by Linda Barnes
As I knelt near the hammock, a sudden touch set my heart pounding. The wounded man’s fingers had grasped my sleeve, and his soft, “Who’re you?” was murmured in English, not Spanish, his low, raspy voice a Southern drawl.
Another American. In DAS custody. What the hell was going on? I wondered how long he’d been playing possum.
“Who are you?” I responded more in a croak than a voice. His hold was weak; I could have shaken him off with no effort.
“Where am I?” His eyes were gray as slate, the whites threaded with red veins.
Shit. I was more than disappointed by his query; I was angry. I’d imagined he’d know exactly where we were. It seemed only right; he’d been here first.
“You American?” he managed, before his hand dropped.
“Yes. And you, what unit are you with?” I waited for his response, but he’d gone out like a light. I spoke into his ear, then held my ear to his mouth. He breathed, but he was far away.
An American, another American, wounded, and wearing combat fatigues. How long had he been here? I took another look at the makeshift splint. The poles on either side of his leg could have come from the same plant as the thin rods that made up the inner structure of the roof. I rested my fingertips on the wounded man’s forehead. He was hot to the touch, feverish. He ought to be in a hospital.
The U.S. Army had a presence in Colombia, but it didn’t include combat troops as far as I knew. Why would a wounded U.S. soldier be held prisoner by DAS?
The man groaned, and I almost followed suit, the ache in my shoulders adjusting to movement with sharper pain. Having my hands tied behind my back made me feel useless. I twisted them, but the rope held. I hadn’t found anything sharp enough to use as a tool. I closed my eyes and considered the predicament. My arms are pretty long. I’m no gymnast, but volleyball keeps me supple. I moved from the stone-tiled section of the floor to the dirt-floored area, bent at the knee, and sat backward through the circle of my arms, jack-knifing my body and squirming till my arms were in front of me, twisting the ropes. When I got my hands free, I decided, panting, I’d rub my shoulders for a week. For now, I massaged my ego with the small victory.
Then I spent some time playing with the ropes, trying to untie them with my teeth. The ropes won. Still, my hands were more useful in front of me than behind, and maybe the man in army fatigues would wake soon and help me out with his one good hand. I tried to nudge him into consciousness to no avail. With a leg in that condition, he wasn’t going to be able to escape. I’d have to do it for him, file a report, a protest. Somewhere.
By now, my eyes had adjusted to the dim and shadowy light. My head pounded, my tongue tasted vile, and my mouth was dry as dust, but I seemed to have no other nasty side effects from whatever substance had been injected into my leg in the Jeep. The wounded man didn’t stir, so I shifted my attention back to the hut. Was anyone else hidden in the gloomy interior?
Returning to the part of the hut I’d been exploring before I heard my fellow prisoner’s telltale cough, I resumed the task. Everything seemed easier with my hands in front of me. I could reach down and touch the polished stones. I found what seemed to be an open hearth, an arrangement of stones against a lumpy wall blackened by carbon. I tried to heft one of the stones, but it was no use. Too heavy. Where were the fireplace tools, the tongs, the iron? For that matter, where were the bread and water, the Geneva conventions, the U.S. ambassador? U.S. citizens were being held against their will, fodder for a rabble-rousing article by Luisa Cabrera, if I ever got the hell out of here.
Something glinted between the stones. I got back on my knees and pried at it, a tiny ochre-colored stone inset in the mud between the flat polished stones of the hearth. Just as my fingers were about to give up, it popped loose, followed by another flatter stone, then another roundish one, all linked by thread. When I finished yanking, there were six smallish beads. A child’s necklace? A bracelet of some sort? The stones were filthy, but I kept it in my hand, wishing it were a more useful article. A knife, for instance.
The door, when I finally found it, took a moment to register as a door because my imagination had painted a prison door, a cell door, barred and formidable. In fact, it was a disappointment, no more than a simple row of sticks lashed to a frame. As far as I could tell there was no lock at all. A bar of light showed at what would have been the jamb, if there had been a jamb.
I considered the prospect of the door, the likelihood of a guard, the possibility of undetected escape. My backpack was gone, my shoes as well. If I’d found anything useful as a weapon, I might have opted for feigning sleep till someone came, attacking them when they tried to rouse me. But the stones were too heavy, and I couldn’t see depriving the wounded man of his splint, or lying in my hammock, ceramic chamber pot at the ready. The door was tempting; the edge of sunlight glittered like a diamond.
I hesitated before it, stock still, listening. The strange and pitiful bird called again, and I wondered why it was complaining, free as it was, able to fly. I spent another two minutes in a futile attack on the rope that tied my hands, gave up, and hooked my fingers around the edge of the door. Slid it open an inch, two inches, pressed my right eye to the gap.
Green. Never had I seen such a profusion of greenery, such a variety of green, from lime yellow to deep blue-green, never, not on the first glowing day of short eastern seaboard spring, never, never in my life. I was gazing at a clearing, and past the clearing, at a forest of trees that looked as old as time, draped with moss and vines, a forest primeval, but not a northern forest, not a single evergreen. In between the close cathedral of trees, low lush bushes covered the ground. Jungle, I thought, coffee bushes, maybe coca. Light dappled the greenery, changing the palette of greens from one moment to the next: apple to malachite, jade to olive, emerald to the tenderest chartreuse. There was a wildness to the light, a strange clarity that made the calls of birds and animals seem suddenly louder. I caught a glimpse of a huge and gaudy bird, just a glimpse as it flashed from tree to tree.
I held the thread of the small stone bracelet between my thumb and index finger, twisted the beads over the first three fingers of my right hand, fashioning them into a poor imitation of brass knuckles. Then I used the fingers of my left hand to scrabble at the door, shoving till the gap widened. Five inches, eight inches, and then hope died.
CHAPTER 23
The armed guards wore the same military fatigues as my fellow prisoner. My first thought was that I’d fallen into some secret U.S. Army encampment, but on second thought—and closer inspection—I voted against it. These guys weren’t U.S. Army. Dark-haired and deeply tanned, they were kids, most of them, skinny underfed kids in ragtag uniforms, laughing and holding semi-automatics like they’d been born with rifles in their hands. In the split second before one of them noticed the door move, they’d looked more like people playing at soldiers than soldiers.
I tried to swallow. Eight rifles pointed accusing barrels at my chest. My stone-beaded knuckles didn’t seem like an adequate response.
One of the men barked an order, detached himself from the group, and hurried to the door, pushing it open the rest of the way, so we stood face to face. I thought he might shove me inside or hit me with the barrel of his gun. I had my mouth open, ready to demand the American ambassador, right here, right now.
“You wish to speak to El Martillo?” he said in Spanish.
I peered closely at his face. Wearing a gray suit, he’d been one of the “DAS” agents who’d kidnapped me. When he saw recognition dawn in my eyes, he broke into a tentative grin, then a wide smile.
“Water?” My request came out in a frog croak.
The water arrived in a pottery bowl shaped like a gourd, and tasted clean and cold as ice, the best water I’d ever tasted. When I’d drunk my fill, the phony DAS guard motioned to a second guard, and together, they led me past a stand of lush foliage into another clearing.
Invisible insects chirped and hummed. A musical ripple resolved int
o a rushing stream. A woman kneeling on the bank washed clothes the old-fashioned way, beating them resolutely against a rock. She glanced up with the blankest of expressions, as if a woman bound hand and foot and escorted by armed guards were something so ordinary as to be part of the landscape. I decided there wasn’t much point in asking her for help. Instead, I asked the DAS guard whether the soldier in my tent had been examined by a doctor.
“You saw him?” His high-pitched voice grew tense. “You spoke with him?”
“He was asleep.”
The man’s alarm receded slightly. He shared a meaningful glance with the other guard, who shrugged, but said nothing. The DAS guard urged me along the bumpy path. After a minute or two, he dropped back and started telling his fellow guard a raunchy, meandering tale about a barroom drunk.
Not all the other people I saw toted rifles, but the majority did. As a former cop, I’m familiar with street weapons: Taurus handguns, Cobra pistols, your basic Saturday-night specials. I never served in the military, but an old sergeant pal of mine kept a personal museum of exotic arms discovered on Boston streets, so I knew I was looking at Russian AK-47s, Israeli Tavor 21s, and German-made Rugers. There were women other than the laundress, but they wore fatigues and carried rifles like the men. I saw no sign of children, no sign of Paolina, no sign of civilization, unless you consider advanced weaponry civilized. The rope that bound my legs was a waste of time, hampering my steps for nothing. Where would I run when I had no idea where I was? My bare feet stumbled over roots and stones.
Even if I’d had a cell phone in hand, I got the feeling I wasn’t anyplace I could dial 911 to ask for help. The land sloped gently downhill, but above—well, above went on for miles, miles of greenery and craggy rock. I thought I caught a glimpse of a far-off snowcapped peak, insubstantial, shrouded in mist, like a vision in a dream.
We marched through variegated greenery over paths and terraces of stone to a sort of camp, a bivouac, maybe a way station to a larger village. Arching trees spread leafy protective branches overhead. I counted two rectangular structures with thatched roofs, surrounded by nine gumdrop-shaped huts. I sniffed the air for the scent of ether, or any of the other chemicals involved in processing coca leaves, got the tang of greenery, the smell of cooking, and the scent of humans who didn’t wash often. I tried to gauge the number of inhabitants, but there was no way to estimate accurately.
Probably the same as the number of banana-clipped assault rifles. Each of my guards cradled one in his arms. I studied the man to my right. His uniform might be ragged, but he carried plenty of killing tools. In addition to the rifle, he had a holstered Beretta and a wicked-looking knife strapped to his leg. He wore the weapons casually, as though he’d stopped feeling their weight years ago.
My shoulders ached, but I squared them and marched on. The air felt good. I was alive. I’d set out to find Roldan, and here I was, being led to the very object of my desire. It might not be exactly how I’d imagined the moment of success, but I was, according to at least one armed man, on my way to see El Martillo. The sound of the stream receded as the path led further into the trees. We passed small areas that had been cleared and planted. Gardening and growing crops and selling coke, all in a day’s work.
We hadn’t walked far, uphill granted, steeply uphill, but I was practically winded, far wearier than I expected, overheated. I stay in shape. I don’t work out at a gym, but I play volleyball and swim at the Y. I sucked in deep breaths and wondered what the altitude was, and how far we were planning to climb up the endless slope. The next clearing was barely visible through the trees when the DAS guard motioned me to halt.
“That man in the hut with you, he was hurt cutting down trees. The doctor will come soon. It doesn’t concern you.” His voice was far too casual.
I nodded.
“It would perhaps be better if you didn’t mention him to El Martillo. He is a busy man, a great man. We don’t want his mind troubled by this small matter.”
Interesting, I thought. The guard was lying about the wounded man, but why? Did the boss not know about the captured American? The possibility seemed remote.
I was out of breath and thirsty again by the time we neared a large circular hut in the clearing. A bare-chested man wearing jeans tucked into combat boots and carrying the required rifle stood guard at the door. Faint music joined the bird calls and insect chatter. The bare-chested guard nodded curtly to my escorts, ducked his head into the low doorway, and in quick Spanish identified me simply as the prisoner.
“Let her come in.”
Carlos Roldan Gonzales’s voice had a touch of sandpaper gruffness. An attractive voice, it had made an impression the few times we’d spoken on the phone. Now the smooth baritone flowed on, asking the guard to bring some tea, please, and if there was some fruit juice, that would be excellent. Music played in the background, cheerful and upbeat, a Latin dance tune.
The bare-chested guard motioned me inside. I told him to untie me first; he seemed to find my request amusing. I had to duck my head to walk through the low door.
I’d expected military fatigues, the Che Guevara look, a couple of gold chains, whatever passed for macho chic in a guerrilla encampment, but the hut’s sole occupant wore a tunic of pure white cloth and trousers of the same material, the legs rolled almost to the knee. He was barefoot. A single polished stone bead dangled from a cord around his neck. He sat on a folding chair at a desk made of wide planks placed across two packing crates. My approach was far from silent with the rope dragging between my legs, but he didn’t look up, immersed in what seemed to be intense scrutiny of his fingertips. I studied his profile, a profile I’d never seen in newspaper or magazine photos. Paolina had his stubborn chin.
He was thinner than he’d been in the photos, older. A scar cut his face from the left corner of his mouth across the cheekbone to the corner of his eye. His eyes were Paolina’s eyes, deeper and older, but the same shape and color. He turned to face me and a faint smile tilted his mouth.
Music swelled from a small cassette deck. He fiddled with the knob and lowered the volume. The hut was dim and slightly smoky, light filtering through the thatched roof and glowing from a small fire on a rock hearth. It was much like the hut in which I’d awoken, but better maintained, the stone floor neatly swept. One hammock was tucked away behind the rafters, another swung low, weighted with heavy books.
He said nothing.
I’ve used silence for my own ends. It’s an old interrogation trick. Say nothing. Let the perp fill the silence because even lies tell you something. But this stillness was something else. I thought of a crafty reptile lying on a sunken log, waiting, waiting for his prey to emerge from the woods.
“Where is she?”
My question seemed to summon some genial being who lived far beneath the surface of the craggy face. Roldan shook himself as though waking.
“Welcome,” he said, “welcome to the MM-19 Hilton! I hope you have had a comfortable stay. We have no mints on our pillows, it’s true, but we have many other amenities.” His eyes crinkled and his wide smile took ten years off his age. “We will drink together before we speak. I believe there is lulo juice.”
“Where is she?” I repeated.
“The lulo is something like a pomegranate, but the juice is the nectar of the gods. With lulo juice and salsa music alone, one can always have a fiesta. You saw the mountain? The high peak is called Simon Bolivar, after the great liberator. It is 5,775 meters high.”
“I don’t care how high the mountain is,” I said. “I don’t plan to complain about being kidnapped or locked up or—”
“We have no locks here.”
“Just guards with AK-47s?”
He shrugged. “The show of arms is regrettable. We are a farming community.”
“Yeah. You beat your plowshares into assault rifles?”
“The guns are a recent acquisition.”
I wished the guy with the juice would make it snappy. I tried to wet my lips. �
��Roldan, I don’t want to discuss guns, either. I’ve come to take Paolina home.”
“I have seen your photograph,” he said, as though I hadn’t mentioned Paolina’s name, as though my words had no effect on him, as though I’d said nothing.
His utter unresponsiveness was starting to tick me off. I said, “I don’t know why the hell you decided, after all these years, that you needed her. I don’t know why a father with a daughter doing fine in the States would rather have her live on a hillside in a camp filled with armed goons.”
“It did not truly catch your eyes, or the color of your hair,” he said. “It did not tell me how you chose your words when you spoke.”
If my arms had been free, I’d have grabbed him by the throat. “What the hell do you think you can offer her here? You’ll never have a normal life. If the government catches you, they’ll kill you. If a rival cartel catches you, they’ll kill you. The paramilitaries, once they realize you’re alive, will get in line, too.”
The guard entered with a squat ceramic pitcher on a tray and two mugs. Roldan grunted and the man left it on the corner of a crate.
“I will pour,” Roldan said, “since you are my guest.”
Since I’m tied up. I thought about all the old tales in which once you accepted food in your captor’s house you fell under a spell. Food, I could have refused, but water, juice, was another matter.
“You have found a trinket. May I see?”
Roldan took the string of beads from between my fingers. Then he handed me the mug, and the lulo juice tasted so incredibly wonderful, piquant and slightly tart, that I couldn’t imagine why the Colombians didn’t export it and make more profit than they did on cocaine.