Fallen Idols

by J. F. Freedman

  The twenty Americans, plus Manuel and Ernesto, stood in front of the men on horseback. Walt's eyes were slowly getting accustomed to the low level of light. There wasn't much to see. Their abductors were wearing dark clothes, hats that covered most of their faces, and they were sitting above them on dark horses. Black on black on black, all around. Walt knew that standing there like clay pigeons wasn't going to do them any good. Being passive was the wrong signal. He had to do something, anything.

  He stepped forward. “We're all here now,” he said to the leader. “What do you want from us? You want money, jewelry? Tell me what you want.” Don't say hostages, he prayed.

  The leader turned and engaged a couple of the others who were next to him in conversation. These guys are awfully young, Walt thought as he strained to overhear what they were saying. Some looked like they were still in their teens, younger than his students. He knew that age was relative down here. By the time you're fourteen you're working, often you have a family of your own, you're grown up, for better or worse.

  He caught fragments of their discussion. It didn't sound good.

  “What're they talking about?” Jocelyn whispered in his ear. His Spanish was better than hers. He had been speaking it for decades—it was almost as natural to him as English, especially when he was in a Spanish-speaking country, like here.

  “I can't make out what they're saying,” he whispered back to her. “I hope they're not talking about hostages.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” She looked behind them, at the huddled, miserable group. “But how could they? There's too many of us for them to take.”

  That was another fear: that they'd single out a few.

  The leader turned back to them and motioned to Walt to come forward. As Walt did the man's beckoning, he noticed that they'd brought extra horses with them, which shook him up even more, because they could put hostages on those horses.

  He had to try to hold his ground. “Tell me what you want,” he said to the leader again. He was fighting to keep his voice calm, but he was shaking inside. “We'll give you whatever you want. Whatever we have, you can have.”

  “Your money,” the man said. “Your watches, your jewelry. Everything you have that is worth money.”

  Walt sagged with relief. These weren't revolutionaries or organized kidnappers, they were highway robbers. The situation was dire, but not as bad as he had feared it would be.

  He needed to find out how bold an approach he could take. “What about our passports and airplane tickets?” he asked. “We need them to get out of the country. They're of no value to you,” he added, improvising on his feet, “and if you were caught with them, the government would know it was you who robbed us.” He hoped he sounded rational, rather than trying to push too hard.

  The leader thought about that. “All right,” he answered, nodding curtly. “You can keep your documents.” He looked beyond Walt. “There are other things we will take that will be of more use to us.” He pointed his flashlight toward the group. “That one, that one, and that one.”

  Walt knew who he was pointing the light at even before he turned and looked behind him. None of the women were in any way appealing; they had been on the road for over twelve hours, they were soaked, sweaty, dirty. Nevertheless, the bandido leader had selected the three, aside from Diane Montrose, who were the most attractive.

  This was the nightmare come to life. Walt's response came purely from his gut. “No,” he said firmly.

  The leader leaned down and stared at him, not believing what he had heard. “What did you say?” he asked in a slow, menacing voice.

  Walt's mouth had acted independently of his brain. But it was a good thing it had, he knew, because there was no other way he could play this. “You don't want to take them. Take me, if you have to take anyone.”

  The leader looked incredulous. He pointed the barrel of his rifle straight at Walt's face. The barrel looked huge to Walt, like a cannon. Walt could feel the pulse in his neck, fluttering wildly.

  “Are you crazy?” the leader asked.

  “No, I'm not crazy,” Walt told him. He was fighting to keep the shakes from disabling him. “I'm valuable. They aren't. You can get a large ransom for me. My foundation will pay well for my release. No one will pay anything for them, they're only students.”

  He didn't have a clue as to whether anyone would pay to have him released, or even if it would matter. These men could hold him until they were paid the ransom and then murder him anyway. But that didn't matter. He had to offer himself. He was in charge. The others were his responsibility. He couldn't let these men take the women. Whether or not they eventually killed them or exchanged them for money, they would certainly rape them. The women would be traumatized for life, possibly beyond repair. He couldn't live with that.

  The leader stared at Walt for a moment from the height of his horse. Then he shook his head. “You are one crazy man,” he said, his voice expressing both disbelief and grudging admiration. “I could shoot you, right now.”

  Walt braced himself. For a few seconds—he didn't know how long—everything was still, as if frozen.

  The moment passed. “We will not take the women,” the bandido leader said to Walt. “Because we are not animals.” He sat tall in his saddle. “Regardless of what you think of us, we are men of honor.”

  Walt was dumbfounded. “Thank you,” he replied. He started breathing easier. They were going to survive this.

  “Tell your people not to hold anything back on us,” the leader admonished Walt sternly. “If we think you are hiding anything from us we will search you, and if we find out you are, we will kill whoever does it. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Walt told him. “Absolutely. No one will hold anything back. I promise that.”

  He walked back to his group. They were huddled tightly together, looking miserable and scared out of their minds. “It's going to be all right,” he assured them. “They're only robbing us.”

  “Only?” one of the kids had the temerity to say. He was one of the youngest—very bright, but immature.

  “Yes, only,” Walt told him harshly. He wanted to kick the kid upside his head. Stupid American brat. They can travel all over the world and see the worst conditions and some of them still never get it. “Thank your lucky stars that's all they want. In Colombia last year, in a situation like this, they took twenty hostages, and after they robbed them, they murdered them.”

  Everybody glared at the kid like he had rabies. The poor kid was properly chastised; he hung his head like a dog.

  “They're taking everything that has any financial value,” Walt informed his charges. “They're letting us keep our plane tickets and passports, which is more than I expected. If the worst of this is that we have to fly home without money or watches or cameras or whatever,” he said, “we can consider ourselves lucky, damn lucky. The one thing I must impress upon you is this: do not hold out. Nothing. Not a penny, not your grandmother's wedding ring that's been a family heirloom for a hundred years. If they think we're holding anything back they'll be on us like bears on honey, and then we'll be in much worse trouble than we are now.”

  Two of their abductors climbed down from their horses. They had large plastic trash bags to receive the booty. Walt led the procession, handing over his valuables—his wallet and his watch. With a sigh, he removed his wedding ring and gave it to one of the young bandits.

  Jocelyn, following behind him, did the same. She held on to her wedding ring for a moment, her eyes tearing up as she handed it over. Then she stepped back, and gripped her husband's hand.

  One by one, the volunteers stepped forward and emptied their pockets and packs. They were quiet, nervously eyeballing the bandidos, who watched them carefully, making sure nothing was left behind, each volunteer stepping back after stripping off their valuables.

  While the volunteers were handing over their personal belongings, Manuel and Ernesto were methodically bringing the duffel bags and large cases from atop and insi
de the vans and laying them on the ground. Two more of the bandidos got down from their horses and began opening the bags, rifling through them and taking out whatever their hands fell on, from toothpaste and razors to women's soiled undergarments. The young highwaymen, giggling like schoolgirls, held up a pair of bras to their chests.

  Walt watched this cavorting with both dread and almost a comic sense of revulsion—it was as if they were kids playing a game, except it was a deadly game, because it was real.

  The leader barked at his troops to cut the crap. They slopped messing around and went back to going through the duffel bags. Most of what they pulled out was discarded and thrown onto the muddy ground. Jewelry, money, cameras, computers, other valuable items went into the trash bags. Manuel and Ernesto kept going back and forth to the vans, bringing up more bags, as well as cases and trunks that held supplies and equipment.

  Flashes of lightning lit up the sky, followed by louder and louder thunderclaps. The storm was coming closer. Walt glanced up as another bolt came down. He barely counted to four-Mississippi before he heard the thunder.

  He observed that the bandido leader was also looking up with a worried expression on his face.

  Jocelyn, standing behind Walt, tugged at his hand. “You can't let them open your big case,” she whispered urgently into his ear.

  He glanced at the pile of bags yet to be opened. About a dozen bags and cases, including his large equipment trunk, which was firmly secured with a padlock, were still back on the vans.

  “I can't stop them from doing whatever they want,” he whispered back, turning away so that the bandidos couldn't see them talking to each other. “You heard what he told us. We try to screw these people around, we're going to get killed.”

  “If they open that trunk, you'll lose all your work,” she warned him.

  His computer was inside the trunk. If it was taken, a year's worth of work would be lost.

  “I know,” he answered, keeping his voice low. “But I don't have a choice.”

  “And you have those pieces from La Chimenea in there,” she added ominously. “What do you think is going to happen when they find them?”

  Walt was taking some artifacts out of the country. Legally, aboveboard. The government had given him permission to remove them temporarily, for study purposes. He would bring them back with him the next time he returned. This procedure had become common practice since the United Nations protocol on stolen antiquities had been established in 1983, which forbade the permanent removal of antiquities from the country of origin. These guidelines allowed precious information to be studied under advanced scientific conditions, while assuring the host countries that the antiquities would be returned.

  “I have the papers from the government.” He patted the pocket of his pants. “Right here, with my passport.”

  Even as he spoke, he could see the precariousness of his situation. Jocelyn articulated his fear for him.

  “Yeah, right,” she hissed into his ear. “Like they're going to take the time to read some papers. That's if they can even read. They're going to think you're stealing from the site, and they're going to freak. You can't let them open that box, Walt.”

  He groaned to himself. She was right—he had to keep their captors from opening that case. But how in God's name was he going to stop them?

  Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed a couple of seconds later by a loud clap of thunder. Everybody looked up in dismay. The leader cursed under his breath. “Hurry,” he yelled at his men on the ground.

  The bandits began cramming the loose booty into garbage bags. The leader pointed a dirt-encrusted finger at Walt. “Go help your drivers bring the rest of your things up here,” he snapped.

  Walt's knees almost buckled. There is a God after all, he thought, as his mind raced. This heaven-sent, albeit unconscious gift from their abductors proved it.

  “Right away,” he said, hoping he didn't sound too eager. “My wife will help me,” he called back over his shoulder, as he hustled her away from the others, toward the vans.

  Manuel and Ernesto, standing on top of the lead van, were untying the last of the bags that had been secured to the luggage rack on the roof. The ropes were wet and unwieldy. Manuel, cursing to himself, began hacking at them with his knife. Ernesto, perched next to him, was doing the same.

  “We'll bring what's left back here!” Walt called up to Manuel, as he and Jocelyn passed his two drivers on their way to the back. He pointed to the rear van.

  Manuel, standing on top of the van he had been driving, nodded quickly and continued his cutting.

  The large trunk that held the artifacts Walt was bringing back to the states, along with his computer and other critical materials, was in the back of the second van. He swung open the rear door. The trunk was under the few remaining duffel bags that hadn't yet been taken out. He grabbed the bags and tossed them onto the muddy ground.

  The trunk was secured with a heavy padlock. It was heavy—he and Jocelyn struggled to pull it out of the van. They dropped it at their feet. Walt started to push it under the vehicle.

  Jocelyn grabbed his arm. “We can't leave it here, under the truck,” she exclaimed, panic rising in her voice. “It's too big to hide, they'll find it.”

  Walt looked around desperately. The jungle was choked with thick vegetation on either side of the road, less than ten feet from where they were standing. Cautiously, he peered around the corner of the van.

  The bandidos were shouting with each other, struggling to get the bags they had filled onto the pack animals. From where he and Jocelyn were standing, they couldn't be seen.

  “Take that side,” he whispered, pointing to the far side of the trunk.

  They grabbed the big metal box by the handles at either end. Straining under the weight of it, they carried it to the edge of the road and pushed their way about five yards into the dense foliage.

  They lowered the trunk to the ground. “They won't find it here,” Walt said. “It's pitch-black, you can't see anything.”

  “Don't you think we should go in deeper?” Jocelyn asked fearfully.

  “We don't have time. It'll be okay,” he told her, trying to sound reassuring.

  He grabbed handfuls of wet leaves and broken tree blanches and did a quick camouflage job on the trunk. Stepping back, he looked at his rush-job handiwork. From the road, it wouldn't be seen.

  Another flash of lightning hit close by, followed by a loud roll of thunder. The storm was coming even closer. In a few minutes, it would be upon them.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling her back onto the road. “We can't hang back here, they'll send someone looking for us.”

  They picked up as many duffel bags as they could and carried them to the pile in front of the lead van, dropping them onto the ground. Walt, his shirt soaked with perspiration and from the wet bags he had carried, looked up at the bandit leader.

  “Just a couple more,” he panted. “I'll go get them.”

  The leader shook his head impatiently as he peered up at the increasingly threatening sky. “Répido, répido,” he yelled at Walt.

  Walt raced to the back of the trail van and grabbed the few remaining bags. He brought them forward and dropped them onto the ground. Manuel and Ernesto followed him with the last of the bags from the lead van.

  “That's it,” Walt said in a weary voice. He looked at Manuel, who nodded in agreement. “It's all here in front of you.”

  The leader had a suspicious expression on his face. “That is all? You are sure?”

  “Yes,” Walt nodded. “There's nothing left.” He hesitated—then he decided to go for broke. “Go back and look inside the vans yourself if you don't believe me.”

  The leader cursed under his breath. He motioned to one of the men who was sitting on his horse, a few feet behind him, to ride up and join him.

  The man he beckoned, who had been watching from the background but not actively participating in the looting, rode forward. Like the others,
he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that rested low over his face, so that Walt couldn't make out his features.

  The leader was obviously agitated as he spoke to the other man. The man shook his head in anger as he answered. Then he turned toward Walt and looked up, revealing his face.

  Walt stared at him slack-jawed, as if staring at a ghost.

  He knew this man. He had worked at the camp, and had been a troublemaker from the get-go. Walt had tried to fire him, but the man had connections with the Minister of Archaeology and Culture—the same official who had informed him that their military escort had been pulled.

  Walt clearly recalled seeing the man at La Chimenea the night before; but in the morning, he remembered now, he hadn't. The man must have snuck out in the middle of the night, after everyone had gone to sleep. Maybe while he, Walt, was at the site, with Diane Montrose. The thought chilled him.

  The man, hooded eyes unblinking, continued staring at Walt. Then he broke into a gap-toothed smile. It was a smile not of friendship, but of revengeful triumph.

  Walt realized, with certainty now, that his instincts had been right: it had been a setup, starting with the broken alternator. His feeling of outrage toward this coward was overwhelmed by that of fear for his life and the lives of his charges.

  The turncoat leaned in and said something more to the bandit leader. The leader listened intently. Then he turned and stared at Walt.

  “There is a missing box,” he said, his voice harsh with anger. “Where is it?”

  Walt couldn't back down now. He had to play his hand to the end. “Like I told you. This is everything.”

  The leader motioned to a couple of his men to dismount. “Go look back there and see if there is anything that has been left behind,” he ordered them. He looked up in anxiety at the dark, lowering sky. “Do it quickly.”

  Walt glanced over at Manuel. His assistant gave him a quizzical look, then turned away. Don't look anywhere except in the vans, Walt prayed silently. The words were a mantra in his head. Don't look anywhere.