Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  He laughs, a contagious laugh, rolls her onto her back and kisses her.

  * * *

  They ask the hostess for advice on a restaurant that serves good, genuine local food and is patronized by locals. She directs them two blocks north. The place has a cozy atmosphere. A waiter conducts them to one of the empty stalls along two sides of the room. It offers welcome privacy. A cursory glance around indicates that they seem indeed to be the only non-local customers present. The food is the best André has eaten since arriving in Colombia. The Chilean wine is smooth and velvety, but has character. Bianca concurs. They do not talk much. He senses her close to him, as he has never felt before. Her eyes often meet his, love written in them.

  Over dessert, they talk about recovering their luggage from the Cipriano. He again explains the possible dangers and the reasons why he must do this alone, that he wants her safely locked in her room at the guesthouse.

  "I don’t want to be alone. Please, André, take me along," she begs.

  "No, Bianca. If I go alone, I’m confident that I’ll be able to elude any danger, and I’ll make sure that nobody manages to follow me back here. But if you are with me, I may not be able to protect both you and myself. They might manage to snatch you away from me. I will be more confident to keep us both safe if I am alone."

  "But I’m scared that something might happen to you."

  "It’s unlikely. I’ll be prepared. Nobody will take me by surprise. But you must promise me one thing. If I do not return by tomorrow morning, you must take the plane to Bogotà alone and immediately go to the Italian Embassy. You may even report me missing to the police there. Not here in Popayàn. I’ll leave you all our pesos and you have the US dollars."

  "Oh, don’t talk like this. You scare me."

  "It’s wiser to plan ahead, even if it’s scary. Will you promise to fly to Bogotà alone, if need be? Please, Bianca, do it if you love me." He covers her hand.

  She hesitates. He sees her close to tears. Finally she murmurs: "Yes, I will. Oh André, will this ever end?"

  "Yes, the worst will be over once we’re in Bogotà."

  "And what about when we’re back in Europe? Will you come with me to Rome, please?"

  "Definitely, I’ll not let you out of my grip until you’ve signed our marriage certificate."

  She responds with a troubled smile.

  * * *

  André hires a taxi outside the university and directs the driver to drive along calle 5 past the cathedral on Parque Caldas. Beyond the park, traffic thins. He asks him to turn right on carrera 11 and drive slowly past the Hotel Cipriano, where he scans both sides of the streets for anybody loitering around or standing in a shaded corner or doorway. Several people are talking to the two bouncers in front of the Bar Iguana, a block away from the Cipriano. A group of four people walk by in front of the hotel, but otherwise he cannot spot anybody suspicious. He tells the driver to go around the block and then park in front of the hotel. He begs him to wait ten minutes until he returns.

  "I have to charge you for waiting, señor," the man says.

  "Fine, but please wait. I’ll give you a big bonus," André insists again.

  He goes to the reception. The desk clerk is the same as the one who arranged the flight to Pitalito. He seems to recognize him. André also notices that he nods in the direction of the lounge seating next to the entrance. In the mirror along the wall behind the counter, he observes a man rise from a soft chair and go outside, while operating a cell phone. They are waiting, flashes through his mind, as an adrenalin rush courses through his veins, and the clerk is in on it. It seems too much of a coincidence for this not to be the case.

  "Ah, señor, we were worried about you," the clerk greets him with exaggerated friendliness. "You did not let us know that you would not return from the trip to San Agustin the same day. Did you decide to stay a few days there?"

  "Yes, you could say that. I would like to pay my bill and get my luggage and that of Señorita Pacelli who was part of Professor Visconti’s party. She was in room 211."

  "Ah, certainly, señor. Señorita Pacelli has returned also?"

  "Yes."

  The clerk instructs the elderly porter to fetch the three pieces of luggage from the storage room. While waiting for the clerk to find the bill, André keeps an eye on the mirror and observes what is going on outside the entrance. The man who left has disappeared up the sidewalk. Again, André pays with US twenty-dollar notes which the clerk accepts readily, in fact, eagerly, he observes, certain that the man is giving him a bad rate. The transaction completed, the desk clerk clears his throat and says: "Señor, there are several unpaid telephone calls left from Professor Visconti’s tour party. Would you by chance —"

  "Sure," André interrupts, "how much?"

  "Thirty-eight thousand four hundred pesos, señor."

  André places another twenty-dollar bill on the counter and asks: "Does this cover it?"

  "Yes, señor, this is plenty."

  "Would you please give me a list of these phone calls?"

  The clerk hesitates for a moment. "Eh, eh … yes, I can do this. It may take a minute or so, if you permit me."

  What else can I do? André questions silently, somewhat bemused.

  At this point, the porter wheels André’s small, but sturdy hard case and Bianca’s two pieces to the counter. Both are flash products, one a large, rather heavy Louis Vuitton suitcase, the other a cabin-size Gucci handbag. André gives him a five-thousand peso note. The man seems pleased and thanks, nodding twice, before he shuffles off.

  The clerk passes André the list of calls. He quickly scans it. There are several local calls, but most of the cost is incurred by three international calls. From the country codes, he sees that two are to Italy and one to Switzerland, in fact, to Zurich, which he recognizes from the area code. He figures that Bianca may identify the Italian recipients from the numbers.

  He says goodbye to the desk clerk and observes in the mirror that two men are now positioned outside the entrance, one on each side. The one on the right is ‘le trapu’ alias ‘la bête’. Here we go, he says silently to himself. He counts on that they want him alive, or else they would neither be able to recover the loot he took from the safe, nor the prize hostage that eloped. He has another advantage ‘le trapu’ does not know about, namely that he has recognized him. His best strategy is to go through the exit door as if he didn’t suspect anybody to be waiting for him, explode, felling both with karate moves before they know what hit them, and then get away in the taxi.

  He grips his hard case firmly in his right hand and Bianca’s suitcase and handbag in his left. Then he walks to the door, breathing deeply. The two men retreat to the glass windows on either side of the entrance. André lets the doorman open the door for him. As he steps over the threshold, he holds his case back, as if to make it easier to clear the door. His whole body is tensed up like a spring, ready to explode. He clears the case past the door, swinging it forward, accelerating its momentum, and then smashes it full force into ‘le trapu’s’ face. A fraction of a second later, Bianca’s heavy case drops hard on the feet of the man to his left, pinning him temporarily to the wall.

  The impact of the hard case drives ‘le trapu’s’ head into the glass behind. It shatters and the man loses his balance. The fellow on the left cries out in pain and pulls a gun from a holster under his left shoulder, while trying to step over Bianca’s suitcase. ‘Le trapu’ gets up with surprising agility, simultaneously drawing a pistol from a pocket. Instantly, André changes tactics. Before either can aim their weapon properly, he has the second man in a tight hold in front of him, one hand gripping his throat, choking him hard, the other hand immobilizing the gun. Shielded by the man’s torso, he forces him to point his gun at ‘le trapu’ and squeezes his hand, making him discharges the gun into the chest of ‘le trapu’. The latter fires his pistol at the same time. André feels the convulsion of the fellow he is holding. He lets him slide to the ground. The whole fight is
over in less than four seconds.

  A quick glance tells him that neither of the two will make another move soon. A black object slipped from ‘le trapu’s’ pocket when he collapsed. My iPhone flashes through André’s mind. He picks it up and then quickly grabs the three pieces of luggage and runs to the taxi. A third man is standing next to it. He also has his gun drawn, pointing it at the driver, but his attention is directed toward what is happening at the entrance, partially hidden from view. The driver, seemingly taking advantage of that inattention, starts the engine, clearly intent on getting away. André slams his hard case into the man’s head. He falls backward. The gun slithers along the pavement into the gutter. The taxi driver hesitates long enough for André to rip the door open. He throws all three pieces onto the backseat, jumps into the already moving car, and slams the door, shouting: "To the bus terminal, quick."

  As the taxi speeds away, he sees the third man run off, just as the doorman and the desk clerk rush out of the hotel, both bending over the two men lying on the steps up to the entrance.

  No vehicle seems to pursue the taxi. André begins to breathe more calmly, letting his pulse slow down, and checks periodically for any pursuers, but nobody follows them. He watches the driver several times brush his hand through his hair. Whenever their eyes meet via the rear mirror, the man quickly looks away. His face twitches nervously.

  André pays him at the bus terminal, with a twenty-dollar bill as a tip. The man’s hands are shaking as he takes it and then he immediately drives off. Again André checks for any vehicle that may have followed them, but all either drive past without slowing, or they stop, letting somebody get out that walk into the building. He now hires another taxi to bring him back to the university.

  It is only now that the full impact of his actions hits him. In all likelihood, he caused two people to be seriously wounded, possibly even killed. He searches his mind for any emotional reaction — guilt, regret, or even only a degree of unease, but cannot find any. These two intended to take him hostage again. They might have tortured him to reveal the whereabouts of Bianca and the money. They would have killed him afterward without even blinking an eye. He simply did what he had to do to survive. They were scum that did not deserve to live.

  * * *

  Bianca is sitting on the bed. She has been sitting there for the last half hour, wringing her hands to stop them from trembling. Although André promised not to be reckless, she knows that what she considers reckless, he sees as a trifling incident. She checks her watch for the tenth time. A bare two minutes have past since the last time. He should be back by now. Even walking he could have made it there and back. She hears footsteps in the corridor outside and goes closer to the door. But the footsteps continue past the room. Shaking, she sits down again.

  Then somebody knocks at the door — the agreed code. She did not hear any footsteps. She rushes to the door, unlocks, and cautiously opens it a slit. André is outside, smiling, two pieces of luggage in one hand, her Louis Vuitton suitcase in the other. She opens the door fully and throws her arms around his neck, pressing her head against his chest.

  "Oh, André, you’re back. I sat on the bed during the whole time, trying to stop my hands from shaking."

  "Let’s go inside, love," he murmurs.

  She lets go and then locks the door behind them.

  He puts the luggage down. The warm smile still lingers on his face. He does not look any different than usual. So everything must have gone well, she figures, and exclaims, hugging him again: "I’m so glad you had no trouble."

  "Yes, you might call it that," he replies, a twinkle in his eyes.

  His answer throws her. "Did you have trouble?"

  "No, not really. By the way, the desk clerk gave me something that may interest you — a list of unpaid telephone calls made by your group. I paid them. There are three international calls, two to Italy, one to Switzerland." He shows her the list. "These two were made the morning after our kidnapping, the one to Switzerland three days earlier. And all calls, including local ones, were made from room 217. Was this Franco’s?"

  "217. Yes, he was three doors farther down from mine. Let me see."

  André hands her the list. "Any of the two Italian numbers familiar?" he questions, as she studies it.

  "Yes, the second one is to my parents, and the first one is also a Rome number, but I don’t know whose it could be."

  "We can quickly find out by calling the number. Let’s see, Rome is six hours ahead of Colombia and the time is now almost eleven o’clock. So it’s not quite five in the morning in Rome. Maybe a bit early to call, but at least we can be sure somebody is at home if it is a private number."

  "No, we can’t call that early." Her sense of what is proper asserts itself. "It’s rude."

  "True, but do we really care. We’ll not identify ourselves."

  "Still …" She is torn. On the one hand, she can hardly wait to know whom Franco called in Rome, on the other hand, propriety demands her to wait.

  André pulls out a black gadget from his trouser pocket. She recognizes it as a iPhone. He switches it on for a few seconds and then switches it off again. It distracts her for a moment. How come he suddenly has one again? She clearly remembers ‘la bête’ taking it from him.

  "Where did you get this from?"

  "I got it back from ‘le trapu’ alias ‘la bête’ fifteen minutes ago or so."

  He is grinning. Confused, she opens her mouth to reply, but does not know what to say. His statement does not make any sense. Why would ‘la bête’ give it back? "Did you see him?"

  "Yes."

  "And he just gave it back to you, like that?"

  "Oh, it wasn’t quite that simple. He was no longer in a position where he could protest or do anything, for that matter."

  "André," she cries in a mixture of outrage and belated fright, "you said you had no difficulties."

  "That’s true. I had no difficulties."

  She notices that his emphasis is on ‘I’, but it does not allay her fright.

  "André, you’re cruel. Stop talking in riddles. Tell me what happened."

  "Come, sit with me," he says, guiding her to the bed and sitting down with her, an arm over her shoulder. He gives her a summary of the encounter. When she wants to interrupt him, he asks her to listen him out. As he recounts the events, she goes through a series of conflicting emotions.

  "Are they dead?"

  "Possibly. I don’t know."

  "Oh, André, why are you always so reckless? You could have been killed. You must promise me never to do anything of the sort again."

  "I’ll happily promise never to put myself willingly into such a situation again."

  "No, I want you to promise me that you will never be that reckless again. You could have called the police."

  "Yes, I would have done that in most countries, but not in a country like Colombia where even the Lonely Planet says that you do this at your own risk. So, I’ll restate my promise. I will never be that reckless unless I have no other choice. What else do you suggest I should have done instead? Just surrender?"

  "No, come back safely," she replies, turning to him and kissing his cheek.

  "That’s what I also wanted … and shall we now make that call or do you quickly want to look through your suitcase?"

  "Yes, I’d feel bad waking somebody at this early hour."

  They both open their suitcases.

  "You travel light," she comments, surprised by the smallness of his case, and then chuckles when the first thing she spots on top is his computer, the identical mini model of the Sony Vaio she has in her own suitcase.

  "I have the same machine," she exclaims.

  "It’s one of the lightest available. That’s why I have it."

  He starts his up, commenting: "I just want to check whether it survived the bashing I handed out."

  They both watch Windows open.

  "Seems still OK," he comments, shutting it down again.

  She now search
es through her things, looking for her jewelry case. "My jewelry is missing."

  "Was it worth much?"

  "Yes … no, not really, just a few silver pieces. Some have sentimental value, though."

  "And it’s not in the handbag either?" He hands her the fancy Gucci bag. "Do you have lead in this handbag? What makes it so heavy?"

  "Nothing I can think of. Why do you ask?"

  "It just seems unnatural for it to be so heavy unless there are heavy things inside."

  She opens the bag and searches through its content. "No jewelry in here either, and all my perfumes are gone too."

  "May I take everything out?"

  "Yes, if you must."

  He removes a hairbrush, a small make-up kit, two pocket packages of tissues, and a silk shawl. Nothing weighs much. Then he lifts the empty bag up again. He hands it to her. "Hold it. Has it always been that heavy?"

  She takes it, surprised by its weight. "I can’t tell … I never really noticed before. It was always full, but it seems heavy for an empty bag. Is it the leather that makes it so?"

  "The question is: is it really empty?"

  "What do you mean?"

  He does not answer, but inspects the bag from all sides. Then he presses a hand on the outside and inside of its stiff bottom. "This is about two centimeters thick," he comments. "I would have thought that a one- to two-millimeter board of some stiff and light material should provide enough support."

  "What are you implying, André?" Seeing his somber face, she suddenly feels apprehensive.

  "I’m wondering whether there is more than simply a reinforcing board hidden in the bottom of this bag."

  "What do you mean? What else could be in there?"

  "That’s what I would like to find out. Will you let me check what’s underneath the lining?"

  "Why? It would wreck the bag."

  "Yes, it would, but I think there may be something hidden in its bottom. That is why I want to check."

  "If you must." But she does not like the idea. It is a very expensive bag, a gift from her father.