A minute later Alex was standing right behind me. Just let him go.
How perfect, I said cynically. People come and go all day long with bundles in their arms. How would anyone know which one was walking out with my money in his basket?
I'm sure it's just a mule. There's no point in tailing him. In fact, if he delivers the money and says we tried to follow, that's bad news for your father. We might never do the real exchange.
JoaquAn promised that the note would have information about my dad's release. The note said to wait ninety seconds and it would be here. Those sons of bitches gave us nothing.
I believe this is what you're looking for, she said, holding a yellow sheet of paper. It was taped to the back of the door.
I couldn't believe I'd missed it. I grabbed it and started reading, but I wanted to know the bottom line faster than I could translate. How much time did they give us to raise the money?
She averted her eyes, a clear signal that the news was bad.
A month? I asked hopefully.
A week, she replied.
That's impossible. Short of walking into the corporate headquarters of Quality Insurance Company with a gun, I can't resolve a claim dispute and have three million dollars in a week.
All the kidnappers know is that you have a policy worth three million dollars.
Then we have to tell them that the insurance company has denied our coverage.
They'll think we're stonewalling. Or, worse, they'll decide that your father isn't worth keeping alive.
So what should we do?
Next Sunday they expect us to be atop Monserrate for the next radio transmission. Maybe I should go alone and tell them you're working out a few details. Something minor but believable, so they don't get concerned. It might buy a little extra time.
How long do you think you can string it out?
I wish I knew.
I sensed that she didn't like her answer any more than I did, but no one had a crystal ball. God help us, was all I could say.
Chapter 50
In a city of eight million people, I felt completely alone. It was well after midnight, and Alex had retired to the master bedroom more than an hour before. A cozy bed awaited me in the guest room. Though our return flight to Miami was just hours away, I couldn't possibly sleep. I sat in the living room at the open window, looking out onto a relatively quiet street below. A faint nightlight from the kitchen left me in dim solitude. Headlamps from the occasional passing car sent shadows dancing across the living room wall behind me. One by one the lights blinked off in the apartment buildings across the street. The minutes passed slowly, yet each time I checked my watch I got the same sinking feeling that time was running out.
I wondered how many others in Colombia were at that very moment living the same nightmare.
Sudden shouting from across the street jarred me. A man and woman in a second-floor apartment were arguing over something. On a balmy night with windows open, sound traveled freely. After several heated minutes, it ended with the loud slamming of a door. I watched from my window as the man angrily left the building, his footsteps clicking on the old cobblestones below.
You still up? asked Alex.
I turned to see her standing in the hallway. I think the whole neighborhood is awake now.
She smiled a little, then crossed the room and sat in the white wicker armchair beside me, facing the window. She didn't wear pajamas. She was dressed in her preferred sleeping clothes, running shorts and a rather skimpy athletic top that was little more than a sports bra.
Are you going to stay up all night? she asked.
Probably. I'm worried about this deadline. I almost wish you hadn't pushed JoaquAn for a release date. Don't you think it would have been smarter to leave it vague till we had some hope of scraping the ransom money together?
I felt like I needed to push him today. We can't always appear to be stalling. If we do, that's dangerous for your dad.
I looked out the window into the night, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Have you considered borrowing the money from Guillermo? she asked.
Are you serious?
I just wondered if you'd considered it, that's all.
I don't see how I can. After today it's more clear than ever that someone told the kidnappers about Dad's insurance. If I had to guess who the rat was right now, I'd guess Guillermo.
Then you should definitely ask him to front the ransom money. Play on his sense of guilt.
I'm not following you.
If Guillermo is behind this scheme, I firmly believe that he went into it thinking that the insurance company would simply cough up the money. Guillermo would take his cut, the kidnappers would get theirs, and your dad would come home safe and sound. It probably never occurred to him that the insurer would refuse to pay and that your father might be harmed.
Then why wouldn't he just call the whole thing off and tell the kidnappers to let my father go?
Because he didn't team up with Moe, Larry, and Curly. I can tell from talking to this JoaquAn that he's for real. One of his men even got killed pulling off the abduction in Cartagena. I hate to say it, but if somebody doesn't pay him well, let's just say it wouldn't be good for your dad.
I appreciated her discretion, but I knew what she was saying. So let's say I tell Guillermo that there's no insurance money and that JoaquAn's going to kill my father. What really makes you think he'd suddenly develop a conscience and pay the ransom himself?
I don't know. Some people call it instinct. Others call it the hostage negotiator's time-honored WAG method.
What's the WAG method?
Wild-Ass Guess.
Even as stressed as I was, I had to crack a little smile. Got to respect your honesty, lady.
She returned the smile, though hers was even weaker than mine. She seemed to sense that I didn't really want to talk about it anymore.
We sat in the dim glow of the city lights, saying nothing. Her feet were up on a coffee table, long bare legs bent at the knee. She'd probably considered her sleepwear more comfortable than sexy, but from my perspective it appeared to be both. Not that I intended to do anything about it.
Suddenly the street filled with the sound of an acoustic guitar. Alex rose and walked to the window. I joined her.
He's back, I said. It's that same guy who was arguing with his girlfriend.
He was sitting on the curb outside the woman's apartment, strumming his guitar beneath a streetlamp.
He's serenading her, said Alex. Men still do that here. I think that's so romantic.
Together we listened as he wailed about his broken corazA3n and la mujer with the dark brown eyes who was the lost love of his life. It was unusual by American standards, but when la mujer actually came to the window to listen, I found myself pulling for him.
He plays a very good guitar, I said.
The beat picked up. He made a skillful transition from the sappy love song to a more vibrant Spanish guitar that reminded me of the Gipsy Kings, though the sound was less full with a one-man show. Still, he was giving it his all.
Alex started to move her hips to the music, then took my hand. Here. I'll teach you to dance Colombian style.
I really don't feel like dancing.
No better reason to dance.
I thought for a moment. Good point.
She pressed the palm of her right hand against the palm of my left. She took my other hand and placed it on her hip. I could feel the warmth of her skin and the rhythm of her movement. Instantly I was more connected to the music.
Do you feel that? she asked.
How do you do that without even moving your feet?
Listen for the counterrhythm.
What's a counterrhythm?
She smirked. You'd be pathetic if you weren't so cute. Follow my lead.
The guitar was booming in my head, I was trying so hard to concentrate. She moved one way, I moved opposite.
Sorry.
That's okay, she said.
We tried again, and this time I was with her. She counted the steps for me aloud, then pushed my hand more firmly into her hip, as if to help me feel the motion.
You got it, she said, smiling.
We moved back and forth, side to side, hips moving, face-to-face. I crushed her foot once, but she just smiled and kept counting. After a full minute of no squished toes, her counting stopped.
Look at you, you're dancing!
I think I do have it, I said.
Our guitar-playing friend was singing again, his voice stronger. The pace quickened, but I kept right up with it. Alex moved closer, shrinking the space between our bodies.
You're pretty good for a gringo.
Why do you say for a gringo'?
Because a Colombian man would never let me lead.
I think you'd lead if you were dancing with Fred Astaire.
Fred who?
He's a famous -
She pinched my ribs, smiling. I know who he is. No se puede dar papaya, she added, her favorite expression.
Don't be so naive, I said, translating.
That's right, she said softly. I might just walk all over you.
The music stopped, but we didn't pull apart. We remained in our dance pose, her right hand in my left. Slowly her left hand slid from my hip toward my back, then up gently toward my shoulder blades. Instinctively I did the same to her, my fingers traveling from the gentle curve of her hip to the small of her back. Our bodies drew closer, so close that the space between us was almost gone. I tingled with the imagined feeling of her breasts pressed against me. Her breath caressed my neck as she looked up at me, la mujer with the dark brown eyes.
She moved her hand across my back, caressing me. Almost involuntarily I duplicated the light swirling motion across the warm, bare skin of her back. It was firm and very smooth, until the tips of my fingers found a slight ridge in the skin, then another ridge below it. Faded scars that I hadn't noticed before. Now that my touch had discovered them, I could actually see them as I looked past her shoulder at the reflection of her back in the window behind her.
She stiffened in my arms, seeming to have sensed my discovery. Do they frighten you?
What? I said, playing dumb.
You found my scars, no?
They're nothing, really.
You're lying.
I counted five of them, each an inch long and about a quarter inch wide. They appeared to be the remnants of old wounds that had never been treated properly. It looks like you were stabbed.
That's because I was.
She pulled away and stepped back, as if suddenly self-conscious.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.
It's all right. It was a very long time ago. I was a sixteen-year-old girl.
What happened?
I tried to quit FARC.
They stab you for that?
It's a lifelong commitment. They don't like quitters.
I tried not to look stunned. Isn't it dangerous for you to come back to Colombia?
For Sonia Bernal, yes, it would be very dangerous. If she were alive. But she was stabbed five times in the back and left for dead in a gutter at the side of the road outside Cali almost fifteen years ago.
Sonia was your real name?
That was my FARC name. And to answer your question, none of that seems real to me anymore.
I'm beginning to know how you feel.
She came toward me and patted me gently on the cheek, sort of symbolically slapping me out of my daze. Don't worry. It only makes me tougher inside. More determined to get your father back. Good night, Nick.
I watched as she turned and headed back to her bedroom alone. I tried not to stare, but I was strangely fixated on the scars on her back.
It was wild to think of her as having been one of them.
For some reason I thought back to that first day we'd spent together in BogotA, when she'd snapped at me for trying to inject even the slightest diversion into her scheduled itinerary. To prove her point, she'd angrily driven me up to the top of the hill to see the once-pleasant neighborhoods of northern BogotA that crime had transformed into little fortresses. I'd wondered back then if her concern went beyond my safety. Even now I didn't know what to think, though one thing I was sure of.
I'd never known a woman like Alex.
Chapter 51
Customs at Miami International Airport was a breeze. At least it was for Alex. She sailed through without a bag search. Apparently an unmarried white male in his late twenties who'd made two very short trips between Miami and Colombia in the last month set off all kinds of bells and whistles. My bags they wanted to see.
I told Alex to go on without me.
You sure?
Yeah. We'll talk later.
She was gone just a second before the customs agents exposed to the world my dependency on American-made toilet paper. I stuffed my personal items back in the bag, closed it up, and was ready to move on.