A King's Ransom (17 page)

What does that mean?

It means that you can't begin to understand the scope of the kidnapping and ransom problem in this country, and I don't want you making side trips to talk to people at the foundation or anywhere else. From now until the time we leave, I'd prefer that you stay within my line of sight.

Come on, Alex. I appreciate all you're doing for me, and probably a little paranoia is understandable. But you're starting to sound worse than me.

She suddenly turned angry. You want to see paranoid? I'll show you.

She steered down a side street and stepped on the gas. The tires squealed as the little car cornered up a winding road to the top of a steep hill. Minutes later we stopped at the side of the road, where the view of the valley was unobstructed for a good square mile. She stepped down from the car, and I followed her to the edge of the cliff. Below was a residential neighborhood, hundreds of middle- and upper-middle-class homes on the wealthy north side of BogotA.

Look, she said.

We had a bird's-eye view of the rooftops. The houses were nice, but they were little fortresses. Security walls surrounded each home, some topped with razor wire. Dobermans roamed many of the properties. Dozens had guards posted along the walls or at the doors, like sentries, armed with automatic rifles.

When I was a little girl, this neighborhood was like the one you grew up in. Kids could ride their bicycles. Mothers could stroll with their babies. Hard to believe, isn't it?

I nodded slowly, taking it in.

That green house on the corner, she said, pointing. FARC has their twenty-two-year-old son. The yellow house five doors down. They took a father of three. Shot him in the head six months later when he tried to escape, then came back and snatched his eight-year-old daughter while his widow was out making the funeral arrangements. That two-story house on the hill over there -

Okay, enough, I said. Reading the PaAs Libre statistics was one thing. Seeing where the victims actually lived was quite another.

These aren't drug dealers. They aren't even super-rich people. They're normal families who worked hard to have a decent home and a few nice things. Bankers, shop owners, lawyers like you. This is the way they have to live now.

I noticed her voice tightening. Obviously this wasn't easy for her to talk about.

If you want to wander around Colombia against my advice, Nick, don't do it while you're my responsibility.

I looked at her, then back at the fortified homes. I'm sorry, I said softly.

Let's go.

We got back into the car, neither of us saying a word. What I'd seen had definitely made an impact. Certainly there was every reason to take precautions. As she'd said in the airport, No se puede dar papaya. But her refusal to stay at a hotel or drive a rental car seemed a bit overboard to me, not to mention her going so far as to make a phony hotel reservation purely as a diversion to would-be followers. And her fears of an organization like FundaciA3n PaAs Libre seemed almost irrational.

The ignition whined, then screeched, and finally the car started. As Alex struggled to find first gear, I was starting to wonder. Maybe she was being extra careful for my benefit. She feared for the safety of the gringo.

Then again, maybe it was Alex herself who was hiding from someone.

I glanced back once more toward the houses in the valley, then tucked my knees against the glove box as she drove us back into the city.

Chapter 23

Two things struck me about television in Colombia. Well, one thing, really. I suppose I'd expected the daily toll of violence on the evening news - murders, kidnappings, muggings. You could get that in Miami. But the nudity was the real shocker, not in the programs but the commercials. To be sure, American TV had its share of scantily clad models selling beer, cars, cologne. But American ads were puritanical by Colombian standards. With the amount of flesh flashing here, who needed the Spice Channel?

Television was about all I saw during my first eight hours in BogotA. Alex had me holed up in our flat all day. It wasn't a bad place actually. But by eight o'clock I was feeling claustrophobic.

Want to get some dinner? said Alex.

You mean go out?

Yeah.

Really? I said, teasing. I thought you'd have me disguise my voice and order pizza under an alias.

Very funny.

I smiled, but in truth I needed to get out. Watching television in my distant-second language was tiresome, and I found myself slipping into nonproductive worries about my father. Let's go, I said.

We drove north of downtown to a trendy area called Zona Rosa, a maze of music clubs, bars, restaurants, and cafEs that seemed to compress into a small nucleus of vibrant BogotA nightlife somewhere around Calle 84. We ducked into a tiny, relatively quiet bistro, where doting waiters wore traditional white shirts and black vests. Several teams of them hovered over a dozen small tables for two. A canopy of twinkling white lights hung in strands from the ceiling, reminding me of Christmas. Our table was in front by the window, with a view of the steady parade of cars outside. The rich were chauffeured in bulletproof Mercedes-Benzes and Renaults. Smartly dressed couples entered in the company of bodyguards. The women wore no jewelry, but once safely inside the restaurant, they opened their purses and applied their diamond earrings or emerald rings as a matter of course, the way American women might check their makeup. It was one of the safer areas, according to Alex, but people never let their guard down completely in BogotA.

The restaurant specialized in food from Antioquia, one of Colombia's largest and richest departments, which included the city of MedellAn. It was a region fond of parties and prayer, Alex told me, known for orchids, gold, coffee, and the distinctive architecture of rural towns that had stood for centuries. Most renowned of all were its native people, the paisas, famous for their hospitality and interesting customs. Alex ordered a glass of wine to start. I took only mineral water, as I was still having a little trouble with the trip from sea level in Miami to over eighty-six hundred feet in BogotA, and alcohol wouldn't help the adjustment.

Nice place, I said.

After scaring you to death all day, I thought you should see another side of BogotA. People haven't stopped living.

I tried a breadstick. Do you think I was foolish to come here?

I understand why you did it.

Do you think I made the right decision?

Can't really say. If the only thing to consider was the risk to you personally, that would be one thing. But every time you take a risk, you have to factor in the added anxiety it causes your mother and whoever else cares about you.

It's really just my mother.

What about your sister?

She still doesn't even know about Dad.

Surely your girlfriend worries.

She tried to slip that in casually. Maybe I was flattering myself, but I sensed more than just passing curiosity on her part. I'm unattached right now. I was engaged, but that ended a few weeks ago.

I'm sorry.

Wasn't meant to be, I guess.

Yeah, right. She almost scoffed.

You don't believe in fate? I asked.

Do you?

Sure. We all have our destiny.

We make our own destiny.

So you would deny me the comfort of thinking that Jenna's breaking up with me was all for the best?

It might be for the best, but it wasn't fate that got you there. When a relationship dies, it's usually because somebody finally came to their senses or somebody screwed up.

She had a way of cutting through the nonsense, which I rather liked. You're right. I screwed up.

What happened?

She told me it was because my job was too consuming. But that wasn't the real reason.

What do you think it was?

She built up a lot of resentment over the years.

Toward you?

I nodded. She never believed that I loved her enough.

A waiter came by and lit the candle on our table. Alex waited for him to leave, then asked, Did you love her enough?

My, this is getting personal.

I thought it was just getting interesting.

I took another sip of water and said, Yes, I loved her very much. I just never

She waited for me to finish, then finished for me. You never told her?

It took me a long time.

How long?

Almost two years.

She made a face. Why do guys do that?

I wasn't trying to be cruel. We met when I was on the rebound. I'd had two serious relationships in less than a year and was burned both times. I was starting to think love' was one of those words that got tossed around a lot without much behind it. So I decided the next time I told a woman that I loved her, it was going to be forever. I didn't realize it, but that little pact I'd made with myself had dug me into a hole. In my mind, telling Jenna I loved her would have been tantamount to asking her to marry me. So I couldn't say it until I was ready to pop the question. Does that make sense?

She looked at me with utter disbelief, then finally let out a short burst of laughter. It was little more than a hiccup, completely involuntary, but I was crushed nonetheless. It was as if Jenna and her seagull had dumped all over my head again.

What's so funny?

She sipped her wine. Don't tell me you actually believe what you just said.

Yes. It's true.

You may think it's true, but here's a news flash, my friend. You didn't love this Jenna.

How can you say that?

She was smiling with her eyes, but I could tell she wasn't completely kidding. When it comes to matters of love, don't argue with the girl from BogotA. She'll eat you alive.

The waiter brought menus, but Alex didn't need them. She ordered a traditional Antioquian dish for us to share, something that wasn't on the menu but that she and our overly attentive waiter concocted together. Finally he left us alone.

I was still mystified and a little miffed by her reaction to my Jenna story, but I decided to turn the tables rather than push it. You still have family here in BogotA?

I think so.

You don't know?

My family's pretty screwed up.

Isn't every family?

She smiled weakly but didn't elaborate. Come on, I said. I just laid my heart on the line and got laughed at. You can open up a little.

She looked right at me, almost through me, as if deciding whether I was trustworthy. Then she just started talking, her dark eyes fixed on the candle's flickering yellow flame. I never knew my father. He was an Italian businessman who traveled back and forth from Rome to BogotA. My mother would see him one weekend a month till I was about ten. I always knew when he was coming, because I had to go stay with my aunt. For years my mother deluded herself into thinking he was going to marry her someday. Deep down she must have known he already had a wife back in Italy.

So your mother raised you alone?

Yes, my older brother and me.

You don't keep in touch with them?

No.

It was a flat no, the kind that didn't invite inquiry.

She sipped her wine and asked, Don't you want to know why?

Only if you want to tell me.

My brother is dead. He was killed.

I'm sorry.

My mother thinks it was my fault, so she doesn't speak to me.

I wasn't sure what to say. Almost reflexively, I asked, Was it your fault?

She looked away briefly. Then her eyes met mine and she answered in a soft, troubled voice. I don't know. After all these years, I still don't know.

The waiter interrupted with the first plate. It smelled delicious, and he refused to leave until Alex had tasted it and told him how wonderful it was. Her somber mood was suddenly gone.

Enjoy, she said. With a meal this authentic, we must follow Antioquian custom.

Which is what?

While we eat, we can speak of nothing but the food. It's an unbreakable rule.

I wasn't sure if that was truly an Antioquian custom, but one thing was plain: I wouldn't hear another word about her estranged mother and dead brother. At least not tonight.

Salud, she said as she raised her wineglass, and I raised my glass of mineral water in return.

Chapter 24

The NRA was laying down its weapons. Yankee fans were rooting for the Boston Red Sox. The French were eating English food and loving it.

Matthew was sure all those things were happening. His tent was leaking, he hadn't bathed in three weeks, his daily food ration had been cut to one plate of beans with rat droppings and a canned fish product that even he, a lifelong fisherman, couldn't identify. It had been three days since his clothes had been soaked in a rainstorm, and he could still wring moisture from them. The putrid overflow from the hole in the ground that was their bathroom had started oozing downhill toward Matthew's tent, but the guards only seemed amused by his complaints. JoaquAn was still in charge, the Canadian was losing his fight with infection in his severed thumb, and the Swede was sniping at the other captives, certain that he was next in line for torture. Each night the young Colombian woman cried for hours in the darkness, praying to the Holy Infant and whispering the names of her children. No one held any realistic hope of a prompt release. All that, and temperatures were dropping by the hour. Late afternoon had brought their first hailstorm.