James Grippando - A King's ransom

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.

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.