They laughed. It was a wordplay on Colombia that Matthew had seen before in newspapers, with no exact translation. But he got the drift. Welcome to Crazyland.
At JoaquAn's command, one guerrilla took Matthew by the left arm, the other by the right, as they led him to the pack mules.
Chapter 8
I had a bizarre dream that night. My family owned a gold mine. We agreed to pay the kidnappers a king's ransom for my father's release. It was delivered in a dump truck, tons of glittering gold dust. The guerrillas came with shovels and wheelbarow. When the last of the mountain had been hauled away, the rebels released their hostage. Out from the jungle walked an eighty-six-year-old man who was not my father. Frantic, I chased after the guerrillas and shouted at the top of my lungs that they'd made a terrible mistake. One of them finally stopped and turned, almost laughing as he answered in the exact voice of the Colombian police officer I'd spoken to on the phone last evening.
You are SeA+-or Alvarez, no?
Some people find meaning in dreams. I usually dismissed the good ones as wishful thinking and the power of suggestion; the bad ones I chalked up to stress, anxiety, and the power of indigestion. This time I wasn't taking any chances. The next morning I drove to the Miami field office for a personal visit with the FBI.
I arrived at half past nine, took the elevator to the second floor, and checked in with the receptionist who sat on the other side of the bulletproof glass. I told her my name and why I was there.
You want Agent Nettles, our legal liaison for international kidnappings.
I've seen him already. I'd like to see his supervisor, please.
Do you have an appointment?
No. But it's no exaggeration to say that this is a matter of life and death. Please, I really need to see someone with authority.
She gave me a quick once-over, as if trying to determine whether I was a nutcase. I'll see who's available, she said.
Thank you.
I sat in the Naugahyde chair and waited. Rising from the table beside me was a three-foot-tall trophy from a regional softball league. On the wall were two plaques that bore the names of FBI agents who'd lost their lives in the line of duty. It was in chronological order. There seemed to be more in recent years, like everything else. More guns. More criminals. More dead FBI agents. More Americans kidnapped abroad.
Finally the door opened and the receptionist called for me. Come with me, please.
She clipped a visitor's badge to my shirt, and I followed her down the brightly lit hall. We made several turns, then came to a larger room that was partitioned into smaller workstations by chest-high dividers. Dozens of agents and other personnel were busy in their pods, reviewing files, working at computer terminals, or talking on the telephone. Work here was done without the noise and confusion of police stations, where people always seemed to be shouting at each other or dodging some drunk who was about to vomit on their shoes. An FBI field office had an air of dignity, practically a church, compared to the zoo-in-blue downtown.
We stopped at a conference room. Three walls were windowless; the fourth was completely glass and faced the interior workstations. Inside were two agents who rose from the table to greet me. The older one was Agent Sam Huitt, a man about my dad's age. He had the same lines around his eyes as Dad did, too, not from years of squinting in the sun, I surmised, but from habitually narrowing his gaze with suspicion. The younger agent was Angela Pintero, a tall woman with olive skin and short brown hair styled into tight, efficient curls. We exchanged pleasantries and then took our seats, me across the table from the two of them.
Are you Agent Nettles's supervisor? I asked Huitt.
Not directly, but I am a supervisory special agent. And I'm aware of the impasse between the bureau and the State Department.
Good. Because I'm making it my business to break the impasse. Agent Nettles tried to help, but his hands were clearly tied. If you can't do better, I'd like to speak to your supervisor.
I'm confident we can help.
That's encouraging. Do you have anything specific in mind?
First, I propose to listen. You came to us. I presume you have some thoughts of your own as to how we can solve the problem.
Huitt sat back with hands clasped behind his head. Pintero was poised to take notes. They seemed to operate the way Duncan and I did, the senior guy running the show, the other playing backup.
Here's the way I see it, I said. The State Department insists that FBI negotiators can't be involved if they plan to assist the family in the payment of a ransom. After speaking with my father's business partner last night, my fear is that the kidnappers will demand a ransom that my family can't possibly pay. If that's the case, we might as well have the FBI negotiators on our side trying to get the kidnappers to release my father for no ransom. Let's just tell the State Department we'll play by their rules.
He smiled thinly, as if amused. That's a little transparent, don't you think?
How so?
If I were the State Department, I would suspect that your overall plan is simply to get the FBI involved, get them entrenched in the case, and then ultimately ignore the no-concessions policy and pay a ransom.
The guy was onto me. Do you have a better suggestion?
Yes. Take a step back and ask yourself why the FBI really declined the State Department's invitation to participate in this case.
I didn't like his tone. Things had suddenly moved from a friendly discussion to a subtle confrontation, one I didn't fully understand. You're going to have to help me out there, Mr. Huitt.
Did you know that your father has been stopped and interrogated by U. S. customs nineteen times in the last five years?
That one hit me like ice water. No.
Does it surprise you?
Not really. He probably fits an arbitrary profile the government has developed. As often as he travels alone between Miami and Central America, it honestly surprises me that he hasn't been stopped more often.
They just stared at me, silent accusers. Their gaze made me look away, through the conference room's glass wall. At one of the workstations outside the conference room, I noticed a bumper sticker tacked up on the bulletin board. It read, SO MANY COLOMBIANS, SO LITTLE TIME.
Am I in the narcotics unit? I asked.
Yes. I'm a squad leader.
My father's been kidnapped. Why am I talking to narcotics agents?
Because we're the ones you need to play ball with.
What?
You give us something, we give you something. Quid pro quo.
You'd better mean squid pro quo, because that's about all the Rey family can give you. My father's a fisherman.
Fisherman, huh?
Yeah. Fisherman.
Whatever you say. But if you stick to that story, we get nowhere in our efforts to resolve the so-called policy differences between the FBI and the State Department.
I leaned into the table and looked him in the eye. Let me make sure I understand. You're telling me that this deadlock between the FBI and the State Department can be cleared up if what?
If you cut the crap about your old man being a fisherman.
But that's what he is.
Humor us, said Huitt. For argument's sake, let's say he's not.
I was getting angry. Okay, let's play fantasy world. My dad's not a fisherman. Then what? You're saying that the FBI will help him get released from his kidnappers, but only if I give you information that will land him in jail the minute he returns to the United States? That's crazy.
We're not after your old man. It's his business partner we want. The Nicaraguan, Guillermo Cruz.
I barely even know Guillermo.
That's our point, said the female agent, her only contribution.
I looked at her, then at Huitt. Both were deadpan. There was nothing I could say in Guillermo's defense. I'd met him only once in my life.
Huitt said, Talk to your mother, see how much she knows. If you can come up with something compelling on Cruz, we're in business. We get the man we want. Your father gets an FBI negotiator working on his case. Your whole family can have immunity from prosecution.
Prosecution for what?
Talk to your mother. And take my advice. Watch yourself around Guillermo Cruz.
They rose simultaneously, as if on cue. It struck me as pure intimidation, the strategic moment at which an experienced agent like Huitt liked to end meetings of this sort.
The younger agent opened the door to escort me back to the lobby. As she led me away from the table, I stopped for one last word with Huitt.
Just out of curiosity, I said. Of all those times my father was stopped by U. S. customs, how many times was he found to have broken the law?
He said nothing.
That's what I thought. I turned and headed out the door, the other agent at my side.
Kid, said Huitt.
I was halfway down the hall with Agent Pintero. We stopped and looked back.
It only takes once, he said flatly, then stepped back into the conference room.
I wondered if that was some kind of warning that he'd continue to dog my family until he got something on us. Or was he implying that he already had the goods?
I continued toward the lobby in silence, more confused than when I'd arrived.
Chapter 9
Notice of Death were the three words that caught my attention. Alone at my desk, I read the caption on the pleading twice to make sense of it.
After the meeting with Agent Huitt, I'd driven straight down I-95 to my law firm. I quickly dismissed the idea of asking Duncan Fitz for advice on how to handle the government's accusations. My supervising partner would have been utterly unamused to hear that my father and his business partner were on the FBI's radar screen. Nevertheless, I rode up the elevator and went straight to my office, with no real purpose other than to be alone there. As my ex-fiancEe had finally come to realize, my career was my cocoon. Bad news, a crisis of any sort - retreating to my cubbyhole and immersing myself in work could make just about anything seem to disappear. Countless times Jenna had begged me to crawl out of my cave and talk out a problem with her. Eventually I would emerge, usually with the proud announcement that I'd figured out everything by myself and that there was nothing left to talk about. It used to make her crazy.
And here I was again, going through my stack of mail, as if that would fix everything with the FBI. It wouldn't, of course, and what made the whole exercise even more absurd was that I didn't even need to be there. Duncan had arranged for another associate to review my mail while I was on personal leave for the week. Anything that was deemed bland enough to remain in my in-box until my return was about as compelling as reading the phone book, with the exception of the latest pleading filed by the plaintiff's counsel in the Med-Fam Pharmaceuticals case. A simple one-page notice of death advised the court of the sad turn of events.
Gilbert Jones was dead.
He had died of respiratory failure the morning after Duncan talked him into playing Let's Make a Deal. We all knew he was going to die. No one expected it to happen this soon. He'd given up. Duncan had snatched away what little he had left to fight for in his life. Having met Gilbert, I felt bad enough. Dad's being kidnapped made me feel that much worse. Gilbert's death made me realize that everyone had a breaking point, maybe not the stomach to pull the trigger or jump off a bridge, but certainly the ability to act - or, more precisely, not act - on the realization that there was no escape and that pushing forward was utterly pointless. That Gilbert had reached his point of despair so soon after Duncan's ploy made me terribly depressed. The thought that Dad might someday follow had me downright distressed. Even the strong could snap at the hands of abusive kidnappers.
I pushed the mail aside. Being alone wasn't the answer. I needed to talk to someone.
I wasn't exactly sure why, but I found myself dialing Jenna's phone number. My mother had planted the seed in my head yesterday when she'd suggested that I tell her about the kidnapping. It had sounded like a bad idea then, and in some ways it didn't sound any better now. I was down in the dumps, however, and for some reason I wanted to hear her voice.
Hello, she answered.
I almost hung up, but I knew that her cell phone had Caller ID. She'd think I was stalking her.
Hi, it's me. Nick.
I know. I recognized the number. How are you?
I have some bad news, I'm afraid.
Your dad, I know. I'm sorry.
You heard?
I saw Duncan Fitz at the courthouse yesterday. He told me.
Jenna was a trial lawyer at a small firm in Coral Gables. As she used to rub it in, lawyers at smaller firms actually had their own cases and got to see the inside of the courthouse, unlike the young paper pushers at law firms like Cool Cash.
Well, I'm glad he mentioned it, I said. I wanted you to know.
I wasn't sure if I should call you or not. I wrote a little personal note to your mom. I know this might sound hollow, but if there's anything I can do, just call. I mean it. I feel terrible that this has happened.