Safe Without You (23 page)

              Everyone shut up. 

              Wilson looked at the three new hostages, “
You’re
a biology teacher,
you’re
an environmentalist, and you’re….” He stumbled when he got to Amber, “Well, I don’t know what the hell
you
are except ballsy, so we’ll leave it at that.  Between the two of us, Bill and I have about fifty years of military training and experience, and
we
have never been able to get the drop on these bastards.  But now there are five of us, and we have a real weapon, and everybody is going to shut up and listen to us.”

              “Paco,” Bill said, “Deal the cards.  Tomás, you look…bored…and scared.”

              “Not much of a stretch,” Amber muttered.

              “Stop being catty, Amber,” Bill reprimanded, paternally.  “Have a line ready in your head that you can spout off about Marxism if Victor comes over here.”  He looked around the group to see that everyone was complying.  Satisfied, he continued, “I have a feeling I know what Amber was thinking when she offered to give Victor a haircut.  Now, let’s take her idea and make a real plan.”

              “You guys do understand that if this goes south, though, it could be bad for us?”  Wilson clarified.

              “Go south?  Of course we don’t want to go south!”  Tomás asked, even more bewildered than usual.  “South is toward Colombia.”

Chapter 17

“How far ya’ll been up this river before?” Duke yelled up to Cal, who sat in the bow of the little boat with an automatic rifle at his feet.  “This jungle is a little more dense that the backwaters of the Mississippi that I’m used to navigating.” 

              “A couple of years ago, I went up as far as Pinogana, but just the other day, I went about eight miles, to an Embera village…had a little run-in with some poachers, too.”

              Ramiro piloted a second skiff containing the other two marshals.  He pulled up alongside Cal and Duke, yelling over the whine of the outboard motors and the splash of water.  “How far do you think they might be?”

              “That Embera village is about eight miles up, Pinogana is twenty-five.  I’m guessing they are somewhere in between, and they are going to keep any boats hidden,” Cal said.

              Nodding, Ramiro shouted back, “We’ve got to keep our eyes out for other signs—smoke from a campfire, broken branches, a clearing on the shoreline.”

              The two marshals both had binoculars, each trained on opposite sides of the river.  A little while later, one called, “Campfire!” but Cal told them it was the Embera village.  He waved them toward the tributary, and called over “Let’s go talk to the villagers, see if they’ve seen anything.”

              Cal’s Embera tattoos were still clearly visible, and the marshals quickly noted the comparison to the villagers when a couple of men approached them.  They recognized Cal, and clasped his hand, directing the group to the Spanish speaking man who had originally rescued Cal and Amber. 

              The group squatted down as Cal explained that it was their belief that a small group of FARC guerillas had come across the Colombian border, crossed through the Darien, and were now in local Embera lands.  He told them that they had Amber and at least two other hostages and he asked if the villagers had noticed anything unusual.

              Two men took up the conversation, speaking passionately after listening to the translation. The translator then explained to the Americans that the fighting in Colombia had been very hard on the Embera people on that side of the border, and that the remnants of various communities had come over into Panama through the Darien after many of their people had been killed.  And the fact was, while the Embera really didn’t want to be involved in anyone’s battles, they were tired of poachers and revolutionaries and drug lords destroying their way of life.  Cal and Ramiro and the marshals listened attentively, then the two men spoke again: they had not seen anything out of the ordinary, but they wanted to help. 

              “We are very good hunters and trackers, quiet and stealthy,” the translator added. 

              Ramiro rubbed his head, “These are very bad men, very dangerous, with automatic guns.  We don’t want any of your people being hurt.”

              “They have to understand that they cannot take and kill people as they please,” the translator added for another man who spoke up. 

              Cal and Ramiro looked at each other; additional manpower would certainly be welcome, but they both wondered about pitting bows and arrows against modern weaponry.

              Duke spoke up, “They’ve got a pony in this race, too, you know.”  He cleared his throat, “You should take their help—at least to help us find them.  They know the area, and they are more likely to spot something amiss.”

              “Okay,” Cal said to the translator, “But not all of your men— only a few—and they have to understand the risk.”

              The translator nodded solemnly, and a discussion entailed.  He turned back, “We will send four other men and me to help you as best we can.”

              One of their dugout canoes was quickly prepared, and the jerry can of fuel that Cal had left behind the day he and Amber visited was put to use as they filled the tank on the motor.  Four of the men, wearing nothing but red loincloths and tattoos, were outfitted with bows and arrows, and the translator had a blowgun.

              “We think they are somewhere upriver.  The Embera boat should go first, and look for signs that might suggest a camp.  Let’s hope that they haven’t gone too deep into the jungle yet.”  All Cal could think about as he spoke was Amber, and how he hoped that she was unharmed and had her wits about her. 

              Ramiro crossed himself, “Let’s go then.”

              The three boats motored up the river at a sedate, but steady pace.  Cal watched as the Embera men scanned the shores and he had the feeling that they saw a lot more than the two marshals with the binoculars.  After about thirty minutes, he saw the arm of the translator shoot up in the air, signaling that they had noticed something.  Duke and Ramiro slowed the motors to just above an idle, and headed toward an eddy along one bank.

              “What do you see?” Cal called from his position at the front of the boat.

              The translator pointed at some foam in the water that Cal would have never have noticed on his own, “Soap—stay here, where you can hide.  We’ll whistle for you to come join us.”

              The Embera men continued upstream, the engine cut out, and a few moments later they heard a piercing whistle.  When the lawmen arrived, the Embera had their bows drawn.  In the middle of their circle was a woman in camouflage pants and a black t-shirt who had a pile of laundry on the rocks next to her.  Her rifle was leaning against a tree.

              Ramiro surveyed the situation, and then asked sharply in Spanish, “Are you with FARC?”

              The woman was silent; she too was trying to decipher with whom she was dealing.                “You’re a guerilla, yes?” Cal prodded.

              “I’d say her silence is your answer,” Duke noted. 

              Cal asked, “How large is your group?”

              She spit at him.

              “Tough one…and I can’t see myself hitting a lady,” Cal sighed.

              “Let’s send her down river with a couple of the Embera.  Maybe we can draw them out when they come looking for her,” Ramiro suggested.

              “Good idea—at the very least maybe we can thin their ranks, ” Cal agreed.  “But let’s tie her up first.”

              At that moment, Mariana drew in a breath and got ready to yell.  In a lightening fast move, the translator raised his blowgun and sent a dart into her neck.  Her hand scrabbled at the dart in panic, and in that moment, another man rushed in to clap his hand over her mouth.

              “Good work,” Cal said.

              “She is lucky I did not choose the dart with poison,” the translator shrugged.  “I thought I only needed to get her attention.”

              One of the marshals jumped in to gag her, producing some large zip ties from a pocket in his cargo pants, “Never leave home without’em,” he smiled.  Soon they had her hands zip-tied behind her back, and then they zip-tied her ankles together.  Two of the Embera men picked her up, put her in their canoe, and quietly drifted out in the current without starting the motor.  They used paddles to maneuver and explained they would wait at the same eddy downstream where the group had gathered a few minutes before. 

              “So now, we have to be patient,” Cal said.

              The Embera men placed each of the Americans in a good hiding place that was well camouflaged, but that also had a clear view of the rocks where Mariana had been doing the laundry.  They in turn spaced themselves in between the firearms, creating a kind of funnel with the river at the mouth.  Everyone hunkered down, and tried to remain alert as they hoped that someone would come looking for the woman.

              Sitting still, Cal was suddenly conscious of the heat, and the beads of sweat trickling down his nose.  After some time, he tried to stretch his limbs to keep from stiffening up as they waited.  He grunted a little, as he rearranged himself, and then he saw the man to his right pick up and aim his bow as he silently signaled Cal with his head.

###

              They’ve been working at their planning for a really long time…we must have played a hundred games of rummy.  If Mariana gets back before we try our plan, then that’s one more person with a gun with which we have to cope.  I guess it’s all going to depend on how loyal these guys are to Victor, and how seriously they take me.  I’ve been going over it all in my mind, and I’d say we have less than a 50/50 chance for success, but at least there’s a chance.  Tomorrow, they will start marching us back toward Colombia, and if we survive the crocodiles, quicksand, snakes and mosquitos in the Darien, and don’t contract some kind of tropical fever, we’ll still be in a world of shit.  

              I don’t know how Bill and Wilson have kept it together so long, I suppose their military training made them tough, prepared them for how to deal with becoming a prisoner…at least as much as anyone could prepare to become a hostage.  I just can’t understand what FARC thinks they’re going to accomplish, dragging us back and forth through the jungle, unless they have some prisoner swap in mind.  Or maybe they’ve just been out in the jungle so long with hostages, they can’t think of anything else to do.  Maybe a fuck in the jungle is as good as life gets for these guys while they are running from both the Colombian army and the right-wing paramilitary crazies in the name of socialism.  Selling coca sure seems like a weird way to free the proletariat from the tyranny of capitalism, though.

             
“Tania…Tania!”  Victor’s hand gently jostled Amber’s shoulder.  “Are you daydreaming?”

              Amber quickly pulled herself together, “I’m sorry Lieutenant, I was thinking about the tyranny of capitalism and how I’ve helped perpetuate a corrupt system.”

              Victor smiled indulgently, “Very good.”  He pulled at his beard, “I think I
would
like you to give me a trim.  And since everyone will be at their best, it seems like a wonderful time to make a video to send back to the capitalist pigs in the US.”

              Amber’s eyes flicked over to Bill and Wilson, who subtly ducked their heads in acknowledgment that she should go ahead.  Paco looked at her from the corner of his eye, and Tomás looked scared out of his wits.  The plan was in motion.

              “Could you please help me back to my barbershop?”  Amber smiled prettily at Victor and extended her hand up.  He took it and pulled her up, slipping his other arm around her waist as he did.  His fingers brushed across one of her breasts, and Amber tried to look like she enjoyed it.

              Victor swiveled his head back, and barked an order at one of the soldiers,  “Go find Mariana and see what is taking her so long.  She can’t be late for her date with the Hungarian!”  He laughed contemptuously.

              That was good, Amber thought.  That meant there were only five of them instead of seven, the same number as the hostages, only they had more guns.  Amber hobbled over to the sloped spot, and Victor helped her settle.  He took off his beret, and then settled between her legs, throwing one arm over the knee that wasn’t injured.  One of the men brought the shears.

              Amber laid the scissors on the ground for a moment, making a thing of playing with Victor’s curls.  She combed his hair out with her fingers, massaging his scalp as she did, and getting him to relax.  She wanted him to think that the haircut was a kind of foreplay before getting down to business later.  Her plan was working, too; Victor slumped casually, his eyelids closing a little as he enjoyed the feel of her hands on his head. 

              “I think I should just make everything a little shorter, but I wouldn’t want to take off all your curls.”  She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “They’re very sexy, you know.”

              “Whatever the barber thinks best,” Victor smiled blissfully. 

              “Tilt your head forward, a bit,” Amber said, picking up the shears.  “I’ll start with the back.”

              Obediently, Victor tipped his head forward so that he was looking at the ground as Amber began snipping.  The other soldiers were packing up the radio and maps, and one started to boil water.  Then after a brief parlay, two decided they would go gather firewood.  As they disappeared into the lush greenery, Amber glanced over at Bill and Wilson.  Then, she looked down at Victor’s sidearm.  Carelessly, or perhaps in order to draw more quickly, he had left the holster unsnapped.  That was going to make her job easier.  Suddenly the snick-snick of the scissors stopped.