Hostage Zero

by John Gilstrap

  “So how is Jammin’ Josie these days?”

  “He’s hungry. Just like all of us.”

  “Is he still trustworthy?”

  “Was he ever?”

  Jonathan made a rocking gesture with his hand. “I never had a problem with him. At least he never betrayed me.”

  “That’s because he feared you,” Felipe said with a wry smile. “That makes you different. If he still fears you, then I suppose he is still trustworthy. Your big friend-what was his name?”

  “Mr. Smith,” Jonathan said. As if Felipe didn’t already know.

  “ Si. Senor Smith. What ever came of him?” He looked to Harvey. “I hope he is well.”

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Jonathan said. “We still work together. In fact, the plan is for me to join up with him tonight.”

  “Does Jose know?”

  “Not yet.”

  Felipe laughed-a deep-throated peal that came from his soul and brought tears to his eyes. “Well, once Jose learns that the other Mr. Smith is with you, he’ll be very, very trustworthy.”

  Jonathan joined him in the laughter. Throughout the world-from Cleveland to Samoa-Boxers was a big man. In South America he made Gulliver look short. Jammin’ Josie was afraid of him at a level that made “terrified” seem like a small word. Boxers had always relished it, and Jonathan had always used it to his advantage.

  As the laughter settled, Jonathan killed the frivolity. “We make light of Josie’s shifting loyalties, but I need to know for real if he has gone bad. A child’s life lies in the balance.”

  In South American culture, family meant everything, so Jonathan knew that Felipe would understand the urgency.

  Felipe’s expression wrinkled. “Your business here is not about drugs?”

  “In Colombia, my friend, I’m afraid that everything is ultimately about drugs. First and foremost, though, my business is about a kidnapping.”

  “For ransom?” Felipe had been around long enough to understand that not all abductions are created equal.

  “Not this time. For controlling information.”

  Felipe showed his palms, his fingers pointing down. “What could a child know?”

  “I can’t share the details. But I can’t afford betrayal.”

  Felipe raised his hand, as if taking an oath. “On my mother’s grave, Jose mentioned your coming only to impress me. For all I know his intentions are good.” He paused. “He just talks too much. Is there a way I can help you?”

  “Does the name Mitchell-or Mitch-Ponder mean anything to you?”

  Felipe’s eyes darted to the corners of the courtyard. He tried to cover his fearful twitch, but it was too late.

  Jonathan smiled. “Felipe, it’s me. You know that I’ll die to protect your secrets.” He said this without hyperbole, and Felipe knew it.

  “Senor Jones, I hope that we have been friends long enough for you to know that I do not frighten easily.” This from a man who’d pointed a finger in the face of Pablo Escobar, the mass murderer in charge of the Medellin drug cartel that Jonathan had personally helped to dismantle in the nineties.

  “You’re among the bravest men I know,” Jonathan assured.

  Felipe said, “This man Ponder frightens me. Because you mention him, I assume he is involved in what you must do.”

  “He is.”

  “Then be careful. Extraordinarily careful. This man is known here as El Matador. The killer.”

  Jonathan made a face. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? With all respect, your country is full of matadors.”

  Felipe shook his head emphatically. “Not the same. Not like this Ponder. He reminds me of Pablo. He is that-how do you say it? — ruthful.”

  “Ruthless,” Jonathan corrected. “After taking down the original Pablo, I’d think that the wannabe Pablo would be easy.”

  “We had two governments and thousands of people working to take down Pablo. Things are different now, no?”

  Jonathan didn’t bother to point out that elements of the Colombian government was more hindrance than help the first time around.

  “Ponder is a gringo,” Felipe continued. “You know how we Latinos are. Gringos lead, we follow. Ponder has paid the politicians well to allow him to make his cocaine in the jungle. The policia and the politicos all say that they are running the drugs out of our country, but they only care about the makers who do not pay well enough. Ponder, he pays good. Very, very good.”

  Jonathan was confused. “So if the pockets are all fat, what’s the killing about?”

  “Farmers and villagers who resist are killed in the worst ways. He hacks off hands and feet, then arms and legs as people watch. He makes people suffer horribly before he cuts their throats. He takes villagers’ children to labor in the coca fields. Many parents never see their hijos again.”

  A bullshit bell rang in the back of Jonathan’s head. “Come on, Felipe. You make Ponder sound like a monster from a bedtime story.”

  “Those stories all come from someplace. I’m telling you, he is the man that children of the future will learn about from their grandparents.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, though. You terrorize the people, and they start to plan their retaliation.”

  Felipe made a puffing sound and threw up his hands. “It might not make sense to you, but it is always the way things are done.” His eyes twinkled. “When there is no Senor Jones on your side, fear is all that many people have.”

  Jonathan caught the barb, but he wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Was Felipe suggesting that he liberate entire villages while he was liberating the Guinn boy? Surely not.

  Felipe said, “I still do not understand why a man like El Matador would come all the way to America to kidnap a child.”

  “That’s the million-dollar question for us, too,” Jonathan confessed. “But his is the name that keeps popping up. Tell me about these coca fields. Where are they?”

  “Places where you have been before, I suspect. In the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. No better farmlands to be found in all of Colombia.”

  Jonathan had indeed been there before. He recognized the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta as some of the most punishing terrain in the world, where jungles were impossibly thick, and where Indian tribes lived undiscovered until the early 1970s. The mountain range ran north-to-south just east of the city of Santa Marta and featured Pico Cristobal Colon, which, at 18,000 feet, was the fifth most prominent in the world. Back in the day, it was as lawless a place as any on earth.

  Funded by billions of U.S. dollars, the paramilitary groups of the 1990s had been driven out by the Colombian government, but the open secret that no one wanted to acknowledge was that a drug war that attacks only the supply side of the equation is doomed to failure. As long as U.S. senators and their aides continued to party in their private offices on the products that they pledged to eradicate, a native population for whom cocaine is the sole source of income will find a way to keep the manufacturing chain going.

  And where incomes are made by breaking the law, there’s always someone smart enough to hijack the process through graft. Political corruption was a constant throughout the world.

  Felipe poked the air in Jonathan’s direction. “You need to be very careful, my friend. No one will want you there. And it’s not just El Matador. Heaven only knows who the DAS is working for today-and whoever it is, it could change tomorrow-and the Indians don’t like anyone.”

  Jonathan had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Truly, Colombia’s national security apparatus- Departamento Administrivo de Seguridad (DAS)-had been more or less up for bid since the 1960s. Every time they’d seemed to find some measure of stability over the years, someone would assassinate someone else, and then it would be time to spin the loyalty wheel again.

  The native tribes, meanwhile, had grown weary of being pushed around over the past four hundred years, and they’d become famously distrustful of everyone. Literally, everyone who was not a member of their immediate tribe. />
  “As long as I sleep with my eyes open and develop three-sixty peripheral vision, I should be okay, right?”

  “You make light, Senor Jones.”

  “What choice do I have? Unless, of course, you would like to join my team and give me guidance along the way.”

  It was Felipe’s turn to laugh. “I will show you a map. I’m not a warrior anymore. I’ve seen too much death. I’ve caused too much of it. I cannot do it anymore.” His eyes narrowed, and he regarded Jonathan with a fatherly glare. “I am surprised that you still can.”

  Jonathan didn’t like the dip toward sentimentality. “I don’t kill,” he said. “I save people.”

  “I mean no offense, Senor Jones.” He looked to Harvey. “You truly are a man of few words.”

  Harvey shrugged. “But once I start talking, I’m freaking brilliant.”

  Felipe clearly didn’t understand the humor, but he smiled anyway. To Jonathan: “So, short of putting myself in danger, how can I help you?”

  “I need supplies,” Jonathan said.

  The old man cocked his head. “The kind of supplies you used to need?”

  “More or less.”

  “Paper or hardware?”

  “Both, actually. But in nowhere near the old quantities.”

  Felipe’s eyes narrowed. “Jose said that he would provide these things.”

  Jonathan leaned back in his chair and crossed his right knee over his left. “Being cautious has always served me well,” he said. “Besides, I have my share of enemies here in Colombia, and I’m more than a few hours away from my reunion with Josie.”

  “I see,” Felipe said. “So, weapons for you and Mr. Smith. And one for the other Mr. Smith, just in case?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Exactly. And I don’t have much time. What do you have in stock?”

  There was that smile again. “Come. I’ll show you. You can shop for yourself.”

  Felipe led the way back into the house, past the kitchen on the left, and into a back bedroom that was far better kept than the rest of the rooms they passed along the way.

  “This is your room?” Harvey guessed aloud.

  “It is not much, but it suits me,” the old man said. “I’m sure your home is much nicer.”

  Harvey was about to say something about his tent, but opted not to. The building that housed the hostel was bigger than it looked from the outside, comprising two connected structures to form one. Felipe’s room was at the very end on the back side.

  The old man beckoned them all the way in, and then closed and locked the door behind him.

  “You’re going to like this,” Jonathan said. Obviously, he’d been here before.

  A large wooden chest rested against the back wall under the window that looked out onto the chairs where they had just been sitting. On either side, at about head-height, very Mediterranean candle sconces flanked the window. Felipe pulled the curtains closed, then opened the chest and transferred three armloads of clothing and blankets to the bed. That done, he lifted the candle off the sconce on the right and handed it to Jonathan.

  “If you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” Jonathan said.

  The old man then took down the entire sconce. He unscrewed the flat platelike candle holder from the wrought-iron curlicue that supported it, then rehung the sconce and brought the disk to the chest. He peeled up a corner of the wooden bottom to reveal the male end of a bolt poking straight up. Felipe screwed the disk onto the bolt. When it seated, something clicked under the floor, and he was able to lift the entire bottom out of the chest, revealing a fixed ladder that reached straight down into a lightless shaft.

  Jonathan grinned at Harvey. “Didn’t I tell you you’d love it?”

  Felipe found three flashlights in the top drawer of his dresser and handed one to each of them. As Harvey reached for his, Felipe hung on to it for a second longer than necessary. “I trust you because Senor Jones trusts you,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me. For your own sake.”

  Jonathan kept his expression light, but he’d never heard that level of threat from the old man before. “I vouch for him in every way,” he said.

  In his own time, Felipe let go of the flashlight, then led the little parade down into the ground.

  The first time Jonathan had seen Felipe’s underground storage tunnel, he’d been nearly speechless with admiration. He was so impressed, in fact, that he would later create a similar facility in his own home. His would be bigger, of course, and it would feature state-of-the-art temperature and humidity controls.

  Felipe did the best he could with what he had. The underground chamber measured maybe twelve feet square, and it was filled with all manner of weaponry, most of it still in its original containers. Back in the day when they were fighting Pablo, Jonathan had spent tens of thousands of Uncle Sam’s dollars in this very basement, arming citizenry to rise up against the drug lords.

  Without asking, the old man walked to one of the smaller crates and opened it. He pulled out a Colt Model 1911. 45 caliber pistol-long Jonathan’s preferred sidearm. He dropped the clip out of the grip and jacked the slide back to lock it open, then presented it to Jonathan for inspection. He smiled broadly. “I don’t forget, Senor Jones.”

  Jonathan had to chuckle. “Indeed you don’t, my friend.” He released the slide lock and cycled it a couple of times. It seemed to be well lubricated and in good shape. He would tinker with it later, of course, but for now it seemed fine. He loaded it again, jacked a round into the chamber, then left it cocked as he stuffed it muzzle-first into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. It felt great to finally be armed again.

  “You’ll shoot yourself in the ass keeping it cocked like that,” Harvey said.

  Jonathan gave a tolerant smirk, then told Felipe, “My friend here was a Marine. He needs a dainty little pistol. Something with three safeties and a trigger lock.”

  Harvey bristled. “Hey, fuck you, doughboy. I’m just trying to keep you from getting a bullet in your GI GI tract.”

  Jonathan laughed. He actually had nothing but undying admiration for Marines, but man was it easy to spin them. And fun. “You a Beretta man?” That was the new standard-issue military sidearm-the one that replaced Jonathan’s beloved. 45. The 9-millimeter Beretta was widely accepted as having better range and accuracy than the. 45, and it was certainly more user friendly. The problem with it, Jonathan thought, was that the people you shot with the thing didn’t fall down nearly fast enough.

  “I’m here as a medic,” Harvey said. “What’ve you got in the way of Band-Aids and iodine?”

  Felipe looked confused.

  “He’s kidding,” Jonathan said with another glare. “Josie will be getting that for us. Pull a Beretta sidearm for my friend, and another for the other Mr. Smith. How about long guns?”

  “I have MP5s, one or two M4s and a lot of AKs.”

  Jonathan grimaced at the mention of the AK-47. With tens of millions of the damn things in circulation, they were a perfectly acceptable assault weapon, but they weighed too much, and he’d be goddamned if he was going to look like a terrorist.

  “I’ll buy you out of M4s, and I’ll take two MP5s. Let me have five hundred rounds for each of the rifles and a hundred apiece for the pistols.” Felipe shuffled as Jonathan spoke, fulfilling the orders on the fly. “What do you have in the way of night vision?”

  The old man stopped short and looked embarrassed. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

  “Not a problem,” Jonathan said, even though it was concerning. The ability to operate effectively at night was a huge force multiplier, especially in a jungle environment. He hated having to trust Jammin’ Josie to be the sole supplier for something so important.

  “While you’re doing this,” Jonathan went on, “I need to buy a car. What do you recommend?”

  The smile returned to Felipe’s face. “I recommend that you let me sell you a car.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It wasn’t unti
l she’d arrived in Colombia that Brandy Giddings realized her entire notion of what the country would look like had been shaped by the movie Romancing the Stone with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner. She’d expected muddy streets teeming with chickens and goats. She’d expected scary people on every corner and motor vehicles that were thirty years out of date.

  What she got instead with Santa Marta was a modern if slightly threadbare city on the seashore that housed the Hotel Santorini, which itself sported perfectly acceptable air-conditioning, and whose bartender knew his way around a good caipirinha. And why not? She was a heck of a lot closer to the birthplace of the national drink of Brazil here in Colombia than she was in DC, where she’d first tasted the concoction.

  Brandy sat in the lounge near a window that gave her a panoramic view of the Caribbean, watching the street vendors hawking their wares to tourists whose pockets were the targets of roving street urchins. She found comfort in the two beefy soldiers guarding the front doors. Actually, maybe they were policemen; they all wore the same uniforms in this part of the world. Either way, their presence put a lot of brawn and bullets between her and any of the criminals out there.

  For the thousandth time in just a few days, she had to pinch herself to believe that she was actually here doing this. After she’d gone home from her last meeting with Secretary Leger, her doorbell had rung, and when she’d answered it, there was a young man in a crisp white Navy uniform, absent the ubiquitous white-on-black name tag. His equally white hat sat at a studied angle over his brow.

  “Ms. Giddings?” he’d said. He had that sunny-but-tough Academy look.

  “I’m she,” she’d said, and instantly she’d regretted the Wellesley grammar.

  He presented an eleven-by-seventeen-inch manila envelope. “I’ve been ordered to deliver this to you personally.”

  She took it without thinking. “Ordered by whom?”

  “You’re to read it carefully and speak to no one.”