Mom said, This is the part where the kidnapper talks in Spanish.
Alex took a notepad from her purse, ready to translate. I leaned closer to listen, as if that would help my mediocre Spanish.
It was a man's voice, the same one Alex and I had heard over the shortwave radio in BogotA. I'd had no trouble understanding him then, but here he was speaking too fast for me to pick up every word. Mom and Jenna looked even more clueless. Alex was scribbling feverishly on her notepad.
In twenty seconds he was finished. Mom switched off the tape. I was perplexed, not sure if I'd heard the last few words correctly. I asked Alex, Did I hear him right?
Let me start at the beginning. He says that the radio contact scheduled for Sunday the nineteenth of November is canceled.
What? I hadn't caught that part.
She shushed me, then continued. Mr. Rey has proved to be a difficult prisoner,' she read. We will tolerate no more delays. We will contact you by radio in our usual place on Sunday, the twelfth of November, at sunrise. The safety of the prisoner can be guaranteed no longer if you do not pay two hundred fifty thousand dollars at this time.'
Two-fifty! That's what I thought he said. They've come off their own demand.
Why would they do that? asked Jenna.
It's like Alex told me from the beginning. Most kidnappers end up settling for about ten to fifteen percent of the initial demand. Dad's a pain in the neck, I said, smiling. They must want to cut through all the back-and-forth negotiation and get rid of him. God, I love him!
It's not what you think, said Alex.
I stopped cold. From the expression on her face, I knew that it wasn't time to celebrate. What do you mean?
The word for ransom in Spanish is rescate.' That's not the word he used.
He said two hundred fifty thousand. Even I understood that.
They want two-fifty to keep your father alive. He didn't say they'd give him back. It's not a ransom. It's what they call a safety guarantee.
My mother looked ill. What the hell kind of sickos are these people? Whoever heard of such a thing as a safety payment?
I've seen it before, said Alex. Especially when a prisoner violates a rule or gets in some kind of trouble. From the looks of that gash on the side of Matthew's head, he's probably been more trouble than his kidnappers bargained for.
This is absurd, I said. They expect us to hand over a quarter million dollars for nothing?
It's not for nothing, said Alex. They'll kill him if you don't.
My mother looked at me, her face etched in fear. What do we do?
The room was spinning, I was so upset. I went to the window and looked out at the yard. What choice do we have? I said quietly.
Chapter 47
Sunday came too soon. Even with my father's life hanging in the balance, pulling together a quarter million dollars had proven more difficult than expected.
My parents had poured their life savings into the seafood company, and with my suspicion of Guillermo still running high, he was the last person I wanted to be beholden to for money. I considered trying to borrow against the insurance policy, but Quality's allegations of fraud made that worthless as collateral. I ended up taking a second mortgage on my house in the Grove. J. C. gave me ten thousand of his own money - a true lifelong pal - and Jenna loaned me another thirty. Cash advances from credit cards filled in another nineteen. Financially speaking, I was about as liquid as dried cement.
And we were still fifty thousand dollars short.
Physically getting all that cash out of the country was a logistical and legal problem in itself. The money was wired to a Colombian bank, which by law could give us only pesos. Alex had sources in BogotA who could change the pesos back into dollars. I didn't ask how it would work. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
Was it this cold the last time? I asked.
It was almost 5:00 A. M. Alex and I were huddled at the same picnic table that we'd used for the last shortwave communication with the kidnappers, behind the old church atop Monserrate. It was damp but not raining, though the fog was so thick I couldn't even see the city lights of BogotA nearly six hundred meters below us.
It was even colder. You just don't remember.
She was probably right. Who could blame me for having blocked that experience out of my mind?
I paced for nearly twenty minutes. Last time we'd spotted a half dozen sightseers at this same hour. This morning offered no views, however, and the hikers had stayed home. The observation deck near the old church was empty, itself nearly invisible in the fog. Even the moon and stars found the blanket of fog impenetrable. Flashlights were our only source of light.
The shortwave radio rested on the picnic table, emitting only static and garbled noises. Alex listened for any signs of reception. Finally a hint of dawn filtered through the clouds, just enough to make the floating mist glisten. The faint light of morning gave the fog an eerie density, slowly changing the mountaintop from a black, claustrophobic place to a swirling, mystical setting within the clouds.
It was sunrise, and as if on cue, the radio crackled. The familiar voice was back, the man who called himself JoaquAn.
Good morning, Rey family, he said in Spanish. Are you there, Alex?
She grabbed the microphone. We're here. Go ahead.
You received my tape, no?
Yes. Very nice work. I think there's a future in music videos for you.
What?
Nothing. I have the son here with me. His Spanish is good, but he wants to be sure he doesn't miss anything. So if you want your money, we're going to do this in English this time.
Very well, he said, switching to English. But I hope you are as cooperative as I am. Do you have the money?
It's in the city.
Don't give me that, he said harshly. The videotape was very clear. It must be paid today.
You didn't expect us to bring it all the way here, did you?
I warned you, no more delays.
Don't sweat it. You can have it today. A hundred thousand dollars.
A hundred? I said two-fifty!
My heart was in my throat. I knew we were going to have to do a little horse trading when I'd come up fifty thousand dollars short on his original demand, but the simple fact was, we weren't talking about horses.
This is not a wealthy family, said Alex. We have a hundred thousand dollars, and we had to scrape to get it. Come on, JoaquAn. You're a smart guy. You know as well as I do that nobody pays two-fifty for a mere guarantee of safety.
He didn't answer right away. Alex and I exchanged anxious glances, and I wondered if her counteroffer of a hundred grand was pushing too hard, with double that in our war chest. The silence was insufferable; at this juncture even the slightest pause made my stomach flop. Finally the radio crackled with a response.
Go to Hotel Los Andes on Carrera Seis. One block over from Plaza de BolAvar.
I could breathe again. Alex gave me a thumbs-up, then spoke into the microphone. That's in La Candelaria, no? Lots of inexpensive hotels in that area.
Correct. This one is small and has no private baths. There's a shared bath in back, right next to the rear entrance to the restaurant. At three o'clock take the money into the men's room. Enter the third stall and check behind the toilet. You'll find a note that tells you what to do. Is that clear?
Yes, clear.
That's all for now, then.
Hold on, said Alex. We need something in return.
You're getting plenty. The prisoner's safety is guaranteed.
We need a date. When will he be released?
He's not being released for anywhere near a hundred thousand dollars.
Claro. But let's call that the first half.
He laughed. Alex, mi amiga. You're dreaming.
I told you before, we aren't going to pay three million.
You'll pay, he said, losing his chuckle. Unless the widow prefers to have her husband's heart hand-delivered in a plastic bag.
Don't threaten us.
Then don't con me, he said angrily. I'm letting you off cheap here, but the ransom is firm. We know he has insurance. It's three million dollars, not a penny less.
A sick feeling washed over me. We'd suspected that they knew, but this was the first time he'd come right out and said it.
It's not as clear-cut as you think, said Alex.
It is for me. The final exchange will be very soon. The details will be in the note you pick up this afternoon. That's all I have to say.
Wait, one more thing. We need proof that he's alive.
We just sent you a video.
We want proof he's alive today.
No es posible. The prisoner is not here with me.
Put the proof in the note that you leave in the bathroom.
What proof?
We want a proof-of-life question answered.
He groaned, then said, All right, what is it?
Just one second. She looked at me and asked, You know any secrets about your dad?
Like what?
It has to be a question that JoaquAn can pass along to your father. Something that only your father would know.
What's his favorite color?
Nothing subjective, she said. Make it a verifiable fact.
How about the question we used the last time? The name of the golden retriever I had when I was a kid.
I need a new one. They could have asked him that two weeks ago and killed him yesterday.
What's his wedding anniversary?
No good. If their plan was to kill him and pretend he was still alive, they surely would have gotten every birthday and anniversary out of him before pulling the trigger.
Put on the spot, I couldn't think of anything. I sensed urgency from Alex. Finally it hit me, the drowning that Jenna had told me about.
How old was his sister when she drowned?
Perfect, said Alex.
Immediately I wanted to retract it, but Alex was already passing it along to JoaquAn. He wrapped things up with a simple Adios, amigos.
Alex switched off the radio, took one look at my expression, and asked, What's wrong?
That question I asked you to pass along to JoaquAn. It's not a good one.
Nonsense. It was exactly the kind of thing JoaquAn wouldn't be able to find out unless your father was alive to tell him.
The problem is, Dad never told me about his sister.
You mean you don't know the answer to your own question? she snapped.
I know the answer. But it's something that my father never shared with me. It's obviously a subject that he has difficulty talking about, maybe even something he just didn't want me to know. The last thing I wanted to do was ask a proof-of-life question that upsets him.
She stowed the radio in her backpack, threw it over her shoulder. Don't take this the wrong way, but your dad has more things to worry about than whether his son knows or doesn't know his personal demons. Three million more things, to be exact.
I couldn't argue.
She turned and started down the stone trail. I followed, the two of us descending deeper into the fog.
Chapter 48
Matthew's head was still smarting. The blow he'd taken from the rifle butt during the attack at the river had rendered him unconscious for nearly a full day. The three-inch gash had been crudely stitched by AAda, a thirteen-year-old girl of a guerrilla who claimed to know how to sew. She knew nothing about the need for sterilized needles, however, and trying to get the wound properly cleaned and bandaged was about as likely as room service. All day long Matthew would search himself for a few square centimeters of clothing that weren't covered in grime, and then he'd dab the pus away. It galled him to think that after all he'd been through he could seriously end up dying from infection.
El vaso, por favor, he said to a passing guard. One of these lowlifes had stolen his only possession, a cracked rice bowl that he'd been using to collect clean rainwater, both for drinking and for washing his head wound.
The guard just kept walking, not his concern.
Matthew could easily have exploded, but he forced himself to remember that he was better off this week than last. He was out of his hole in the ground, though still held separately from the other prisoners. He spent his days beneath a stretch of canvas behind the guerrillas' smoky hut, while the others were housed on the other side of the slope in army tents that had come with the last mule train of supplies. He'd seen Nisho once, but only from a distance. He'd passed the entire group on his way to a bathroom break. Jan, Emilio, the old-looking Colombian, and Rosa were seated around a small fire, eating. Nisho was off to the side by herself, curled into a ball beneath a blanket.
It was hard for him to say how long it had been since the rape. The weather was in such a cold, drizzly pattern that one day was utterly indistinguishable from the next. He wished for a pen and paper just to mark the passage of time. The guards who brought him food or took him to the latrine would generally tell him nothing. He would ask how long he'd been in captivity, what day it was, how many days till Christmas. Their response was always along the lines of A?QuE te importa?