Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (13 page)

    
The very thought of ending up killing several men provokes a
nauseating feeling in his guts. He fervently hopes that it does not have to
come to that, but he also knows that if the dogs attack, he will not
hesitate to do whatever is needed to get Bianca away safely. None of
these men would hesitate to kill him and Bianca, he reminds himself.

    
He wraps the bandanna around his face. The thick material will then
filter his breath. He pulls the smelly socks partially from his sleeves and
dons the dead man’s woolen gloves. Holding the AK47 firmly to his
torso under the right arm, his hand on the trigger, he walks noiselessly
the short distance to the first house. Both dogs rise, one growling. He
senses that the growl is uncertain, confused. When he is about fifteen feet
away, one issues a low bark. André now stretches his left gloved hand in
which he has the dead man’s dirty underpants toward the pair, holding
his breath, willing them to come and sniff, his heart pounding madly.
Both approach, briefly sniffing, their tails wagging. He scratches each at
the neck and then walks past them. One follows for a few steps. He
motions with his left hand for the dog to go back. The animal continues
to wag the tail, but then joins the other and both lie down again.

    
So far, so good. The goat is next. Earlier, while he waited, he heard
the occasional bleating from the grassy area below the houses. At first,
he cannot spot the animal in the darkness. Yesterday, it was on a long
rope fixed to the far corner of unoccupied house below the big one. He
finds the rope, follows it, and almost stumbles over the animal, which has
sought shelter in the open space underneath the house.

    
The perky goat rises and snatches the underpants from his left hand.
He puts down the pack and gun. He hates what he now has to do. While
the animal eagerly chews on the cloth, he straddles it, takes a good hold
of its horns, and then sharply twists it head. The snapping of vertebrae
sends a shiver up his spine. The animal goes limp without a sound. He
undoes the rope and slips it off.

    
Sitting below the far corner where he can see the big house, he resigns
himself to another long wait for the men to finish their dinner, the AK47
ready. After what must be more than an hour, he hears laughter. Three
people come out of the big house. He flits noiselessly to the other corner
to check where they are going. One of the dogs stands on the path,
looking down between the two derelict houses.
Has he spotted me?
André wonders. As the three men walk past, the dog starts down toward
him. For a split second, he is in a quandary of what to do. He does not
want the dog near him or the dead goat. One of the men might also come
down to investigate what attracts the dog.

    
Next, he hears a loud call: "Brutus, come here."

    
One of the men reappears at the top of the path. He calls again. The
dog stops halfway down, looking up to the caller.

    
"Brutus, here!"

    
The dog hesitates and then scampers farther down. André retreats just
inside the dark shadow of the open space underneath the house. His
concern is not so much the dog — he was friendly before — but the man.
If he is discovered now, it will scuttle all his plans. Even if he gets away,
it will make further rescue attempts almost impossible. Hence, should the
man follow the dog, he has to overpower him silently before he can raise
the alarm — much more difficult to do in the dark.

    
The dog, a black silhouette, appears at the open space, barely three
feet away.

    
"Brutus, here!" comes the renewed call from the man, while at the
same time André hears footsteps pounding down from the path.

    
The dogs stops, sniffs the air, and then turns his head toward André —
he has my scent, he realizes. Before the dog can move, a hand grabs him
by the collar, followed by the black shadow of the man. André tenses,
ready to jump and grab the man by the throat.

    
"After the goat, are you, you scoundrel," the man chuckles, and drags
the dog away. André hears the noise of boots scrambling up the steep
path. He sends a silent thank-you. But this close encounter tells him
something more, namely that these people feel so secure in their hideout
that they have become careless. They aren’t even watching the signals
given by the dogs.

    
Since all three men went past the middle house, none of those is on
duty tonight, he concludes. The guard must still be in the big house. He
quickly returns to the far corner from where he has a clear view toward
it.

    
A few minutes later, the fourth comes out, but leaves the door open,
its light illuminating the steps up to the house. He intends to go back in
again, figures André. That is different from the night before. Why? Again
he moves back to the other corner and watches the man enter the middle
house. A minute or two later he reappears, holding Bianca by an elbow,
his flashlight fixed on the stair. He guides her down the steps and then
pulls her up the path. What’s going on? He pushes her up the stair into
the big house, closes the door, and returns to the middle house.

    
Trouble, flashes through André’s mind. No time to lose!

* * *

Loud footsteps startle Bianca from a state of half-slumber. She sits up,
her heart pounding.
What’s going on?
She hears the scraping of the bolt.
The door opens and the sharp beam of a flashlight blinds her. She blinks,
trying to avoid the painful glare.

    
"Get up,
señorita
. Put on your boots. Quick!
El commandante
wants
to talk to you," a rough voice orders.

    
It takes her a moment to recognize that it is not the young man who
has brought her food up to now, but a man she has never seen. It raises
her apprehension. What does
el commandante
want from her? She rises,
adjusts her clothing, and slips into her boots. Her hands are shaking.

    
The man grabs her elbow firmly and drags her out. In the front room,
she sees another mattress. For a guard, she questions silently? He leads
her up the path toward the light that issues from an open door of another
house. He pushes her up the stair into a sizable room. The door closes
behind her. The man, she recognizes as the leader, sits at a big table that
dominates the space. A single kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling
above the table barely lights the room. They are alone. He is holding a
glass with a dark liquid in it while looking her up and down. It feels like
being undressed. An empty glass and a bottle are on the table in front of
him. She remains by the door, not knowing what to do, not knowing what
to expect next.

    
"
Señorita
, come sit with me and share a glass of wine. I want to talk
to you." He points to the chair next to his, trying to smile, but it turns into
a leer, his eyes coming to rest on her breasts.

    
She notices that in contrast to previous times he talks slowly,
pronouncing every word carefully. She has no trouble understanding him.
She is also keenly aware that she is completely at his mercy. It only fuels
her anxiety about what he may want from her. There is no way to refuse,
and she sits as ordered.

    
While he fills the other glass, she has a quick look around. Several
weapons are stored on a rack between two doors on the wall facing her.
The door on the left is partially open. She can see the metal frame of a
bed. There are also two sets of handcuffs and chains hanging from hooks
next to the other door.

    
He shoves the glass toward her. "Here, have some of our best local
wine." He must have noticed her hesitation. Another crooked smile
crosses his face. "Don’t worry. I am drinking the same." He lifts the glass
to a toast and takes a sip. "Go ahead. Taste it. You will like it."

    
Again she obeys. It is palatable, a bit rough and very strong, definitely
stronger than the wines she is used to.

    
"Do you have any complaints about how you are treated? Don’t be
afraid. Just say."

    
She shakes her head.

    
"Enough food?"

    
She nods and murmurs: "
Si señor, gracias
."

    
"Come,
señorita
, enjoy the wine. You won’t get that every day."

    
She takes another sip. It warms her stomach. The tension inside her
eases somewhat. Maybe this is just a friendly chat.

    
"Is there something you would want. I can’t promise that you will get
it. This place is rather isolated."

    
His speech has sped up. She has to strain herself fully to follow him.

    
"Nothing?" he questions, when she does not answer.

    
"A wash cloth and a towel,
por favor
, and maybe a bit of soap."

    
"That can be arranged. Rafaele will bring them tomorrow… Anything
else?"

    
What she really wants to know is how long they will keep her
prisoner. Instead, she summons her courage and asks: "Could you get me
something to read,
señor
,
por favor
?"

    
He scratches his head. "I guess you are bored?"

    
"
Si
,
señor
."

    
"It is against the orders I received, but if you cooperate with me, I may
be able to help."

    
"I promise to cooperate,
señor
," she replies and instantly wishes she
had not said that, when she sees the leer return to his face.

    
He goes to a cupboard in the corner and brings back a thick, much-handled hardcover. "Here,
señorita
," he says, grinning all over, as he
places the book on the table. "It may not quite be the kind of reading you
are used to." Then he laughs.

    
She reads the writing on its spine, guessing the partially obliterated
letters. ‘Karl Marx —
Das Kapital, Spanish Translation by …’
. The
name is not legible anymore. She sees right through his laugh, but does
not mind. Any reading is better than none, and this is a very famous text.
It seems to confirm that her captors are from FARC.

    
"Satisfied?"

    
She nods, trying to smile. "
Si señor. Gracias
."

    
He refills both glasses. "
Señorita
, drink, drink to our health." He lifts
his glass and waits for her to comply before he drinks. "You are a most
beautiful woman and must feel terribly lonely. You know, I could move
you into this house. You would be much more comfortable living here
with me, wouldn’t you? What do you think? … Why not enjoy what life
can offer?"

    
He gets up. "Come, I show you the room."

    
Sudden fear grips her. She looks frantically for a way to escape, but
he does not give her a chance. He takes her by the elbow and drags her
through the half-open door into the bedroom. An old-fashioned metal
double bed is at the far wall. In the subdued light entering from the living
room, she can see that the mattress is covered by a dirty sheet, with a top
sheet and blanket partially folded over the bedstead.

    
"See, what luxury, don’t you agree? What do you say if we try it out
right away?"

    
He places both hands on her shoulders and pulls her close. She tries
to squirm away, begging: "Please,
señor.
No! Please!"

    
"You promised to cooperate. Is that how you keep your promise?" He
slaps her face, not too hard, but it stings nevertheless. An ugly expression
has appeared on his face. He hisses: "
Señorita
, you can either do it
willingly and you won’t get hurt, or I can force you. It’s your choice …
Get undressed before I rip your clothes off."

    
No, this cannot happen. André said that FARC people don’t rape
female hostages. She closes her eyes, shaking all over.

    
"Get on with it … now." His tone has turned mean.