around the world, helping out much of that time as a mountain guide in New Zealand. I seriously considered settling there, but met a Scottish professor, an avid climber himself, who teaches at the University of Edinburgh and who convinced me to do a Masters Degree in journalism in his department. For the last one-and-a half years I have worked mainly freelance as an investigative journalist. My reports have appeared in over a dozen newspapers and news magazines in France, Germany, England, Switzerland, and Italy, and the fees I received barely allow me to survive. I’m still unattached and as far as I know I have no offsprings … Oh, and my past and present hobbies are mountain climbing, cliff jumping and paragliding, karate, classical music, and obviously beautiful women."

  It all sounds so ordinary — the life of a young man, maybe a bit more enterprising than most of the ones of her acquaintance. It just does not fit the actions she observed. "And you want me to believe that? You’re an expert in weapons and use them without the slightest hesitation. You fired five shots. Each one hit its target. I watched, I was too afraid to stay behind the boulder. I had to see what was going on —"

  "First, yes, I used the rifle, but not without hesitation. It doesn’t feel good to shoot at people. Second, one shot missed. The first shot on the second dog."

  "No, it didn’t. I saw the animal jerk. The shot only wounded him. But that’s beside the point. You seem to know the mentality of guerrillas and how t
hey work, and I’m more and more convinced that, when you begged me to stay on the San Agustin side and not to go to San José de Isnos, you knew that we would be kidnapped. And even knowing that you came along. I want the truth."

  "Is there such a thing as ‘the truth’, an absolute truth? … No, Bianca, there isn’t —"

  "You see, whenever I ask an awkward question and you don’t want to answer, you try to distract me."

  Again he continues as if she had not interrupted him. "The circumstances that define a situation or event and the value system of the individual making the evaluation or judgment define his or her truth. We don’t know what the real world looks like. We only know our own personal perceptions of it. There is no such thing as objectivity, and anybody who believes there is is either a fool or ignorant or a religious zealot. The closest thing to objectivity is what I would call a consensus of equal minds, of many people sharing the same view on something. Any counterexample or shift in values will shatter than consensus. So, there is no absolute truth, at least not one that we can ever know with certainty."

  "Stop it! André how can I trust you if you lie to me?"

  "Bianca, I’ve never told you a lie, not in the past and not just now. I may have withheld things from you, not to deceive you, but because I wasn’t certain about them."

  "But how did you know something bad was going to happen?"

  "As I told you, I came to Colombia on an investigative assignment, to get an interview with a member of the FARC leadership. I was supposed to meet with a FARC representative in a shady bar in Popayàn. While waiting there I overheard parts of a conversation between two men, one a local, the other a foreigner. I only saw the face of the local. They were talking about kidnapping a woman. It seemed like their final session before it was supposed to happen. They mainly talked about money already transferred and money to be transferred. One of the things I heard was that the Jeep the woman would be traveling in was to be intercepted before it reached San José ‘of something’. I didn’t catch the full name, but when I heard you mention San José de Isnos, it sounded familiar. I knew neither when this would happen nor who the instigator of it was. And then on the Alto de Lavapatas I suddenly saw the parallels. There was the Jeep in front of me, there were you, a rich Italian woman, and the Jeep was going to take us to that town —"