James Grippando - A King's ransom

“What’s the sudden hurry?”

“Just go, please, or we’ll miss our flight. I’ll tell you everything in the air.”

I hung up and punched the accelerator up to the speed limit, not a mile per hour more. As hurried as I was-and the way my luck was going-this was definitely no time to be stopped for speeding.

The door opened and the light switched on. After hours of total darkness, it was like staring into the sun. Matthew shielded his eyes as Cerdo came toward him.

It was a ritual that preceded each meal without much regularity. Based upon the hunger pangs and strain on his bladder, Matthew had guessed that visits came anywhere from four to ten hours apart. It seemed longer, naturally, when you were seated in a dark room chained to a bedpost. The boredom was enough to have driven a weaker man mad. He came to appreciate little things, like when Cerdo forgot to put the towel under the door. It was supposed to block the sounds and deprive the prisoner of even a crack of light from the hallway. Just that little sliver could make such a difference, some connection to reality. Without it, all he had was the occasional prance of footsteps above him, presumably from a higher floor. At times he could hear water rushing through pipes in the wall. Every now and then he’d hear muffled voices in the hallway. And once-only once-he’d heard a woman scream, the crack of a gunshot, and then silence.

He’d tried to convince himself that he’d dreamt it.

“ Vamos. El bano, ” said Cerdo as he unlocked the chains.

A bathroom break, and it was surely welcome. Matthew’s joints popped as he rose. He’d never thought of himself as particularly arthritic, but those weeks in the cold, damp mountains hadn’t done his knees any good.

As his eyes slowly adjusted, he noticed a second teenage guard standing in the doorway. With that baby face, it seemed almost absurd, the way he was aiming an AK-47 at Matthew’s chest.

“ Manos arriba ,” he said.

Matthew raised his arms. They didn’t seem to care if Matthew saw their faces, but they took pains to prevent him from seeing the configuration of the hallways and lay of the building outside his dark room. Each time he ventured to the bathroom, they reapplied the blindfold. This time, however, the kid had done a sloppy job. It was too high across the bridge of his nose, and although the right eye was covered, Matthew still had about half his line of sight from his left.

The gun barrel in his back prodded him forward. He stepped into the hall, then purposely bumped into the wall, so as to mislead his guards into thinking that he couldn’t see. Cerdo put him back on track, straight down the hallway that led to the bathroom.

Matthew made a mental note of everything they passed. Hallway was three feet wide. Doors on both sides, about thirty feet apart. They were numbered like apartments. At each end of the hall was a table and chair, guard posts.

Cerdo grabbed his shoulder, and Matthew stopped. A blindfolded prisoner passed before him, an old woman, someone he’d never seen before. A man with a pistol led her to room number eleven, opened it, put her inside, and locked her in.

Cerdo gave him another nudge, and Matthew continued down the hall. Some of the doors had slots for food trays, as in prison. He heard whispering as they passed room number fifteen, and Cerdo gave a shout.

“ ?Silencio! ”

The whispering ended. Matthew shuddered. He’d walked this way before, blindfolded, never imagining this. It was exactly what Cerdo had described in the van, what Emilio had translated. This was a hostage hotel.

Cerdo opened the bathroom door and pushed him inside. “ Dos minutos ,” he said.

Two minutes to empty his bladder, before another “guest” would arrive.

Inever thought I’d be so glad to reach Colombia.It was four o’clock in the morning when we went through customs. A long line of bleary-eyed passengers proceeded through the airport checkpoints. Unlike the shakedown for travelers leaving the country, inspections for incoming passengers at El Dorado International Airport were random. Visitors pressed a button as they exited. If it came up green, they sailed through; red, their bags were searched. At this hour most of the stations were closed. Alex and I were twentieth in a slow-moving line.

I had nearly fallen asleep standing up when she nudged me. “See that guy over there?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

I followed her eyes toward a man standing near a closed newsstand on the other side of the gate.

“He’s a legal attache,” she said.

“A what?”

“An FBI agent. That’s what they’re called abroad. That guy’s definitely with the bureau’s office in Bogota.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I dealt with him six months ago in another kidnapping case.”

The line inched forward, and we took a step closer. “What do you think he’s here for?”

“You.”

“Me?” I said, startled.

“Keep your voice down.”

“How would they even know I was here?”

“Same way they knew the last time. The wire transfer.”

“You think I’m in for another hassle about the money, like they did at Miami?”

“I think it’s one of two things. It could be that the FBI evaluated what you told them and want to help you nail Quality Insurance.”

“What’s the other possibility?”

She cupped her hand to my ear, making sure no one could possibly overhear. “He’s here to execute an arrest warrant. For the murder of Jaime Ochoa.”

“Oh, boy.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“What do we do?”

“I don’t think he’s spotted us yet, so stop acting like you know me. Let me go through first. I’ll strike up a conversation with him. As soon as you clear, break for the exit. Don’t run, but be quick. Remember where my friend Pablo left his Vega for us last time?”

“I think so.”

“It should be in the same spot, or thereabouts. Go straight to it, I’ll meet you there.”

I stepped out of line and let the two passengers behind us get between me and Alex, creating some distance. One was a guy so big he could have blocked the sun. I stood directly behind him with my head down, trying not to let the legal attache spot me. Slowly the line worked its way to the checkpoint. Alex went through without a hassle, as did the woman behind her. The big guy hit the button. The light flashed red, and they pulled him aside for a bag inspection. Alex was already on the other side, headed directly for the agent. I hit the button and prayed. It was green. I stepped through, presented my passport, and made a quick left at the gate.

Alex was all grins as she approached the agent, as if they were old friends. He was clearly uncomfortable, but Alex poured it on. I was moving fast through the terminal, bag in tow, my chin to my chest to minimize the chance of being recognized. I felt the urge to run but didn’t. Still, with each step my stride widened, and I could feel myself gaining momentum. I sensed I was breaking free. This was actually going to work!

“Nick Rey?” someone called.

Instinctively I stopped cold, and we locked eyes. I didn’t recognize the man’s face, but I had the distinct sense that these legal attaches traveled in pairs.

For an instant neither of us moved. I tried to read his expression, tried to discern whether he’d come to help me or arrest me. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he didn’t look friendly.

On impulse, I ran for it.

“Stop!”

I ignored him, just kept running at full speed. I glanced back, and he was right on my tail. Just ahead, between me and the exit, were a janitor with a mop and a bucket, and a five-meter stretch of glistening wet floor. I kicked into another gear and leaped across it. Just as I made it to the revolving doors, I heard a shout, a thud, and painful groan behind me. I glanced back to see a disheveled FBI agent sprawling across the floor and showing the world the bottoms of his shoes. Luckily, he wasn’t quite the long-jumper I was.