Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (2 page)

    
On a subliminal level, the Spanish words for ‘bank transfer’, ‘200,000
euros’, drift into his mind. He instantly pricks his ears, closes his eyes
and concentrates on the voices barely audible over the head-high opening
to the adjacent alcove, but fails to catch every word.

    
"… advice from my bank this morning … been credited with your …
in Antigua."

    
Does he detect a slight accent? The Spanish is fluent, but definitely
not local or even Colombian, more like old country. Without being fully
aware of it, he has already named the owner of that voice ‘
le richard
’ —
‘the moneyed one’.

    
"
Señor
, I will have that confirmed." That’s a local accent, no doubt ‘
le
trapu
’, the fellow who has just entered the alcove.

    
"The balance of … thousand will be transferred … once the ransom
… my account." It is again ‘
le richard
’.

    
Are they talking about a kidnapping, André questions silently? A
frisson creeps up his spine. His eyes shoot open, his attention suddenly
honed to breaking point.

    
"I’m sure I don’t have to spell out what will happen to you if you fail
to honor your part,
señor
. Our reach is long."

    
"Rest assured, I will complete my part of the deal. But I must
emphasize again, … keep her alive until the ransom … paid … need
proof …"

    
Has he heard correctly? The intended victim is a woman? Why the
reference to keeping her alive? In his agitation he almost misses the
reply.

    
"We have satellite cell phones with image capability. But after that?"

    
"Use her or make her disappear, as I said earlier. How, I leave that up
to you." It is followed by a short laugh. It sounds crass, ominous. For a
second, he loses concentration and only catches the last word of what ‘
le
richard
’ says: "… itinerary."

    
"Yes, we will intercept the Jeep before San José …"

    
Again he fails to understand the last bit. All he can guess is that the
name of the location consists of several syllables. But there are dozens
of San José ‘of something’ in every province.

    
A dispute erupts at the bar, drowning out the voices for a few seconds.
Then he hears ‘
le richard
’ again.

    
"Is it a genuine
Gucci
…?"

    
A short laugh. "Is it genuine if it is made in the same factory, but sold
on the black market?"

    
"I would say genuine. Here is the agreed …"

    
"I will check the money later."

    
What are they now talking about?
André wonders. Are they also doing
a drug deal?

    
The young guy, he automatically named ‘the pimp’ — no short French
label readily suggested itself — and who pestered him before, now
approaches once more, breaking his concentration. André only catches
the word ‘bricks’. He can’t even tell whose voice it is.

    
"See,
amigo
," the pimp says, "your friends are late. We’ll have time
for our little escapade. Look, I have a photo." The last is added in a
hushed voice. He pulls out a tattered picture. "Look at those great tits,
hombre
. Wouldn’t you just love to suck them?"

    
André catches the fleeting back of somebody leaving the adjacent
alcove. Although the man seems to be carrying the same lady’s handbag,
he is certain that it is not ‘
le trapu
’, judging from his height and slim
built. Trying to get a clearer glimpse, he finds his view blocked by ‘the
pimp’. He half rises, for an instant tempted to follow the man he guesses
is ‘
le richard
’, but then he thinks better of it. It could be dangerous.

    
When ‘the pimp’ sees him rise, he breaks into a pleased smile. "Good,
you have decided to come after all."

    
André sits again and shakes his head, his mind still on what he just
heard.

    
"Why not?" The guy raises his voice, clearly annoyed
. "Hombre,
she’ll do anything you want." He offers André a cigarette from a new
packet of Marlborough. "Here, have a real American smoke."

    
Have they been doctored too?
André wonders and declines. "Thanks,
I don’t smoke."

    
"A stick of chewing gum instead? Real imported American stuff."

    
Has ‘the pimp’ within the space of a few minutes tried to make him
take a dose of Burundanga by three different methods? Again, he
declines. "Look, leave me alone. I am not interested in a girl, nor
cigarettes or chewing gum. All right?" He keeps his voice polite, but
gives it a hard, firm edge.

    
"It’s your loss,
hombre
; it’s your loss. I just wanted to be helpful. A
man needs some fun from time to time, right? Or maybe you prefer boys.
I can arrange that too."

    
"Look, you made your point, but I am not interested. Please, leave. I
have got a message to answer." André shows him his back and takes out
his iPhone. He pretends keying in text, realizing too late that it is
probably a bad move to display such an expensive gadget openly in these
surroundings, but he cannot think of another way to get rid of this
obnoxious man.

    
"Stupid fucker," the guy mutters, as he walks away.

    
Again, André catches himself reaching for the glass and decides to
push it sufficiently far away. A short time later, he watches the squat
fellow he mistook for his contact leave also. He is not carrying anything.
So ‘
le richard
’ took away the handbag. They must have done a drug deal,
with the stuff possibly hidden inside the bag’s lining.

    
As the gravity of what he overheard fully sinks in, his entire body
reacts with a faint tremor. His throat suddenly feels dry, and he signals
the waiter to bring him another beer.

    
"Is something wrong with this one,
señor
?" the waiter queries,
pointing to the still untouched glass, its yellow content looking sick in
the gloom, no bubbles rising and its head collapsed to almost nothing.

    
"No, I just left it sitting too long. It’s warm. Just pour it out. Thank
you."

    
He drinks half of the fresh beer in one go, provoking a burp that stops
the tremor. A renewed urge for taking some action, any action that could
thwart that sinister plot, renders him restless. The thought of reporting
what he heard to the police crosses his mind, but he dismisses that
quickly. Didn’t he get warned that corruption and abuse of power are rife
in the force and that it is wise to stay a safe distance from them? Would
they even take him seriously? He can’t even vouch that he hasn’t filled
in words only half overheard. They may also want to know why he
visited a pub of dubious reputation in the first place and end up investigating him. He reminds himself that he came to Colombia on an
assignment and shouldn’t let himself be derailed. What transpired in the
next alcove is none of his business. He pushes all thoughts of doing
something resolutely away and goes back to watching the people entering
and leaving the pub.

    
After another half-hour he decides to leave. This seems not to be his
night. The Medellin intermediary cautioned him that he could not
guarantee a definite date, but only a period of three or four days. He still
clearly remembers the words he used: ‘
En Colombia nunca se sabe!
’ In
Colombia nothing is known for certain. He resigns himself to be back the
following evening, hoping not to be pestered once more by some pimp
or by somebody with even more sinister designs.

    
Walking away from the pub, he is glad that even in this rundown
quarter the streets are as wide as in the city center. Although it is only
nine, a block or two away from the pub there are few people around and
only the occasional motor scooter rattling by, nor are there any parked
cars. The few randomly spaced street lamps leave large stretches in
darkness. He can walk well away from the even darker shade under shop
awnings and house entrances where danger may lurk. It adds a sense of
security. Nevertheless, he has the constant urge to look over his shoulder
and check if somebody is following. As he approaches
El Puente del
Humilladero
, he becomes even more cautious. The park-like area,
spanned by the graceful arches of the long bridge, offers an ideal arena
for a robbery. He hastens his steps and only slows once he enters the old
town center south of the bridge, with the town square beckoning two
blocks farther on. His lodgings, the Hotel Cipriano, probably named so
after General Tomàs Cipriano de Mosquera, one of Popayàn’s famous
sons, is five short blocks over on
carrera
11.

    
He wonders why he cannot shed this sense of unease, even jumpiness
about what he overheard. It is out of character. In his short career as
journalist he has several times entered dangerous situations. The
adrenalin rush it provoked felt exhilarating. But it was always his
decision, on his terms. Each time he could prepare himself thoroughly,
making sure to retain as much control of the situation as was within his
power. But this was different. He landed unprepared in it, the feeling of
helplessness frustrating. He does not even have an idea how to begin
countering this insidious plot.

* * *

Back in the hotel lobby, André ponders on what to do if he is forced to
stick around for another two or three days. He has already visited most
of the city’s major sights. During Mass late this afternoon — for security
reasons the churches are only open for services — he gave his feet a
welcome rest in the stalls of the
Iglesia de San Francisco
and admired its
seven beautiful side altars.

    
The uniformed clerk at the desk, questioned about day excursions,
offers him a choice of several. The 1½-hour bus ride to Silvia, a
picturesque mountain-village, is an easy and delightful excursion, the
man asserts. He though points out that the coming Tuesday would be a
better day for that, since this is the day of the weekly market when the
colorfully dressed Guambiano Indians offer their wares. Naturally, a visit
to the underground burial tombs of Tierradentro, with their geometric
paintings and carvings, is a unique experience and an absolute must that
justifies the four-hour bus trip each way. André read about them and
considers that, if his mission fails and all he ever gets out of his trip to
Colombia is a couple of articles for a travel magazine, he probably
should suffer the punishing eight-hour bus ride, but not tomorrow. He
doesn’t want to be exhausted when meeting his contact, or even be late
and miss him.

    
Seeing André’s hesitation, the young woman sharing the desk duty
hands the clerk a note. He takes it with an annoyed frown, visibly
displeased that she dares to interrupt him while he is talking to a guest,
but then his eyes light up. "Ah,
señor
, here is your lucky day. There is
one other possibility. A day-trip to San Agustin to see the world-famous
statues and sculptures in its archaeological park."

    
"But I was told one needed at least three days for that," replies André.

    
"Yes,
señor
, that is correct if you travel by bus over the arduous pass
of the
Cordillera Central
. But apparently three other guests have
chartered a Cessna for a return flight to Pitalito, less than an hour by car
from the park. I see here that they have even ordered a taxi to take them
to San Agustin and back. That would give you a six- to seven-hour
window for sightseeing, ample if you hire a Jeep to travel between the
most spectacular sites. In fact, one person in the party has already
arranged for that. Would this interest you too,
señor
?"

    
"Definitely. I would be happy to share in all costs."

    
"Excellent. Leave it in my capable hands,
señor
. I will send a note to
your room with details about departure, etc. You can pay me tomorrow
morning prior to taking the taxi to the airport."

    
"Capable hands?" André questions silently, thanking the clerk.