A King's ransom

16

We reached my mother’s house in ten minutes. She met us at the door.

“This way,” said Mom as she led us to the kitchen.

The letter was resting faceup on the table beside the opened courier package. I was glad Alex was with me. I probably could have translated it myself, but I suspected that a communication from a kidnapper would contain subtleties in word choice and phraseology that I would never be able to interpret. She seemed like the right person to discern the true meaning. I wondered if perhaps she’d even written a few letters like this before.

As Alex read the letter, I tried to read her face. “Is it FARC?” I asked.

“Could be.”

“Oh, my God,” said Mom.

“It’s a little strange. Usually FARC comes right out and claims responsibility. They’re not shy. This one reads like a FARC letter, but there’s no explicit claim of responsibility by anyone.”

“For heaven’s sake, just read it to me,” said Mom.

I looked over Alex’s shoulder as she read aloud, translating. “ ‘Dear Mrs. Rey-’ ”

“Read the bottom first,” said Mom. “The part in Matthew’s handwriting.”

“It looks like they allowed him to write a short postscript,” said Alex.

“Yes. Read it to me, please.”

“ ‘My dear family. I am well treated, so please don’t worry. Cathy, I love you. Nick, give my love to Lindsey when you talk to her, and take good care of your mother and grandmother. Love, Matthew.’ ”

My mother was shaking. I hugged her as she sank into the chair across the table from Alex.

“That’s it?” she said.

“It’s a teaser,” said Alex. “Kidnappers sometimes release bits and pieces like that to push the family’s emotional buttons. Other times the family is kept totally in the dark. Either way, you’re being jerked around.”

“Why did he write in Spanish?”

“Because his kidnappers want to make sure they understand every word he writes. They’re paranoid about something slipping by in what to them is a foreign language. Someone could be speaking in code to reveal their position. If it’s in Spanish, they can control what’s said.”

“What does their letter say?” I asked.

Her eyes shifted back to the letter, and she read, “ ‘Dear Mrs. Rey. We are your friends.’ ”

“Friends!” My mother nearly shrieked.

“That’s a typical beginning,” said Alex. She read quickly through a paragraph that set forth various Marxist platitudes, guerrilla propaganda. The substance was in the last paragraph. “ ‘We do not intend to harm your husband if our demands are met, but we regret that we cannot continue to communicate with you in Miami. All arrangements for the release must be made in Colombia, through you or your representative.’ ”

“They expect us to go to Colombia?” said Mom.

“That’s not surprising,” said Alex. “They want to play on their turf.”

“Finish the letter,” I said.

Her translation continued, “ ‘At sunrise, twenty-two October, be in the park behind the church at the top of Monseratte.’ ”

“What’s Monseratte?” I asked.

“One of the mountain peaks just east of Bogota.” She continued reading: “ ‘Bring a two-meter-band radio. Instructions will follow. Do not involve the police or the army, or you will never hear from us again, and all chances for your husband’s release will be lost.’ ”

“But. .” Mom could barely speak. “But we’ve already involved the police.”

“They know that.”

“Then why did they threaten to kill Matthew if we called them?”

“They want you to stop talking to them. Mind you, they’re not afraid of being caught. Even when the police are involved, maybe two percent of the kidnapping cases in Colombia are solved. What they’re afraid of is that the police will try to dissuade you from paying a ransom. And their fears are justified. The police will do that.”

“They must think like the State Department,” I said.

“Everybody thinks that way, until their own son or daughter is kidnapped.”

Mom asked, “Should we stop talking to the police?”

“Not necessarily,” said Alex. “So long as you have a private negotiator who’s putting money on the table, the kidnappers won’t really care who you’re talking to behind the scenes.”

“Does that mean you’ll be our family contact in Bogota?”

“That’s part of your insurance coverage.”

“Will the police be with you?”

“No,” said Alex. “Don’t misunderstand me. When I said it’s not necessary to stop talking to the police, I wasn’t suggesting that we join ourselves at the hip with anyone in law enforcement, Colombian or American. Frankly, we don’t need them if our intention is to pay a ransom. This is why your father bought insurance.”

“So you’re going alone?” said Mom.

“Shouldn’t I be with you?” I asked before she could answer.

“No,” said Mom, playing the same game.

Alex paused, clearly reluctant to weigh in on either side. “That’s up to the family.”

I said, “When you talk by radio to the kidnappers, they’re bound to make threats or set deadlines. I don’t want to have to rely solely on someone else’s opinion as to whether they’re for real or not. I want to hear with my own ears.”

“But it could be dangerous,” Mom said.

“I won’t be going alone.”

“That’s exactly what your father said!” Her voice was sharp but quaking.

I looked away, saying nothing. Mom looked at Alex and asked, “Is this something we have to decide now?”

“No. Soon, though. We need to make plans.”

“Tomorrow morning soon enough?”

“Sure,” said Alex.

Mom looked me in the eye, then glanced out the window. I wasn’t sure who she was talking to-me, Alex, or no one in particular. “I know my son,” she said softly. “He’s going to South America. I guess by morning we’ll know if he’s going with or without my blessing.”

I watched from my chair as she rose and quietly left the room.