James Grippando - A King's ransom

She averted her eyes, a clear signal that the news was bad.

“A month?” I asked hopefully.

“A week,” she replied.

“That’s impossible. Short of walking into the corporate headquarters of Quality Insurance Company with a gun, I can’t resolve a claim dispute and have three million dollars in a week.”

“All the kidnappers know is that you have a policy worth three million dollars.”

“Then we have to tell them that the insurance company has denied our coverage.”

“They’ll think we’re stonewalling. Or, worse, they’ll decide that your father isn’t worth keeping alive.”

“So what should we do?”

“Next Sunday they expect us to be atop Monserrate for the next radio transmission. Maybe I should go alone and tell them you’re working out a few details. Something minor but believable, so they don’t get concerned. It might buy a little extra time.”

“How long do you think you can string it out?”

“I wish I knew.”

I sensed that she didn’t like her answer any more than I did, but no one had a crystal ball. “God help us,” was all I could say.

In a city of eight million people, I felt completely alone. It was well after midnight, and Alex had retired to the master bedroom more than an hour before. A cozy bed awaited me in the guest room. Though our return flight to Miami was just hours away, I couldn’t possibly sleep. I sat in the living room at the open window, looking out onto a relatively quiet street below. A faint nightlight from the kitchen left me in dim solitude. Headlamps from the occasional passing car sent shadows dancing across the living room wall behind me. One by one the lights blinked off in the apartment buildings across the street. The minutes passed slowly, yet each time I checked my watch I got the same sinking feeling that time was running out.

I wondered how many others in Colombia were at that very moment living the same nightmare.

Sudden shouting from across the street jarred me. A man and woman in a second-floor apartment were arguing over something. On a balmy night with windows open, sound traveled freely. After several heated minutes, it ended with the loud slamming of a door. I watched from my window as the man angrily left the building, his footsteps clicking on the old cobblestones below.

“You still up?” asked Alex.

I turned to see her standing in the hallway. “I think the whole neighborhood is awake now.”

She smiled a little, then crossed the room and sat in the white wicker armchair beside me, facing the window. She didn’t wear pajamas. She was dressed in her preferred sleeping clothes, running shorts and a rather skimpy athletic top that was little more than a sports bra.

“Are you going to stay up all night?” she asked.

“Probably. I’m worried about this deadline. I almost wish you hadn’t pushed Joaquin for a release date. Don’t you think it would have been smarter to leave it vague till we had some hope of scraping the ransom money together?”

“I felt like I needed to push him today. We can’t always appear to be stalling. If we do, that’s dangerous for your dad.”

I looked out the window into the night, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“Have you considered borrowing the money from Guillermo?” she asked.

“Are you serious?”

“I just wondered if you’d considered it, that’s all.”

“I don’t see how I can. After today it’s more clear than ever that someone told the kidnappers about Dad’s insurance. If I had to guess who the rat was right now, I’d guess Guillermo.”

“Then you should definitely ask him to front the ransom money. Play on his sense of guilt.”

“I’m not following you.”

“If Guillermo is behind this scheme, I firmly believe that he went into it thinking that the insurance company would simply cough up the money. Guillermo would take his cut, the kidnappers would get theirs, and your dad would come home safe and sound. It probably never occurred to him that the insurer would refuse to pay and that your father might be harmed.”

“Then why wouldn’t he just call the whole thing off and tell the kidnappers to let my father go?”

“Because he didn’t team up with Moe, Larry, and Curly. I can tell from talking to this Joaquin that he’s for real. One of his men even got killed pulling off the abduction in Cartagena. I hate to say it, but if somebody doesn’t pay him. . well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be good for your dad.”

I appreciated her discretion, but I knew what she was saying. “So let’s say I tell Guillermo that there’s no insurance money and that Joaquin’s going to kill my father. What really makes you think he’d suddenly develop a conscience and pay the ransom himself?”

“I don’t know. Some people call it instinct. Others call it the hostage negotiator’s time-honored WAG method.”

“What’s the WAG method?”

“Wild-Ass Guess.”

Even as stressed as I was, I had to crack a little smile. “Got to respect your honesty, lady.”

She returned the smile, though hers was even weaker than mine. She seemed to sense that I didn’t really want to talk about it anymore.

We sat in the dim glow of the city lights, saying nothing. Her feet were up on a coffee table, long bare legs bent at the knee. She’d probably considered her sleepwear more comfortable than sexy, but from my perspective it appeared to be both. Not that I intended to do anything about it.

Suddenly the street filled with the sound of an acoustic guitar. Alex rose and walked to the window. I joined her.

“He’s back,” I said. “It’s that same guy who was arguing with his girlfriend.”

He was sitting on the curb outside the woman’s apartment, strumming his guitar beneath a streetlamp.

“He’s serenading her,” said Alex. “Men still do that here. I think that’s so romantic.”

Together we listened as he wailed about his broken corazon and la mujer with the dark brown eyes who was the lost love of his life. It was unusual by American standards, but when la mujer actually came to the window to listen, I found myself pulling for him.

“He plays a very good guitar,” I said.

The beat picked up. He made a skillful transition from the sappy love song to a more vibrant Spanish guitar that reminded me of the Gipsy Kings, though the sound was less full with a one-man show. Still, he was giving it his all.

Alex started to move her hips to the music, then took my hand. “Here. I’ll teach you to dance Colombian style.”

“I really don’t feel like dancing.”

“No better reason to dance.”

I thought for a moment. “Good point.”

She pressed the palm of her right hand against the palm of my left. She took my other hand and placed it on her hip. I could feel the warmth of her skin and the rhythm of her movement. Instantly I was more connected to the music.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

“How do you do that without even moving your feet?”

“Listen for the counterrhythm.”

“What’s a counterrhythm?”

She smirked. “You’d be pathetic if you weren’t so cute. Follow my lead.”

The guitar was booming in my head, I was trying so hard to concentrate. She moved one way, I moved opposite.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she said.

We tried again, and this time I was with her. She counted the steps for me aloud, then pushed my hand more firmly into her hip, as if to help me feel the motion.

“You got it,” she said, smiling.

We moved back and forth, side to side, hips moving, face-to-face. I crushed her foot once, but she just smiled and kept counting. After a full minute of no squished toes, her counting stopped.