49
We reached the Hotel Los Andes at ten minutes before three. No need to ask where the shared bathrooms were. I just followed my nose, literally.
The hotel was in the colonial barrio of La Candelaria, the oldest part of downtown Bogota. The heart of the area was Plaza de Bolivar, the original town center. Though the square itself was surrounded mostly by government buildings and modern architecture, the neighborhood to the east retained many old houses from the Spanish era. Some were restored and brightly painted, others dilapidated and on the verge of falling down. Scores had been converted into budget hotels that were popular with foreign travelers. Hotel Los Andes was on the lowest end of the spectrum. It hadn’t seen a coat of paint in decades, and chunks of stucco had fallen from the walls. The roof was sagging, and those windows that weren’t boarded up were covered with rusty iron security bars. A handwritten sign on the door offered rooms for the Colombian equivalent of about three American dollars a night. I didn’t need to go inside to tell that it would have been a rip-off at any price.
We followed a narrow side street to the hotel’s rear entrance. I carried the cash in a nylon backpack. Alex was at my side, armed with a concealed SIG-Sauer P 228. Muggings happened every day in this area, but Alex assured me that anyone who made a play for my backpack was in for a nine-millimeter surprise between the eyes.
“You nervous?” she asked.
“Should I be?”
“Just remember what I told you. There’s nothing you can do here today that is going to get your father released. This is all about showing the kidnappers that we can follow instructions. No heroics. Just go inside, get the note, and do exactly what it tells you to do.”
We stopped at the bathroom entrance. Behind us was the restaurant. Clanging kitchen noises filtered through the torn window screens. A sleeping drunk was on the doorstep, snoring. Sewage ran in a little stream from the bathroom to piles of garbage stacked high behind the restaurant. On a warm afternoon like this one, the mixture emitted a sweet, nauseating odor.
“If I don’t come out in five minutes, come in and get me.”
“I was going to give you two,” she said.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
I clutched the sack of money and entered the men’s room. As the door slapped shut behind me, the immediate assault on my senses nearly knocked me off my feet. The place smelled like an open sewer. Along one wall was a trough urinal. It was clogged with paper and the scummy yellow-brown runoff from toilets that had overflowed. The wet floor had the same disgusting brown tint of watery feces. The lone sink was cracked and rust-stained. The wall above it showed the painted outline of a mirror that had evidently been stolen. In the back were showers for hotel guests. To my shock, two were actually occupied.
I walked cautiously toward five dirty white stalls. The first one was empty. Behind the closed door of the second I could hear a man struggling, presumably with his bowels. I stopped at the open door to stall number three, the one Joaquin had designated for the drop-off. It had an old-fashioned toilet with a pull chain overhead. There was no toilet seat. The rim was splattered and filthy. Flies buzzed over the unflushed waste that had collected in the bowl.
One thought consumed me. What in the hell am I doing here? It made me realize, however, that I couldn’t possibly imagine the conditions under which my father had been living. In accordance with the kidnappers’ instructions, I closed the door and checked behind the tank.
There I found the envelope. I tore it open immediately. It was written in Spanish, but fortunately I could read my second language better than I could speak it.
“Stacy was seven years old when she drowned,” it read.
I read that first proof-of-life sentence twice, almost in disbelief. This was for real, I realized. My father was alive. I continued to the next paragraph: “Slide the money under the divider to the stall on your left. Say nothing. Information about the release of Matthew Rey will arrive in ninety seconds. If you leave your stall before then, or if anyone follows the money, you will receive no further information.”
To my left was stall number two, the same stall from which I’d heard noises on my way in. With a discreet glance I noticed a pair of feet beneath the divider. The groaner was here to take my money.
My mind raced with thoughts of who this person might be. Alex had told me that kidnappers used “mules” for transactions like these, neighborhood kids who would deliver drugs, pick up ransom money, or do just about anything else for a few pesos. They were extremely reliable. If they screwed up or tried to run off with the loot, their entire family would be slaughtered.
I held my backpack close to my chest, unable to move. I wanted to hop right over the flimsy partition that separated us and ask this stranger where my father was. But it would have been pointless. As Alex had said, the guy was surely a know-nothing mule.
I took a deep breath, leaned over, and slid the backpack underneath to the other stall. The stranger picked it up.
Instantly a wave of conflicting emotions ran through me, from hope that the money would keep my father alive to hatred of these bastards for all the grief they had caused. Somewhere in the mix was the visceral sensation that I’d just been robbed. Even though Alex had talked him down to a hundred thousand dollars, more than half of my entire net worth had just passed to a total stranger beneath the graffiti-covered walls of a bathroom stall.
Alone in the stench, I checked my watch and counted off the seconds until the promised arrival of further information. I heard the stranger’s footsteps as he left, then the slamming of the bathroom door. Ninety seconds passed, and I heard nothing. I waited another fifteen and was beginning to feel scammed. I ran out of the stall and checked the one next to me. There was no sign of the stranger or of any forthcoming information. I raced outside and found Alex.
“Did you see him walk out?”
“Who?”
“The guy with my money.”
“No one came out.”
“I heard a door slam. There must be another door!”
“Nick, don’t try to follow!”
“In ninety seconds we were supposed to receive information about the final exchange. There’s no one here!”
I ran straight to the back. Sure enough, beyond the showers was another exit door. I opened it and froze, struck first by the noise and activity, struck second by the irony. I’d assumed that my money would be laundered. I’d had no idea that the Hotel Los Andes shared bathrooms with a busy Laundromat.
A minute later Alex was standing right behind me. “Just let him go.”
“How perfect,” I said cynically. “People come and go all day long with bundles in their arms. How would anyone know which one was walking out with my money in his basket?”
“I’m sure it’s just a mule. There’s no point in tailing him. In fact, if he delivers the money and says we tried to follow, that’s bad news for your father. We might never do the real exchange.”
“Joaquin promised that the note would have information about my dad’s release. The note said to wait ninety seconds and it would be here. Those sons of bitches gave us nothing.”
“I believe this is what you’re looking for,” she said, holding a yellow sheet of paper. “It was taped to the back of the door.”
I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. I grabbed it and started reading, but I wanted to know the bottom line faster than I could translate. “How much time did they give us to raise the money?”
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 de
nied 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.
50
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.
“Look at you, you’re dancing!”
“I think I do have it,” I said.
Our guitar-playing friend was singing again, his voice stronger. The pace quickened, but I kept right up with it. Alex moved closer, shrinking the space between our bodies.
“You’re pretty good for a gringo.”
“Why do you say ‘for a gringo’?”
“Because a Colombian man would never let me lead.”
“I think you’d lead if you were dancing with Fred Astaire.”
“Fred who?”
“He’s a famous-”
She pinched my ribs, smiling. “I know who he is. No se puede dar papaya,” she added, her favor
ite expression.
“Don’t be so naive,” I said, translating.
“That’s right,” she said softly. “I might just walk all over you.”
The music stopped, but we didn’t pull apart. We remained in our dance pose, her right hand in my left. Slowly her left hand slid from my hip toward my back, then up gently toward my shoulder blades. Instinctively I did the same to her, my fingers traveling from the gentle curve of her hip to the small of her back. Our bodies drew closer, so close that the space between us was almost gone. I tingled with the imagined feeling of her breasts pressed against me. Her breath caressed my neck as she looked up at me, la mujer with the dark brown eyes.
She moved her hand across my back, caressing me. Almost involuntarily I duplicated the light swirling motion across the warm, bare skin of her back. It was firm and very smooth, until the tips of my fingers found a slight ridge in the skin, then another ridge below it. Faded scars that I hadn’t noticed before. Now that my touch had discovered them, I could actually see them as I looked past her shoulder at the reflection of her back in the window behind her.
She stiffened in my arms, seeming to have sensed my discovery. “Do they frighten you?”
“What?” I said, playing dumb.
“You found my scars, no?”
“They’re nothing, really.”
“You’re lying.”
I counted five of them, each an inch long and about a quarter inch wide. They appeared to be the remnants of old wounds that had never been treated properly. “It looks like. . you were stabbed.”
“That’s because I was.”
She pulled away and stepped back, as if suddenly self-conscious.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s all right. It was a very long time ago. I was a sixteen-year-old girl.”
“What happened?”
“I tried to quit FARC.”
“They stab you for that?”
“It’s a lifelong commitment. They don’t like quitters.”
I tried not to look stunned. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to come back to Colombia?”
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