James Grippando - A King's ransom

“So, you think she met Jaime Ochoa doing research for a story?”

I looked away, then back. I wasn’t a good liar, and there was no point pulling punches at this point. “That’s what I’m hoping. But I’m starting to get a little worried.”

“Where is she now?”

“Last time we talked, Nicaragua. Even though she and Dad are kind of on the outs, I always took some comfort in knowing that they were at least in the same country.”

“How long’s it been since you last heard from her?”

“A while. It’s always a while. She calls when she’s broke. But to be honest, it’s a little different this time, now that Dad’s missing.”

“That’s true. But I’d have to say that the odds are pretty low that both of them would be kidnapped at the same time in different countries.”

“Unless the kidnappings are related.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I noted that she didn’t totally dismiss the possibility.

The server brought our food and left. I popped a french fry in my mouth, then said, “I’ve been thinking of going down there. I need to check on Dad’s business anyway. Maybe I’d do a little checking on Lindsey, too.”

“I recommend you at least wait until you hear from the kidnappers. Don’t leave your mother here to deal with that herself.”

I nodded, then glanced toward the bay, where a sunburned tourist was struggling furiously to tack his rented sailboat. “Maybe it would help to run a background check on Jaime Ochoa.”

“Sure. I can do that.”

“I’m sure he’s just a crackpot.”

“Then why did you go see him?”

I knew that the conversation would lead this way, but I also knew that it was high time I stopped keeping secrets from the person I was depending on most to bring my father home. “Does everything I tell you get back to the insurance company?”

“No. The insurance company pays your bill, as required by the policy. But my client is you, not the company. If you ask me to keep something in confidence, it remains in confidence.”

That was the answer I’d wanted, but I still hesitated. Dad’s problem with the FBI was not my favorite lunch topic. “I went to see him because I thought he might have something to do with some accusations I’d heard. About my dad.”

“What, specifically?”

She listened without interruption as I told her about my meeting with Agent Huitt, the FBI’s suspicions about my father’s business. She seemed particularly interested in the bureau’s apparent refusal to assist us in the kidnapping unless the Rey family cooperated in some as-yet-undefined investigation against Guillermo. When I’d finished, she said nothing. In fact, she looked a little miffed.

“Should I not have told you any of this?” I asked.

“You should have told me as soon as it happened.”

“It’s all such a crock. I didn’t want you getting the wrong idea about my father.”

My cell phone rang. I debated whether to answer till I’d cleared the air with Alex, but so long as Dad was missing, this was no time to be screening calls. It was my mother.

“A courier package just arrived from Colombia,” she said, her voice racing. “I think it must be from the kidnappers.”

I nearly fell off my chair. From the look on my face, Alex knew what it was. I waved her over so she could put her ear next to mine and listen in.

“Open it,” I told my mother.

“I already did.”

“Is there a ransom demand?”

“I can’t read it. It’s all in Spanish. There’s a little note on the bottom that looks like your father’s handwriting, but that’s in Spanish, too. I just don’t understand. Why would he write to his own family in a foreign language?”

She sounded so frazzled, I was about to suggest that she take it to one of our bilingual neighbors to translate. But this wasn’t something to share with the neighborhood.

“Just hang in there a few more minutes. I’m with Alex right now. We’re on our way.”

“Should I call Agent Nettles at the FBI?”

I paused, and Alex seemed to sense the reason: I hadn’t even talked to my mother about our problems with the FBI. “Let’s not do anything till I get home and read it.”

“Then hurry, please. It’s killing me not knowing what it says.”

“You and me both,” I said.

We reached my mother’s house in ten minutes. She met us at the door.

“This way,” said Mom as she led us to the kitchen.

The letter was resting faceup on the table beside the opened courier package. I was glad Alex was with me. I probably could have translated it myself, but I suspected that a communication from a kidnapper would contain subtleties in word choice and phraseology that I would never be able to interpret. She seemed like the right person to discern the true meaning. I wondered if perhaps she’d even written a few letters like this before.

As Alex read the letter, I tried to read her face. “Is it FARC?” I asked.

“Could be.”

“Oh, my God,” said Mom.

“It’s a little strange. Usually FARC comes right out and claims responsibility. They’re not shy. This one reads like a FARC letter, but there’s no explicit claim of responsibility by anyone.”

“For heaven’s sake, just read it to me,” said Mom.

I looked over Alex’s shoulder as she read aloud, translating. “ ‘Dear Mrs. Rey-’ ”

“Read the bottom first,” said Mom. “The part in Matthew’s handwriting.”

“It looks like they allowed him to write a short postscript,” said Alex.

“Yes. Read it to me, please.”

“ ‘My dear family. I am well treated, so please don’t worry. Cathy, I love you. Nick, give my love to Lindsey when you talk to her, and take good care of your mother and grandmother. Love, Matthew.’ ”

My mother was shaking. I hugged her as she sank into the chair across the table from Alex.

“That’s it?” she said.

“It’s a teaser,” said Alex. “Kidnappers sometimes release bits and pieces like that to push the family’s emotional buttons. Other times the family is kept totally in the dark. Either way, you’re being jerked around.”

“Why did he write in Spanish?”

“Because his kidnappers want to make sure they understand every word he writes. They’re paranoid about something slipping by in what to them is a foreign language. Someone could be speaking in code to reveal their position. If it’s in Spanish, they can control what’s said.”

“What does their letter say?” I asked.

Her eyes shifted back to the letter, and she read, “ ‘Dear Mrs. Rey. We are your friends.’ ”

“Friends!” My mother nearly shrieked.

“That’s a typical beginning,” said Alex. She read quickly through a paragraph that set forth various Marxist platitudes, guerrilla propaganda. The substance was in the last paragraph. “ ‘We do not intend to harm your husband if our demands are met, but we regret that we cannot continue to communicate with you in Miami. All arrangements for the release must be made in Colombia, through you or your representative.’ ”

“They expect us to go to Colombia?” said Mom.

“That’s not surprising,” said Alex. “They want to play on their turf.”

“Finish the letter,” I said.

Her translation continued, “ ‘At sunrise, twenty-two October, be in the park behind the church at the top of Monseratte.’ ”

“What’s Monseratte?” I asked.

“One of the mountain peaks just east of Bogota.” She continued reading: “ ‘Bring a two-meter-band radio. Instructions will follow. Do not involve the police or the army, or you will never hear from us again, and all chances for your husband’s release will be lost.’ ”