James Grippando - A King's ransom

“It was even colder. You just don’t remember.”

She was probably right. Who could blame me for having blocked that experience out of my mind?

I paced for nearly twenty minutes. Last time we’d spotted a half dozen sightseers at this same hour. This morning offered no views, however, and the hikers had stayed home. The observation deck near the old church was empty, itself nearly invisible in the fog. Even the moon and stars found the blanket of fog impenetrable. Flashlights were our only source of light.

The shortwave radio rested on the picnic table, emitting only static and garbled noises. Alex listened for any signs of reception. Finally a hint of dawn filtered through the clouds, just enough to make the floating mist glisten. The faint light of morning gave the fog an eerie density, slowly changing the mountaintop from a black, claustrophobic place to a swirling, mystical setting within the clouds.

It was sunrise, and as if on cue, the radio crackled. The familiar voice was back, the man who called himself “Joaquin.”

“Good morning, Rey family,” he said in Spanish. “Are you there, Alex?”

She grabbed the microphone. “We’re here. Go ahead.”

“You received my tape, no?”

“Yes. Very nice work. I think there’s a future in music videos for you.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I have the son here with me. His Spanish is good, but he wants to be sure he doesn’t miss anything. So if you want your money, we’re going to do this in English this time.”

“Very well,” he said, switching to English. “But I hope you are as cooperative as I am. Do you have the money?”

“It’s in the city.”

“Don’t give me that,” he said harshly. “The videotape was very clear. It must be paid today.”

“You didn’t expect us to bring it all the way here, did you?”

“I warned you, no more delays.”

“Don’t sweat it. You can have it today. A hundred thousand dollars.”

“A hundred? I said two-fifty!”

My heart was in my throat. I knew we were going to have to do a little horse trading when I’d come up fifty thousand dollars short on his original demand, but the simple fact was, we weren’t talking about horses.

“This is not a wealthy family,” said Alex. “We have a hundred thousand dollars, and we had to scrape to get it. Come on, Joaquin. You’re a smart guy. You know as well as I do that nobody pays two-fifty for a mere guarantee of safety.”

He didn’t answer right away. Alex and I exchanged anxious glances, and I wondered if her counteroffer of a hundred grand was pushing too hard, with double that in our war chest. The silence was insufferable; at this juncture even the slightest pause made my stomach flop. Finally the radio crackled with a response.

“Go to Hotel Los Andes on Carrera Seis. One block over from Plaza de Bolivar.”

I could breathe again. Alex gave me a thumbs-up, then spoke into the microphone. “That’s in La Candelaria, no? Lots of inexpensive hotels in that area.”

“Correct. This one is small and has no private baths. There’s a shared bath in back, right next to the rear entrance to the restaurant. At three o’clock take the money into the men’s room. Enter the third stall and check behind the toilet. You’ll find a note that tells you what to do. Is that clear?”

“Yes, clear.”

“That’s all for now, then.”

“Hold on,” said Alex. “We need something in return.”

“You’re getting plenty. The prisoner’s safety is guaranteed.”

“We need a date. When will he be released?”

“He’s not being released for anywhere near a hundred thousand dollars.”

“ Claro . But let’s call that the first half.”

He laughed. “Alex, mi amiga . You’re dreaming.”

“I told you before, we aren’t going to pay three million.”

“You’ll pay,” he said, losing his chuckle. “Unless the widow prefers to have her husband’s heart hand-delivered in a plastic bag.”

“Don’t threaten us.”

“Then don’t con me,” he said angrily. “I’m letting you off cheap here, but the ransom is firm. We know he has insurance. It’s three million dollars, not a penny less.”

A sick feeling washed over me. We’d suspected that they knew, but this was the first time he’d come right out and said it.

“It’s not as clear-cut as you think,” said Alex.

“It is for me. The final exchange will be very soon. The details will be in the note you pick up this afternoon. That’s all I have to say.”

“Wait, one more thing. We need proof that he’s alive.”

“We just sent you a video.”

“We want proof he’s alive today. ”

“ No es posible. The prisoner is not here with me.”

“Put the proof in the note that you leave in the bathroom.”

“What proof?”

“We want a proof-of-life question answered.”

He groaned, then said, “All right, what is it?”

“Just one second.” She looked at me and asked, “You know any secrets about your dad?”

“Like what?”

“It has to be a question that Joaquin can pass along to your father. Something that only your father would know.”

“What’s his favorite color?”

“Nothing subjective,” she said. “Make it a verifiable fact.”

“How about the question we used the last time? The name of the golden retriever I had when I was a kid.”

“I need a new one. They could have asked him that two weeks ago and killed him yesterday.”

“What’s his wedding anniversary?”

“No good. If their plan was to kill him and pretend he was still alive, they surely would have gotten every birthday and anniversary out of him before pulling the trigger.”

Put on the spot, I couldn’t think of anything. I sensed urgency from Alex. Finally it hit me, the drowning that Jenna had told me about.

“How old was his sister when she drowned?”

“Perfect,” said Alex.

Immediately I wanted to retract it, but Alex was already passing it along to Joaquin. He wrapped things up with a simple “ Adios, amigos. ”

Alex switched off the radio, took one look at my expression, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“That question I asked you to pass along to Joaquin. It’s not a good one.”

“Nonsense. It was exactly the kind of thing Joaquin wouldn’t be able to find out unless your father was alive to tell him.”

“The problem is, Dad never told me about his sister.”

“You mean you don’t know the answer to your own question?” she snapped.

“I know the answer. But it’s something that my father never shared with me. It’s obviously a subject that he has difficulty talking about, maybe even something he just didn’t want me to know. The last thing I wanted to do was ask a proof-of-life question that upsets him.”

She stowed the radio in her backpack, threw it over her shoulder. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your dad has more things to worry about than whether his son knows or doesn’t know his personal demons. Three million more things, to be exact.”

I couldn’t argue.

She turned and started down the stone trail. I followed, the two of us descending deeper into the fog.

Matthew’s head was still smarting. The blow he’d taken from the rifle butt during the attack at the river had rendered him unconscious for nearly a full day. The three-inch gash had been crudely stitched by Aida, a thirteen-year-old girl of a guerrilla who claimed to know how to sew. She knew nothing about the need for sterilized needles, however, and trying to get the wound properly cleaned and bandaged was about as likely as room service. All day long Matthew would search himself for a few square centimeters of clothing that weren’t covered in grime, and then he’d dab the pus away. It galled him to think that after all he’d been through he could seriously end up dying from infection.