A King's Ransom (10 page)

No one had told him exactly where he was, of course. The endless peaks and valleys suggested western Colombia, the most mountainous part of the country. The five-thousand-mile Cordillera de los Andes runs the length of South America, then splits into three ranges in Colombia. Sandwiched between the peaks of Cordillera Occidental, Cordillera Central, and Cordillera Oriental are two great valleys, Valle del Cauca and Valle del Magdalena, whose two rivers run northward until they merge and flow into the Caribbean. Just the sight of moving water had Matthew thinking of possible escape routes, though escape seemed impossible this far from civilization. Last night at their campsite, Matthew looked up through the trees to the vast ocean of stars twinkling overhead. They were so brilliant and plentiful, he had to be hundreds of miles from any city lights. The world was so quiet at this altitude, and the weather changed so quickly. By the time he'd made up his tent and bedding, the stars were gone. Low-hanging clouds had turned the camp pitch-dark, and he slowly became more aware of sounds than sights. The river churned through the valley a thousand feet below, like static on the radio. The gurgling sounds just ten meters from his tent were from a stream of the sweetest, purest water he'd ever tasted. Ten meters in the opposite direction stood a patch of bamboo, the bathroom, from which a strange clicking noise emerged in the darkness. A bird, he assumed. Colombia was full of birds, more species in this one country than in all of North America and Europe combined. The lure had gotten many an unsuspecting bird-watcher kidnapped.

The last sound he'd heard before dozing off to sleep was the patter of raindrops on canvas. It continued until he woke at the crack of dawn the next morning.

Up, said one of the guerrillas.

His eyes opened to instant disappointment. The shooting and kidnapping on the boat, the daylong ride in the back of a truck, and the hike through mountains had all seemed like a bad dream. The sight of a girl almost ten years younger than his daughter, armed with an M-1 .30-caliber carbine, only confirmed how real it was. She poked him with the barrel.

Por favor, said Matthew, pushing the barrel aside. All the guerrillas had the dangerous habit of misusing weapons as pointers and prods.

For Matthew, breakfast was a cold, chewy roll. He ate alone beneath his dripping-wet military canvas. By the time he'd finished, the rain had stopped. The guerrillas started a fire with wood they'd kept dry beneath a canvas tarp that was far superior to the so-called tent they'd given to Matthew. Something was sizzling in a pan over the fire. It didn't smell very appetizing to Matthew, but he would have preferred it if only because it was hot. They gathered around the fire to eat as Matthew watched from several meters away. He noted that JoaquAn, the leader, was not around. A minute later he was coming through the forest, instantly recognizable with his Australian-style hat.

For you, he said as he handed Matthew a plastic sack.

Inside were a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a roll of toilet paper, and a bar of soap. Matthew was torn as to whether he should say Gracias or Don't do me any favors, you murdering pigs. Showing appreciation toward these thugs wasn't going to be easy, but they did hold his life in their hands. A rapport on some level was essential to his survival.

All the comforts of home, he said. It was as close to thank you as he could muster.

Later. Come with me now.

JoaquAn and two other guerrillas led him back by the same route JoaquAn had just taken. They walked for almost fifteen minutes along the edge of the poppy field, then another twenty minutes deep into the forest. JoaquAn seemed to know where he was headed, even as the foliage grew thicker. Again the thought of escape crossed Matthew's mind, but it was quickly dismissed. Even if he could break away, he doubted that he could ever find his way out of this jungle.

Finally he heard voices ahead. In a minute they reached a clearing in the forest. A large cottage stood on stilts in the center. It was constructed of roughly hewn logs and a thatched roof. Several smaller huts were nearby, two with the doors open, three with the doors closed. It was a busy place, like a way station. Almost a hundred men and women in combat fatigues were standing around, sitting on rocks, walking from one place to another. A team of pack mules was hitched behind the cottage, munching hay. Goats picked at the garbage near the latrine.

JoaquAn was smiling as he walked into camp with his catch. Matthew once again wanted to deck him, but he was even more incensed by the reaction of the other guerrillas. They whistled, some cheered. He felt like the prize fish on the dock.

El gringo, said one of the guerrillas, smiling.

La mina, said JoaquAn. The name seemed to be sticking. Matthew was the gold mine.

JoaquAn led them toward the cottage, slowly, so that he could soak up the praise. He especially enjoyed the adoring glances from guerrillas of the opposite sex. He even removed his hat once and took a bow. The girls - and they were just girls - giggled in response. JoaquAn winked. He obviously fancied himself the ladies' man.

Matthew thought they were headed for the main cottage, but JoaquAn led him past the entrance to a smaller hut behind it. Two armed guards were posted outside the door. One of them unlocked it. JoaquAn pushed Matthew inside.

Inside it was dark. The floor was dirt, not even flat. The air was thick with a musty odor emitted from a thatched roof that was perpetually rain-soaked. A small rectangular opening in the door was the only source of daylight. Matthew peered through it and watched as JoaquAn disappeared into the cottage. A noise from behind gave him a start. Rats, he feared, or worse.

Hola, a man said.

Slowly, Matthew's eyes adjusted. The man was one of four seated on the floor, far in the corner. With all the shadows, Matthew hadn't noticed them upon entering.

Hola, said Matthew.

Are you the American?

Just one word, and the man could tell. His friend Hector had been right: He was Juanito Carson. Yes. Who are you?

An unlucky son of a bitch. Just like you.

The man rose and said, Emilio SAnchez. From BogotA.

Matthew shook his hand and introduced himself. Who are these people?

He took Matthew to the door. Together, they peered out. See the insignia on the left sleeve? he said, pointing toward the guard outside the door.

Matthew squinted to make out what appeared to be a dragon holding a sword of equal height. Yes, I see it.

That's FARC.

His heart sank. He'd heard of FARC, and what he'd heard wasn't good. I didn't notice that insignia on the guerrillas who kidnapped me.

That's because those guys aren't FARC.

What are they?

Worse than FARC.

Matthew almost scoffed. What could be worse?

You have to understand, kidnapping has become like an industry in this country, especially for groups like FARC. It's gotten to the point where they basically subcontract their work. They hire negotiators, intermediaries, people to house the kidnap victims, even people who pull off the abductions. All these extras might have nothing to do with FARC. They're just part of the industry.

How do you know so much?

This is the second time I've been kidnapped in three years.

Damn. That's awful.

Tell me about it. But you learn. Some guards can be a good source of information if you talk to them the right way. That's how I got the goods on you. I know all about JoaquAn, too.

My kidnapper?

SA. I saw him prancing around the cottage earlier this morning when I had my bathroom break. He was strutting like a big shot, so I asked the guards about him. They said he was bringing in an American.

Who is he?

Who knows? Just some ex-guerrilla who's decided he can make good money selling kidnap victims to FARC.

I'm being sold to FARC?

He's trying to sell you. The guards told me that he was asking for too much money. I guess he decided to come back with you live and in person, give it one more try. But if he doesn't strike a deal, you may be stuck with him.

Matthew looked around the hut. The other three men were silent, not part of the conversation in English. Who brought you in? FARC?

No. The same group who got you.

JoaquAn?

Not him, personally. His group. The guard tells me he has about twenty followers. Not sure where they're from. Not even sure they're all Colombian. Part of his band brought you in. The others pulled a retEn outside Cali three days ago.

What's a retEn?

Roadblock. They just throw some tires in the road, stop any cars that come along. They have a computer with Internet access right on site to run a background check on each person they nab. Anyone who looks like they have money goes in the back of their truck. The others lose their cars and walk home.

How many did they take?

Six, including me.

I only see four here.

The women are in the other hut.

It sickened him that they'd take women, too. He thought of his wife or daughter at the mercy of teenage boys with automatic weapons.

JoaquAn stepped out of the cottage. He didn't look happy as he walked toward the hut. Matthew and Emilio stepped back from the door. It opened, and the guard ordered everyone out. Matthew and the four others stepped into the daylight. The day was overcast, but Emilio and the others who'd been in the hut for hours still had trouble with their eyes. JoaquAn walked to the other hut, the same drill. Out walked the women. One looked close to Cathy's age; the other, about the age of their daughter, Lindsey.

JoaquAn and his two men herded the seven prisoners together. Four FARC guerrillas assisted. It seemed to be an unwritten rule that there were always at least as many guards as prisoners. JoaquAn spoke to the group in Spanish.

Welcome to the valley of smiles, he said.

The group was silent, unamused by his humor. He continued, Some of you will remain here in the good hands of FARC. Some of you will leave here today. I have only one way to decide who stays and who goes.

He reached inside his knapsack and removed two billfolds. He opened one and held it up so all could see. It was a picture of a young boy. Who is this?

My son, said Emilio.

How old?

Six.

Come forward.

Emilio stepped up, apart from the group. The younger woman started crying. Please, please, seA+-or. I have children, too.

JoaquAn pulled another billfold from the pack and displayed it the same way, so that all could see. There were two children in this photograph, a boy and girl. How old? he asked.

Rafael is two, she said, her voice cracking. Alicia is four.

Come here.

Thank you, oh, thank you, she said.

With just a signal from JoaquAn, the FARC guards herded the three remaining men and one woman back into the huts. They went quietly, though the expressions on their tired faces screamed with despair. The young mother was still crying and thanking JoaquAn, even kissing his hand, as if he were the pope. She obviously thought they were going home.

Matthew could only assume that JoaquAn had been unable to persuade FARC to pay the high price he wanted for the American. But that didn't explain why Emilio and the young mother had been segregated from the group along with him. Could this be some kind of humanitarian gesture? Maybe they somehow knew that his wife was pregnant, and they'd pulled out the mother, the father, and the father-to-be for special consideration.

We have a long journey ahead of us, said JoaquAn, still speaking in Spanish.

Then he looked at Matthew and spoke in English. And these are the rules. Don Matthew, do not try to escape. If you try to escape and are captured, we kill the daddy. If you try to escape and succeed, we kill the mommy. And I assure you, it won't be quick and painless.

He patted the large knife attached to his belt, then reverted to Spanish. Any questions?

Emilio said nothing, having understood it all. The young woman looked confused, as she spoke only Spanish. Matthew was angry, but he felt foolish, too, for even having considered the possibility that this animal was capable of a humanitarian gesture.

Bueno, said JoaquAn. Vamos.

At gunpoint, the three prisoners marched past the FARC cottage, across the clearing, and back into the forest, back to the rebel campsite near the beautiful red fields of poppy.

Chapter 13

My chance to confront Guillermo came and went. Two days had passed since my meeting with Agent Huitt, and I'd spoken to my father's business partner on the telephone at least a half dozen times. He was still in Colombia, still the family's representative in dealing with the local police. Each time we spoke, I resolved to ask the questions that needed to be asked. Each time, I let it go. I needed more than vague innuendo from an FBI agent before questioning the integrity of a man who might be completely innocent. The last thing I needed was to alienate Guillermo and end up having to deal with the Colombian police on my own.

At least for now, I dealt with Guillermo as if the conversation with Agent Huitt had never taken place. Things were so normal that he was even delegating work to me in my father's absence. I spent the afternoon at the port checking on a shipment of scuba equipment to the lobster divers in Nicaragua.