Strange. She confuses me for Dad. Now she's created a missing daughter.
She's probably thinking of your sister.
I thought for a second as I buttered a slice of bread. When's the last time she saw Lindsey?
A long time, I suppose. But maybe your father planted some ideas in her head about Lindsey separating herself from the family.
That's possible, I suppose.
More than possible. For heaven's sake, your father has been missing for almost two weeks and we still haven't even talked to Lindsey. We don't even know where she is.
That was the weirdest part with Grandma this morning. She totally blew a gasket when I asked her where this missing daughter was. She lashed out at me - at Dad, in her mind - for even asking the question.
Mom poured herself more water. She's a very confused woman right now.
Yeah, I said, almost speaking to myself. I'm pretty confused, too.
The telephone rang. Mom and I exchanged glances, and then I rose to answer. It was Alex.
What's up? I said.
Bad news, I'm afraid.
Did something happen to my father?
No, not that. Not directly anyway.
Mom was ashen. She'd heard my question. I covered the mouthpiece and told her Dad was fine, then continued with Alex. What is it, then?
I'm afraid I won't be going to BogotA.
Have you spoken to the kidnappers? Did they reschedule?
No. The meeting's still on, as scheduled.
I don't understand. Are you saying you want me to go alone?
It's - The insurance company pulled me off the case.
Why?
I can't get into that with you. I'm just calling to let you know I won't be accompanying you on your trip.
So who's the replacement?
She paused, seeming to struggle. There is none.
Excuse me?
I'm sorry, Nick. The insurance company is denying coverage on your claim.
I gripped the phone, not quite comprehending. We have no negotiator?
No.
And the ransom will be paid by
By you. This is what I'm telling you. There is no coverage. No negotiator, no ransom. All of it - denied.
How can this be?
I can't elaborate. I wasn't even supposed to call you. The insurance company is sending you official notice in accordance with the terms of the policy.
Well, isn't that big of them? In less than forty-eight hours I'm supposed to talk to my father's kidnappers by shortwave radio from the top of some hill in BogotA that I've never even heard of. Where the hell does this leave me?
I can't answer that.
Someone needs to answer it. This has to be a mistake.
It's not a mistake.
Who can I talk to?
I would suggest the company's general counsel. The lawyers made the final call.
My heart sank. I was hoping that this was some kind of administrative screw-up. Not likely if the lawyers had already approved the decision.
Come on, Alex. There has to be something we can do.
Believe me, I've done everything in my power. I truly hope you have better luck than I did.
So that's it? You're bowing out?
I'm sorry.
What about my father?
Good-bye, Nick.
I couldn't even speak. The line clicked, and the dial tone hummed in my ear. Finally I turned at the sound of my mother's panicky voice.
What just happened?
I looked at her, stunned. I wish I knew, was all I could say.
Part Two Chapter 21
I reached Miami International Airport at 6:00 A. M., two hours before my flight.
Even if I'd known how to contact the kidnappers, I wouldn't have dared to reschedule our first meeting. I'd done my homework, I was prepared psychologically, and logistically everything was set. With or without insurance, I was going to BogotA. End of story.
I'd represented enough insurance companies to know that I wasn't about to resolve a coverage dispute overnight, so I didn't even try. I did call Duncan Fitz, however, and told him exactly what Alex had said. He seemed like the right person to get things moving in my absence. Since Quality Insurance was a major client of Cool Cash, he couldn't be adversarial and browbeat them into reversing their position. But Duncan felt confident that he could at least make an inquiry and elicit a more detailed explanation of their about-face. We agreed to powwow when I got back and figure out where I stood.
I checked in at the crowded international terminal, then found a seat and killed some time reading a Spanish-language magazine called Semana. One of the things Alex had told me was to blend into the Colombian culture while traveling. I left my Sports Illustrated and John Grisham novels at home. Another piece of advice was never to let go of my travel bag. I kept it right at my side. Interestingly, the baggage tag was still on it from the last time I'd checked it on a flight home from La Guardia to Miami International. MIA the airport abbreviation read, which in this context struck me as ironic. I wondered if I would end up MIA - missing in action.
The bag was filled with maps and travel books, things I didn't dare pull out in public and effectively announce to the world that I was a naive American tourist traveling alone to Colombia. I'd already read all of them several times anyway. The travel hype made BogotA sound vaguely like Miami, sophisticated in some segments, crude and violent in others. It boasted futuristic architecture and old colonial churches, world-class museums that showcased everything from pre-Columbian to contemporary art. It was a vibrant mix of all things Colombian - culturally diverse, an intellectual center, its busy streets a forum for the daily clash between rich and poor, pack mules and Porsches. There was no shortage of great restaurants either. It seemed like a city I might have actually liked to visit under different circumstances, save for one glaring statistic: Every hour someone got killed. Some deaths were accidents, but as many as eight a day were homicides - more, if you counted at least a portion of the twenty-five hundred annual deaths from unknown causes. The confirmed homicides alone added up to an annual murder rate higher than that in Miami, New York, Atlanta, and Los Angeles combined.
I turned my thoughts back to restaurants.
Forty minutes before the flight, the airline made the first boarding call. First class only. The entire waiting area started toward the gate. That was another tidbit Alex had shared.
Don't expect South Americans to queue up like a bunch of Brits, she'd said. Wherever you are - airport, movie theater, bus station - act like you're on the Titanic and they're loading the last lifeboat.
When in Rome, I figured. I joined the mob at least twenty minutes before my row would officially be called for boarding.
Through the crowd, an attractive Latina woman caught my eye. She was standing at the check-in counter, her travel bag draped over her shoulder. She wore a stylish, short-waisted leather jacket and jeans that fit extremely well. Her face was partially hidden beneath the broad rim of a felt hat, but what little I caught of her profile was promising. She finished with the airline attendant, then turned and shot me a discreet sideways glance. I definitely wasn't looking for it, but even my travel book had mentioned that there was more to Colombia's beauty than just countryside.
She started walking toward me, pushing through the semblance of a line, and then it registered. The long hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, and I hadn't recognized her.
Alex? I said.
Surprise.
What are you doing here?
I'm going with you.
Wow, I thought. Duncan works fast. What happened?
Clearly she didn't want to talk in the crowd. Neither did I. We gave up our places in line and moved to an open space near the finger-smudged window that looked out on our Boeing 767.
Did the insurance company change its tune? I asked.
No. They're denying your claim. I had a long chat with their general counsel after you and I talked yesterday evening. My sense is that they're never going to change their minds.
Then why are you here?
Because I think you're getting a raw deal.
I'm glad someone sees it my way.
It's hard for me, as a professional to see it any other way. It's unethical what the insurance company did to you, pulling out just hours before your flight leaves for Colombia.
How are you handling this with them?
I still need to think that through. I figured I'd get you through this first go-round with the kidnappers and then sort things out.
I'd like to be able to pay your normal fee, but now that I'm without insurance, I'm worried about how I'm going to cover the ransom.
For now let's just say this trip is a freebie. We'll figure out something. Maybe you can give me some free legal services someday.
Thank you.
No problem. All I ask is two things. One, from this moment forward, you don't utter the word insurance.'
Done. What's the second thing?
She smiled wryly. Try not to embarrass me in my home country.
How would I embarrass you?
You're a gringo. You'll find a way. Just remember the advice I gave you yesterday: No se puede dar papaya.
I looked that up in my phrase dictionary, and it still doesn't make sense to me. It means, You can't give papaya.'
She shook her head, still smiling. It's an expression, genius. It means, Don't let your guard down, don't give anyone a chance to take advantage of you.'
Good advice.
Come on. Let's get back in line.
We started back toward the mob. Even the pushing and shoving at the gate seemed to be less of a hassle with Alex on my team. My spirits were up, and with the challenges ahead, I sorely needed the boost.
I looked at her and said, I'm glad you're back on the case.
Well, you do need a negotiator.
I know I do. And I'm glad it's you. I think my father would like you.
I think I'd like him, too.
Because of all those great things I told you about him?
No. Because the apple usually doesn't fall far from the tree. And I happen to think his son is a pretty great guy.
Thank you.
For a lawyer.
Ouch.
You're welcome.
She gave me a little wink, then nudged me forward. Together we pushed toward the gate. Just me, Alex, and two hundred Colombians.
Chapter 22
Our car was a clunker. It wasn't even from a rental agency. One of Alex's friends loaned us a rusty Chevy Vega with eighty-nine thousand miles and worn-out shocks. It was part of her low-profile strategy. No fancy car, no wads of cash, no jewelry or wristwatch except my nineteen-dollar Swatch. And I could forget those nice restaurants I'd been reading about. At least we'd booked a reputable hotel.
Hotel? she said with a chuckle as we left the terminal. I borrowed a flat from Pablo for a couple days.
Pablo was the guy who'd loaned us the car that was now limping down the highway. What about my reservations at the BogotA Royal?
You didn't really think we were staying there, did you?
Uh yeah.
Just a diversion. If someone comes looking for us, we won't be there.
I thought she was joking, but she wasn't smiling. You're thinking someone would be following us?
They grabbed your father. Obviously someone thinks your family has money.
I suddenly felt vulnerable. I reached over and locked the passenger door.
She drove, and I rode in the glove compartment. That was what it seemed like, anyway. The passenger seat was stuck in the forwardmost position, so that my knees pressed up against the dash. The ride was bumpy, too many potholes for our little rust-bucket. We made decent time out of the Aeropuerto El Dorado, but traffic clogged as we headed east into the city. The drive from the airport was a foreigner's first taste of lawlessness in BogotA. Horns blasting, red lights ignored, sudden maneuvers to avoid collisions - all performed to the endless symphony of vulgar gestures and the most violent insults ever hurled between motorists. Yesterday I'd been skeptical upon reading that each day three pedestrians were run over and killed by buses in BogotA, to say nothing of the casualties caused by some nine hundred thousand private automobiles. Now that I'd arrived, I was beginning to think they'd understated the carnage.
Sometime after 2:00 P. M. we finally reached downtown. The cool, thin air surprised me. BogotA was closer to the equator than Miami was, but the city was nestled high in a mountain basin against the jagged ranges of the Cordillera Oriental, about the same altitude as Aspen, Colorado. With over six million people, it was an aggressive metropolis. The mountains bordered the east, wealthy expansion had moved north, poorer housing and industry were to the south and west. The old city center was still vibrant, though some of the colonial buildings were in disrepair. At its best, the feeling was Madrid or New York, especially the old commercial center. There were impressive skyscrapers, wide boulevards, trendy shops, and well-dressed professionals walking with the ubiquitous cell phones. The air was thick with exhaust from plenty of clunkers and some nice cars, too, more than I'd expected. Of course there were beggars at the intersections. Sad, but street poverty was a fact of life in virtually every city in South America, not just BogotA. The atmosphere didn't strike me as overwhelmingly friendly, but it wasn't especially scary either. Then we turned the corner and saw the rubble.
Beside a bank was a huge pile of loose bricks, broken concrete, twisted metal. Cleanup crews were shoveling shattered glass and burned-out furnishings into wheelbarrows and dump trucks. The skeletons of three scorched cars were still on the sidewalk, one of them upside down. The work area was secured with rope and barricades. A handful of uniformed officers stood guard, but the investigation appeared to be over. They were just sweeping up the mess.
Last week's car bombing, said Alex.
Terrorists?
Claro.
Who?
Who knows? It's at least the tenth one this year.
I wanted to be open-minded and say something like It could happen anywhere. But a bombing every month? This wasn't Madrid or New York. This was BogotA, and once I'd seen the first sign of terrorism, I seemed to become more critical of everything else, or perhaps just more observant. A beggar approached our car at the next intersection. He was just a kid, his face and hands dirty, his clothes practically rags. This time I didn't just look past him. I looked right into his eyes, his face pressed against the passenger window. They were black, empty eyes. I noticed two other boys on the curb passing a big bottle of glue between them, sticking the nozzle up their nostrils. One looked right at me, but I honestly couldn't say that he saw me. He had that same vacant expression. Foreigners heard so much about Colombia and its drugs, but no one seemed to talk about the eight-year-old kids on the streets blowing their brains out with industrial-strength fumes.
The traffic light changed, and we were on our way.
Our meeting with the kidnappers wasn't until tomorrow evening. By arriving a full day early, we were sure not to miss it over a logistical problem like a flight delay or goats in the road. So far everything had gone without a hitch, which left us the rest of the day and a full day tomorrow with nothing to do. I thought I'd take the time to visit one of the organizations I'd been communicating with by Internet, FundaciA3n PaAs Libre, a private foundation whose main mission was to raise public awareness of Colombia's kidnapping epidemic and to push for reform. With their headquarters just blocks away, I felt rude not stopping by to thank them for the information they'd sent me.
Skip it, said Alex.
Why?
Because any time I'm in Colombia to negotiate with kidnappers, my basic rule is to trust no one.
Not even the foundation?
No one.
I don't have to tell them I came here to talk to the kidnappers.
What are they going to think? Your father was kidnapped by guerrillas, so you decided this would be a dandy spot for a vacation?
No. They'll think I came all the way to BogotA because my family is pursuing every possible angle to make sure my father is released as quickly as possible. How can that hurt?
Look, I'm not putting down the foundation. They do a lot of great things. But keep in mind that they helped push for the passage of Colombia's antikidnapping law in the early nineties. One of the things that law did was make it illegal for the families of kidnap victims to pay ransom.
You mean if we pay a ransom, we're breaking the law?
Don't worry. That part of the law was declared unconstitutional by the Colombian Supreme Court. The government still opposes the payment of ransom, but I've done everything we need to do to make sure the authorities look the other way.