James Grippando - A King's ransom

“You have ten minutes,” said Joaquin. “Head above water at all times. If we lose sight of any one of you, we shoot everyone.”

The guerrillas positioned themselves at evenly spaced intervals along the water’s edge. The prisoners looked at each other with some humility. Without words, Matthew and Jan agreed not to lay eyes on the woman. Matthew removed his clothes eagerly and immersed himself up to his neck. On so many levels it was sensual overload, and for the first time in nearly a month he was actually smiling. The waters warmed him to his core, soothing the elbows, wrists, and other joints that ached from cold and wet mountain air. He would have loved to dunk his head under and swim to the bottom, but he didn’t doubt for a minute that Joaquin would commence fire on him and the others the instant he disappeared from view. He swam the breaststroke, the first exercise he’d had since jumping off the boat in Cartagena-and the thought of Cartagena brought him back to reality. Here he was frolicking in the warm waters, almost grateful to Joaquin. Gratitude was the last thing he should have been feeling. He could never let himself forget that his Nicaraguan friends, Hector and his son Livan, were dead at the hands of this monster.

Floating on his back, Matthew glanced toward Joaquin on the shoreline. They didn’t make eye contact. The guerrilla was fixated on the naked Japanese woman, having positioned himself perfectly for a peep show.

Ten minutes passed quickly. Joaquin called them back to shore. Matthew swam as close in as possible, then rose and ran to his clothes on the rocks. Jan was right behind him. The warm waters had turned his pasty pallor pink, and the air felt very cold. Ten meters to their left, the Japanese couple helped each other to shore. The woman covered herself quickly, still enduring the weight of Joaquin’s stare.

“Leave the old clothes,” shouted Joaquin.

They stopped dressing. One of the other guerrillas came forward and gave each of them clean trousers and a warm shirt. The Japanese bowed and thanked him profusely. Even Jan muttered a reluctant “ Gracias .” Matthew just took the clothes, in no mood to thank a murdering kidnapper for the necessities of life.

They dressed quickly, and Matthew was happy to leave his smelly garments behind. He hated to indulge himself in false hopes, but one thought consumed him: Could this mean they’re letting us go?

Instantly, thoughts of Cathy flooded his mind. He wondered how his wife was handling the pregnancy, if she was showing yet, if she’d started decorating the baby’s room. He wondered if she’d received any of the late-night messages he’d tried to convey through nothing more than mind power. He had no idea if telepathy worked, but it was all he had, and he concentrated very hard when he told her that he loved her every night. He thought of Nick and Lindsey, too, but that was risky. He’d made mistakes with his children, and the memories weren’t always pleasant. A guerrilla camp in the mountains was no place for regrets, not for a man who knew that he might never even see his family again, let alone make things right.

Matthew was buttoning his new shirt, then froze. In all the excitement over new clothes, he hadn’t noticed the dozen new guerrillas who’d descended upon them. Matthew didn’t recognize any of them as being from Joaquin’s group, though they were all just as young and dressed similarly in fatigues, bandannas, and a variety of hats. It was a goofy thought, but Matthew was suddenly reminded of the Friday’s restaurant chain in the States, where all the waiters wore the same uniforms but showed their individuality through hat selection. These new guys could have been FARC, but the dragon insignia was conspicuously absent.

“I think they’re ELN,” said Jan.

Over dinner one night, Emilio had told Matthew about the National Liberation Army, or ELN, Colombia’s other major Marxist guerrilla organization, second in strength to FARC and equally prolific at the kidnapping trade. Crossing the canyon by cable had evidently taken the prisoners into the ELN’s territory.

“What do they want?” asked Matthew in a voice just loud enough for Jan to hear him.

“Us.”

Matthew finished buttoning his shirt, watching the guerrillas closely. Joaquin was talking intensely with one of the ELN, a short guy with a thick black mustache He and Joaquin were the only two guerrillas in the entire group who looked to be over the age of twenty. They spoke back and forth for several minutes, and then finally Joaquin brought him and two other ELN guerrillas down toward the prisoners.

The ELN guy strutted past Matthew, then Jan, then the Japanese. He stopped before each of them, glanced up and down, then moved to the next, as if he were General Patton inspecting his troops. When he’d finished, he and Joaquin walked to one side and continued their discussion.

“Joaquin’s selling us,” said Jan. “That’s why he gave us all a bath and cleaned us up.”

The thought of being spiffed up like a used car before trade-in infuriated Matthew. “He tried to sell me once before. To FARC.”

“You better hope the ELN gives him his price. If he gets the idea that you’re unsalable, that’s not a good thing.”

“I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“We’re already in trouble. I’ve said it all along: We’re too many for Joaquin to handle. If ELN won’t give him his price, he’ll have to get rid of at least one of us.”

“Maybe he’ll turn one of the women loose.”

“Dream on, fisherman. It’s going to be either you or me. And he isn’t going to sell us off too cheap, and he isn’t turning anyone loose.”

From a distance Matthew watched Joaquin more closely. The discussion with the ELN leader was well out of earshot, but they were standing in the open, and Joaquin was waving his arms with emotion. It was clear from the expression on his face that the negotiations weren’t going his way.

Finally Joaquin shouted something in anger and stormed away.

“ ?Vamos! ” he told his men.

The guerrillas rounded up the prisoners. Without another word to the ELN, they headed back into the jungle, single file down the same path that had brought them there. No one talked, except Joaquin, who was cursing FARC and the ELN for their greediness. He was fuming, and as they continued down the overgrown path, it made everyone edgy, even the other guerrillas.

The path was becoming treacherous. The footing was unsure, and a misty rain made the rocks even more slippery than on the way up. The warm waters of the pond had actually made Matthew’s legs rubbery, and after a full day of marching, fatigue was taking its toll. He forced himself to concentrate, especially on this narrow stretch of path along the cliff with the deep ravine below. For some reason going down was proving to be more difficult than climbing up. The grade seemed steeper on the descent, and if you focused on the river two hundred feet below, vertigo could easily overtake you. The group proceeded one at a time. Three guerrillas went first to show the prisoners the proper technique. They didn’t walk straight down the path but took half steps sideways with their backs to the cliff and their chests toward the mountainside. Two hands were on the face of the mountain at all times.

Next it was Matthew’s turn.

Despite the danger and his need to focus, he couldn’t clear his mind of a terrible sinking sensation. He remembered what Emilio had told him after the FARC deal had fallen through. The worst place for a kidnap victim to be was with a rogue criminal like Joaquin. The survival rate was better with an established Marxist group that had the resources to hold prisoners for longer periods of time.

A scream pierced the jungle, the desperate cry of a dying man.