James Grippando - A King's ransom

The waiter interrupted with the first plate. It smelled delicious, and he refused to leave until Alex had tasted it and told him how wonderful it was. Her somber mood was suddenly gone.

“Enjoy,” she said. “With a meal this authentic, we must follow Antioquian custom.”

“Which is what?”

“While we eat, we can speak of nothing but the food. It’s an unbreakable rule.”

I wasn’t sure if that was truly an Antioquian custom, but one thing was plain: I wouldn’t hear another word about her estranged mother and dead brother. At least not tonight.

“ Salud ,” she said as she raised her wineglass, and I raised my glass of mineral water in return.

The NRA was laying down its weapons. Yankee fans were rooting for the Boston Red Sox. The French were eating English food and loving it.

Matthew was sure all those things were happening. His tent was leaking, he hadn’t bathed in three weeks, his daily food ration had been cut to one plate of beans with rat droppings and a canned fish product that even he, a lifelong fisherman, couldn’t identify. It had been three days since his clothes had been soaked in a rainstorm, and he could still wring moisture from them. The putrid overflow from the hole in the ground that was their bathroom had started oozing downhill toward Matthew’s tent, but the guards only seemed amused by his complaints. Joaquin was still in charge, the Canadian was losing his fight with infection in his severed thumb, and the Swede was sniping at the other captives, certain that he was next in line for torture. Each night the young Colombian woman cried for hours in the darkness, praying to the Holy Infant and whispering the names of her children. No one held any realistic hope of a prompt release. All that, and temperatures were dropping by the hour. Late afternoon had brought their first hailstorm.

This was the proverbial cold day in hell, and Matthew was living it.

It had amazed everyone, Matthew included, the way the Canadian had maintained his backbone even after losing his thumb. The stub was still bleeding when Joaquin had returned with a pen and paper, insisting that he write a letter to his wife. Will told him it wouldn’t do any good, that he and his wife had a firm pact: If he was kidnapped by rebels, never pay, no matter what. Only after Joaquin threatened to cut off his other thumb did Will finally acquiesce. With his left hand he wrote the exact words Joaquin dictated, an impassioned plea begging his family to break their no-ransom pact and cough up whatever money the kidnappers demanded. Joaquin had made a spectacle out of it. The entire letter was composed in front of the other prisoners, a form of intimidation, a demonstration of how even the most defiant prisoner eventually capitulated to the will of his captor. The Canadian dated it, signed it at the bottom, and handed it over to Joaquin. The boss man seemed pleased. Strangely, the Canadian had seemed even more smug as he returned to his seat around the fire with the other captives.

“I signed it ‘Mickey Mouse,’ ” he whispered to the others.

They were all shocked-Matthew, Emilio the Colombian, Jan the Swede.

“They’ll kill you,” said Jan.

“These idiots won’t even notice. I signed in real tiny letters. You need a magnifying glass to see it. But my wife will know right away it’s not my real signature. When she looks closely and sees what I wrote, she’ll know I was forced to write the letter and don’t really want her to pay a ransom. Pretty smart, huh?”

“Joaquin has your passport,” said Matthew. “He can check your real signature against the tiny scrawl you put on his letter. If he looks closely and sees Mickey Mouse. .”

Will was suddenly ashen. Matthew wished he hadn’t said anything.

Dark, ominous clouds moved in from the east. The jagged peaks in the distance disappeared behind thick, misty shades of black and gray, and night seemed to fall over their camp long before sunset. One of the guards brought them hot coffee. That was actually the one pleasure about captivity in the Colombian mountains. The coffee was the best Matthew had ever tasted. He sipped it slowly to prolong the enjoyment and warming effect. The chill was back just thirty seconds after the cup was empty. He had a wool blanket, but it wasn’t big enough to cover his whole body. He had to alternate between warming his feet, then pulling it up to warm his torso. It wasn’t raining, thankfully, but heavy clouds hung like a wet rag over their camp. This was going to be the coldest night yet, Matthew could tell. It was even too cold for the guards to drink their aguardiente outdoors. They were snug in their smoke-filled hut. Aida and another low-ranking rebel were ordered to sit outside and watch the prisoners alone. By nine o’clock they were all shivering. Matthew complained.

“We need a fire.”

Aida walked over and said, “No.”

“Why not?”

“No outdoor fires. Chulos are too close.” She turned and walked away.

Matthew had no idea what she was talking about, having a vague recollection that “ chulo ” could mean either “pimp” or “buzzard.” Emilio explained. “ Chulos is what they call the Colombian army. Joaquin must have information that there’s a military offensive going on against the guerrillas. He’s afraid that a fire at night might give away our position.”

“Then why do they have a fire in their hut?”

“Because they’re the guards and we’re the prisoners.”

The Swede sat up, huddled beneath his blanket, his knees against his chin to stay warm. “This is absurd. There’s no chulos out here in the middle of nowhere. They’re punishing us because Will signed his name Mickey Mouse.”

“Don’t blame this on me,” said Will.

“How else do you explain it? Coldest night yet, and they won’t even let us have a fire. Way to go, Mickey.”

“One more crack out of you and I’ll cut off your Swedish meatballs.”

Jan shot him a contemptuous glare but said nothing. The prisoners sat in tense silence for a moment, and then Emilio said, “We could huddle for warmth. We did that the last time I was kidnapped, and it worked.”

“I’m up for it,” said Matthew.

Jan glanced at the other Colombian, the thirty-eight-year-old with straggly orange hair who looked like an octogenarian. “Not him,” Jan whispered. “He has fleas. I’ve seen them in his beard.”

Matthew and Emilio looked at one another, as if thinking the same thought. It didn’t seem fair for the five of them to huddle while a sixth slept alone and nearly froze to death. The man was the most antisocial in the group, having yet to utter more than one or two words to anyone, but he was still one of them.

“He can sleep on the end next to me,” said Matthew.

Emilio quietly explained the plan in Spanish to the orange-bearded Colombian and the young mother from Bogota. The six started to move closer together when Joaquin approached in the darkness. He had two other guerrillas with him.

“We’re just trying to stay warm,” said Matthew.

Joaquin didn’t seem interested. He had fire in his eyes, but without the glazed and cloudy look that came from drink. This was raw anger. He glared at the Canadian and said, “You. Come with us.”

“What now?”

Joaquin pointed his rifle. “Get up.”

Will rose slowly. The others watched in silence as the two guerrillas grabbed him, one on each side, and pulled him toward Joaquin. It was eerily reminiscent of the day he’d lost his thumb.

The Colombian woman sat up in panic. “ ?Que hace? ” she asked. What are you doing?

Joaquin answered her in Spanish. “The Canadian’s wife got his thumb by courier. She’s agreed to pay the ransom.” He shoved Will and said, “Move it.”