A King's Ransom (46 page)

He turned and walked away, back into the darkness of the falling rain, beyond the reach of our flashlights.

We waited for nearly an hour past sunrise. The rain continued. The sky brightened slightly, but the sun never really came. No message came either. The radio was silent.

We gathered our equipment and headed for the church. The main doors were locked, but we found a side entrance with a bell beside it. I rang it twice. Father Balto answered, clearly having expected us.

I spoke the truth, no? he said as he led us to a small room off the vestibule.

Perhaps he had been truthful about the kidnappers, but he'd lied about it being warmer and drier inside. The stone walls were moist with condensation, and with our coats off it actually felt colder and damper in here. We sat around a simple wooden table that had been worn smooth around the edges from decades of human touch. A cluster of three candles burned in the center, a meager enhancement to the glow of one burning bulb in an eight-socket chandelier overhead.

Alex took a few minutes to explain who we were, how my father had been kidnapped, the details of the communications so far. Then it was Father Balto's turn.

I was contacted on Friday, he said. They asked me to act as intermediary.

The Catholic Church allows this? I said.

It's fairly common, said Alex.

We do it for humanitarian reasons. Our only interest is in reuniting families.

Did they give you any proof that he's alive?

He shook his head. My instructions were very limited. Go to the picnic grounds behind the church at sunrise and collect the ransom from the Rey family.

We don't have the money with us. We were expecting a radio contact, not an exchange.

No problem. I've dealt with JoaquAn before. It's not his practice to come banging on my door for the cash a half hour after pickup. You and I simply need to set up a safe place for delivery. Where's the money now?

With all respect, Father, I don't even trust a priest with that information.

I understand, he said. You do have it, though, don't you?

We spent all day yesterday and a good part of last night converting the funds to dollars. We have everything we intend to pay.

What does that mean?

Simply this: We don't intend to pay the full amount of their demand.

He paused, obviously concerned. That is a problem.

I need you to pass a message to JoaquAn. As far as we're concerned, we're still negotiating.

I tell you this for your own good. I believe that JoaquAn is through negotiating.

His grave tone chilled me. Alex seemed unfazed. Tell him that we will pay one and a half million dollars, not a penny more. That's a good price for a fisherman, even if he is an American.

I can take your money, but I'll be honest. JoaquAn is so set on three million that I'm almost sure you'll be double-dipped.

I asked, What does that mean?

Alex said, It's a common ploy. The family delivers a sum of money to an intermediary, thinking that their loved one will be released. The kidnapper takes the money but doesn't release the prisoner. The message comes back that you've paid only the first of two installments. Then you're stuck delivering another ransom.

How do you avoid that? I asked.

You can't, said Father Balto.

Only one way, said Alex. A simultaneous exchange. We hand over the money at the exact same moment that they hand over your father.

Nobody does simultaneous exchanges, the priest said.

Father, I've been involved in enough kidnappings in Colombia to know one thing: Anything is possible.

But a simultaneous exchange is very dangerous. So many things can go wrong.

Are you sure about this, Alex? I asked.

If we give JoaquAn half the ransom he expects, he'll either kill your father or continue to hold him until we cough up the other half. We have to tell him up front that one point five million is it. And the only way to make sure he doesn't double-dip is to insist on a simultaneous exchange. Unless you can think of a better idea.

I looked away, uneasy. Father, do you see another option?

He just looked at me, his eyes filled with pity, as if there were no right answer.

Then deliver the message, I told him. Exactly as Alex said it.

He grimaced, obviously uncomfortable. I'd rather not have that responsibility. I fear the consequences.

You're our only connection to the kidnappers.

I don't like to negotiate with JoaquAn. He's not like the organized guerrilla groups. He's too volatile.

That gave me pause. We were dealing with a guy who made narco-guerrillas seem stable.

Father Balto seemed to sense my anxiety and said, This is what I can do. JoaquAn is supposed to call me at noon. Stay here, and you can deliver the message yourself.

Alex looked at me, as if for approval.

Let's do it, I said. There's no place I need to be.

I have a suggestion, said Father Balto.

What?

Mass is at ten. Why don't you join us?

Thank you, I replied. I will.

Chapter 69

By the time the mass was over, the rain had stopped. We waited outside in the picnic area for the noon telephone call. A South American priest with a cell phone struck me as somehow odd, but I sensed he had it for a very specific reason. Undoubtedly this wasn't his first kidnapping.

The cell phone was resting on the table between us, Alex and me on one side, Father Balto on the other. I watched without interest as a group of tourists snapped photographs on the observation platform behind the church.

The priest seemed to have something on his mind. Alex asked, What is it, Father?

His reluctance was evident, but curiosity won out. Three million dollars is much money for a ransom. Even half that is much, much more than I've ever delivered before.

This is not your usual case, said Alex.

Your father must be very wealthy.

He's very blessed. I preferred to sidestep the whole insurance nightmare, though I had a sense that he'd know soon enough. If JoaquAn would ever call.

It was a few minutes past noon, and I was getting nervous. I checked to make sure the telephone was on. Father, are you sure JoaquAn said noon?

He'll call. Don't worry.

And you're certain he said he'd phone you? He talks to us only by radio.

That's because a cell phone isn't an option when you're calling from the jungle.

So this means they're in the city now?

Definitely.

I asked Alex, Do you think they ever were in the jungle, or were they just using the radio to make us think that they were?

You never know. A straight criminal element like this, as opposed to one of the Marxist groups, is more often an urban operation. Unless they have some kind of working arrangement with FARC or ELN.

So this is good, I said. They're back to where they feel most comfortable.

I suppose. Her voice was flat, as if she sensed that I was reaching too far for anything positive.

The phone rang, and I nearly jumped. The priest answered and gave me a nod, confirming that it was JoaquAn. He spoke in such rapid Spanish that I didn't catch every word, but I detected considerable pleading in his tone. His hand was shaking as he handed the telephone to Alex.

God be with you, he said.

Alex held the phone just far enough away from her ear so that I could lean close and listen. Good afternoon, she said amicably.

Where's the money? he replied.

In a very safe place. We have one and a half million dollars for you.

Congratulations. That's just enough to get him back dead.

That made my stomach flop. Alex said, Listen to me, JoaquAn. This is a good-faith offer.

I'm tired of this stalling. I don't know if it's you or the insurance company, but either way I've had enough.

You have no idea what's going on with the insurance.

I know it's a three-million-dollar policy. That's all I need to know.

It's blown up in everybody's face. Jaime's dead.

What?

He killed himself. It's over. The family was able to get you one and a half million. It's all you're going to get.

That's not enough.

Don't be a pig. It's all yours, all one and a half million. There's no kickbacks, no one you have to split it with. I'm serious. Jaime's dead.

There was silence on the line. Finally he said, If you're lying to me

I'm not lying. Get on the Internet, check yesterday's Miami Herald.

Again he paused. I was biting my lip, not sure that Alex had played the right card by dragging Jaime's death into this.

All right, he said. Give the money to the priest. If Jaime's really dead, I'll let the prisoner go.

No.

No? he said, his voice rising with anger.

We're doing a simultaneous exchange.

Never.

Then you don't get your money.

Then I kill the prisoner.

Then I repeat, you don't get your money.

This was not the deal, damn you!

It's the deal now.

Then there's no deal!

Come on -

No, it's over! This guy has been trouble from the beginning. That was my fifteen-year-old cousin that got shot and killed by his Nicaraguan piece-of-trash crewman in Cartagena. I've had to watch him constantly, feed him, clothe him, put up with his disrespect. I couldn't get a fair price from FARC, couldn't get half a fair price from ELN, and now you want to shortchange me? Forget it. I'm done. We're done. He's done.

Wait, Alex said, but the line clicked.

I'd heard it all, my ear practically pressed against hers. I pulled away slowly, the sound of dead air from the telephone humming between us.

Chapter 70

Matthew heard footsteps in the hallway, then shouting outside his closed door. He recognized the voices, the wild tempers. Evidently drugs were as plentiful here as in the mountains. As the lock on the door rattled open, he braced himself for the worst.

AGringo! JoaquAn shouted.

The light switched on, but the sudden brightness was an assault on his eyes. He felt snow-blind to his surroundings as he sat up and shaded his eyes with chained hands. His vision was just beginning to return when, seemingly out of nowhere, a callused hand slapped him across the head and knocked him to the floor.

Get up!

Matthew lay motionless. JoaquAn grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall. Matthew was like a dog on a short leash, his body jerking in midair as the chains went taut.

The fall had hurt his shoulder, and he heard himself groan. He heard laughter, too, and as his sight returned, he saw Cerdo and another guard standing in the doorway. It had been the same way in the mountains, when they'd thrown him in the hole. Punishment of the prisoners was the guerrillas' chief source of entertainment. Cerdo and his buddy were passing a bottle of rum between the two of them as JoaquAn ran the show.

How much was your policy worth? shouted JoaquAn.

What policy?

He kicked him in the groin. Matthew nearly blacked out, then struggled through it.

Don't lie to me! I know about Quality Insurance Company. How much was it?

Matthew could barely breathe, let alone answer. But if JoaquAn knew the company name, there was no sense in playing totally dumb. A couple hundred thousand.

JoaquAn kicked him again, this time in the kidney. The pain shot in all directions. Another kick like that and Matthew feared it would kill him.

It's three million! said JoaquAn.

Whatever you say.

He grabbed Matthew by the hair - long, greasy locks that sorely needed shampoo. It's not whatever I say. It's three million!

Matthew didn't answer.

JoaquAn seized his prisoner by the jaw, forcing him to look him in the eye. I should kill you now, he said, snarling.

Matthew stared right back, more than matching the contempt of his captor. JoaquAn shoved him down to the floor.

Unchain him.

On command, Cerdo rushed over with the keys. He was staggering, too much to drink. He rested the near-empty bottle of rum on the bed, then knelt down to unlock the cuffs.

Matthew's mind raced, sorting through his limited options. This seemed to be the end of the line. After that speech from Cerdo the other day, he was certain that they were going to take him out to some alley, pump a dozen bullets into his face, and dump his body in the street. His fate seemed to be a pauper's grave, an unidentified corpse. He could go peaceably, or he could make good on the promise he'd made to himself when they'd left the mountains, when Cerdo had called out to Nisho, taunting the woman he and his buddies had gang-raped, Nishooooooo, I love you!