A King's ransom

18

It was their third camp in seven days. Or maybe it was eight days. Matthew wasn’t sure. The guerrillas had stolen his wristwatch, his only calendar.

At least a week had passed since they’d reached the mountains, almost two since the shoot-out in Cartagena. They’d traveled by foot and by mule, mostly climbing, but at times descending at angles as steep as forty degrees. More than once he was certain that they’d doubled back and covered the same ground. The exercise seemed designed to disorient the prisoners and discourage escape. Surely it had nothing to do with casting confusion to possible rescue teams. With guerrillas in control of almost half the country, a Rambo mission was out of the question. Even if these particular kidnappers weren’t formally aligned with any Marxist group, the army would still have to beat back more organized leftist forces like FARC and the National Liberation Army, and then literally climb a mountain to free Matthew and the others. Fat chance.

The captives numbered six now, counting Matthew and the Colombian daddy and mommy that Joaquin had bargained away from FARC to help prevent his escape. Two nights ago Joaquin and his team had joined camp with another band of rebels who had three other prisoners in custody. Those guerrillas were apparently part of Joaquin’s group, as they all obeyed his orders. Initially, Matthew hadn’t known what to make of it. During a bathroom break it was again Emilio, the Colombian daddy, who’d explained.

“It’s their division of labor,” he said. “One team specializes in the abductions. The other focuses on housing and guarding the prisoners.”

The three new prisoners, Matthew learned, weren’t new at all. A Swede and a Canadian were in their second month of captivity, having been abducted together from a mining project near the Ecuadorian border. The Canadian was from Saskatchewan, a strapping, confident cowboy at heart who acted more like a Texan. The Swede was more reserved, more bitter about the whole experience. So far the only thing he’d told Matthew about himself was his name, Jan Lunden. The body language, however, seemed to place blame on the Canadian for the mess they’d gotten into.

The third new prisoner was another Colombian, a banker who’d simply driven down the wrong road on his way to work one day-sixteen months ago. Time in captivity had taken its toll on him. Pants that had once fit him now gathered around his waist. A thick beard covered his face, hiding the sunken cheeks. His skin was dry and flaky, the worry lines on his forehead seemingly carved in wax. His long hair was tangled in knots, and a strange shade of orange. Hair wasn’t naturally that color on any human being. It had to have been malnutrition.

Most shocking of all, he was just thirty-eight years old.

His appearance had left Matthew speechless, which was just as well, since the prisoners were rarely allowed to speak to one another. That wasn’t Joaquin’s rule. The edict had come from Aida, a thirteen-year-old girl who seemed overeager to use her M-1.30-caliber carbine. Aida was the low-level guerrilla designated to deliver meals to the prisoners, usually potatoes and a few beans. Routinely, she’d drop most of it on the ground while serving, feigning clumsiness. It was always intentional. She clearly relished her power over the captives, and she asserted it by spilling their small rations of food and giggling about it or by enforcing stupid rules, like no talking during meals. Matthew surmised that females, especially young girls, were low in the pecking order in Joaquin’s group. Aida took it out on the prisoners, the only ones lower than she was.

For the third consecutive evening, the six ate in silence under Aida’s watch. A total of six guards were on duty, but everyone except Aida was busy trying to see who, with a flick of the wrist, could stick a hunting knife into a tree stump from four meters away. One of their buddies was on the other side of the stump sleeping off a hangover. It was typical behavior from these fools. Knives, guns, and grenades were all sources of amusement, all handled like toys without regard for anyone’s safety.

“?Idiotas!” shouted Sleeping Beauty, adding a stream of choice words. An errant throw had landed the knife in his lap. Luckily it was the blunt end and not the blade. The others laughed as he stormed off to the hut.

The hut was where the guerrillas slept, men and women together. It was possible that the guerrillas had built it themselves, but Matthew thought it more likely that it had been taken by force from mountain peasants. With mud walls and a crude thatched roof, it looked like something a primitive Indian tribe might have constructed ten thousand years ago. It didn’t even have a chimney. A fire burned constantly to combat the cold mountain air, and smoke escaped through an open window. It reminded Matthew of the little shacks the Miskito Indians built along the Nicaraguan coast to smoke fish, only the Miskitos were smart enough not to smoke themselves.

The guards were still laughing, passing around a bottle. It was practically a nightly ritual, parties at sunset. A few swigs of rum, followed by basuco, a cheap and plentiful by-product of cocaine processing that would make them crazy out of their minds.

One of the male guerrillas caught Aida’s eye from across the camp. She smiled in return, interested. She rose from the fallen log she’d been sitting on, losing the smile as she addressed her prisoners.

“Nobody goes anywhere,” she said in Spanish. “And no talking.” She turned and headed for the party, soon out of earshot.

“Can you fetch me a bourbon and Coke, honey?” said the Canadian. His name was Will.

Matthew looked up from his plate of cold beans. Fortunately, Aida hadn’t heard Will’s crack, as she had absolutely no sense of humor.

The six were seated on the ground in a circle around a small pile of black, extinguished coals, the remnants of burned chuzco firewood. The campfire had burned out an hour before, not to be relit till the morning. Earlier, Matthew and Will had spent two hours gathering wood while three guerrillas almost forty years younger stood guard and watched. The prisoners carried back plenty, but every stick of it had gone to the guerrillas’ fire in the smoky hut.

The prisoners ate in silence. The Colombian woman was shivering from the cold. Matthew, too, was feeling a chill. A cool breeze was blowing down from the surrounding peaks, and the inescapable dampness only made it seem colder. A huge mosquito landed on Matthew’s forehead, and he squished it. The mosquitoes in the Andes were the biggest he’d ever seen, but they were slow-moving and didn’t seem to bite. Too cold for them, too.

Twenty meters away, the guerrillas were getting louder and drunker. Two of them had a hand on Aida’s ass, one on each side.

“Any bets on which one she blows tonight?” said Will.

No one answered.

“What’s the matter with you people? You hard of hearing?”

“Quiet,” said Jan, the Swede.

“Oh, so you can talk?”

“Quiet, you fool. Don’t make trouble for us while the guerrillas are drinking.”

“Aw, this is the biggest group of pussies I’ve ever met in my whole life.” He glanced at the Colombian woman, as if to confirm that she didn’t understand his English slang. Then he looked at Matthew and said, “With the possible exception of the fisherman here.”

“Nobody here’s a pussy,” said Matthew.

“That’s not what you told me in the woods.”

“I didn’t tell you anything in the woods.”

He smiled. “Got you there, didn’t I, fisherman? Just a little joke. We’re all going to go crazy if we don’t have a few jokes.”

Jan said, “Just shut up, will you please?”

The sudden crack of gunshot echoed in the valley. Another round followed, then two more. The guerrillas shouted, as if it were New Year’s Eve. The drugs were kicking in. That was a sure bet when they started discharging their weapons like drunken cowboys.

“Crazy bastards,” said Will. He was speaking loudly, not caring who heard him.

Jan glared. “I’m asking you nicely for the last time. Quiet, before you get us all in trouble.”

“What are they going to do? Take away a couple of beans from our dinner plate?”

“They can do plenty.” This time it was Emilio, the voice of experience-the one who’d been kidnapped before. “Trust me, so far we’ve been well treated. It can get much worse.”

“Stop talking,” said Jan. “All of you.”

“Why should we?” said Will. “Because Aida the little bitch says so?”

“No,” said Matthew. “Because she has a gun.”

Across the camp, the two guerrillas who had laid claim to Aida’s ass were now arguing with each other, probably about whose turn it was tonight. These were the times that made Matthew most nervous, when teenage boys with raging hormones, automatic weapons, and basuco racing through their brains started arguing over a girl.

Will glanced at the Swede and muttered, “They’re a bunch of punks. You gotta stand up to them.”

Matthew intervened. “Easy, cowboy. Now’s not the time to set them off.”

“I guess I pegged you wrong, fisherman. Thought you had balls.”

“I also have brains.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“I’m not calling you anything.”

“Because if you want to see stupid, don’t look my way. At least I wasn’t dumb enough to write a letter home just because Joaquin tells me to.”

Matthew did a double take. Joaquin had pulled him into the hut to write the note, so he wasn’t sure how Will knew. “There’s nothing stupid about putting my family at ease.”

“Fool. You’re helping the guerrillas, not your wife. The only purpose of that letter was to prove that you’re still alive, so the guerrillas can demand a big, fat ransom.”

The Swede chimed in. “What were we supposed to do, refuse?”

“Yes. I did.”

“They asked you to write a note to your wife, and you said no?”

“Damn right. My wife and I had an understanding before I came to this country. If some Commie-ass rebels kidnap me, don’t pay the bastards a thing. No negotiation, no cooperation. Period.”

Behind them there was a sudden stir in the bushes. Out walked Joaquin and two other armed guerrillas. They had been eavesdropping on the prisoners, as on that first day when Joaquin had hidden himself in the field to see if Matthew would try to escape.

He stopped at the edge of their circle, then spoke to the Canadian. “Commie-ass rebels, eh?”

Will said nothing.

“Get up,” said Joaquin.

Will looked around for support, but the others avoided eye contact. There was nothing anyone could do. Slowly he rose.

“Your attitude needs improvement,” said Joaquin.

“I’ll work on it,” said Will.

“I’ll help you,” Joaquin said through a thin, sardonic smile. At his command, two guards rounded up the prisoners at gunpoint and followed Joaquin across the camp. They stopped at the stump where the guerrillas had been playing stick-’em with the knife. The blade was still stuck in the bark. Joaquin yanked it out, then called the other guerrillas over from their party. Aida had the giggles, and two others were staggering. Each of them had a strained expression, as if struggling not to look too intoxicated in front of their leader. They gathered on one side of the stump, the prisoners on the other.

“Put your hand here,” Joaquin told Will, pointing toward the stump.

Will didn’t budge. Matthew wasn’t sure if he was refusing to move or simply frozen with fear. It didn’t matter. With a nod from Joaquin, two guerrillas grabbed Will, brought him forward, and placed his right hand on the stump, palm down.

“Don’t do this,” said Will, his voice shaking.

“Spread the fingers,” said Joaquin.

“Please. I’m begging you.”

“Spread them!” Joaquin shouted. “Or you lose all of them.”

Will opened his hand, but not quickly enough. With a jerk, Joaquin forced the fingers as far apart as possible.

“This isn’t necessary,” said Will, his voice growing tighter. “I’ll write that letter to my wife, if that’s what you want.”

“Of course you will,” said Joaquin. “With your other hand.”

Standing and watching, Matthew knew that one man couldn’t stop this. Still, he couldn’t stand silent. It was a long shot, but he could think of only one possible angle in a country where 95 percent of the population was raised Roman Catholic.

“God is watching!” he shouted in Spanish.

The drunks snickered, but Joaquin didn’t. Just for an instant, Matthew saw a flicker of hesitation in Joaquin’s eye. It seemed to be saying that he wasn’t of the same ilk as the other guerrillas, that maybe he’d been raised with a conscience and had somewhere along the line taken a wrong turn. A very wrong turn.

Joaquin shouted back, “Shut up or you’re next!”

He held the knife vertically, grabbing the handle like a ski pole and placing the tip between the prisoner’s outstretched thumb and index finger. Slowly he raised it and brought it down carefully between the index and middle finger. Up again, then down between the middle and ring finger. Up and down once more between the ring and pinkie finger, and then he started all over again between the thumb and index finger, a little faster this time, counting as he moved from one to the next.

“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro.”

The guerrillas watched, riveted. Most of the prisoners looked past the spectacle. All was silent, save for the tapping. With each move the tip of the blade tapped against the stump, matching the rhythm of his count.

“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro.” Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Joaquin’s face strained with concentration. His eyes grew wider. The pace quickened. The shiny blade moved from one position to the next faster and faster still. The tapping became like machine-gun fire, the counting like one long word. A wave of panic washed over Will’s face as the guerrilla’s motion built to what seemed like a frenzy-back and forth, thumb to pinkie, then back again. The knife was a blur, the tapping nonstop, the rhythm ever escalating.

Until finally a deafening shout pierced the silence.

Matthew looked away, then back. The Canadian was rigid, motionless. It wasn’t Will who’d screamed. It was Joaquin. He let out a second one, even louder, as he thrust his unbloodied knife triumphantly into the air. It was a game for him, and he’d won. His steady hand and coordination had prevailed. The Canadian’s fingers had been spared, untouched by metal.

Will was trembling. “Gracias,” was all he could say, thankful still to have all his digits.

“Now you try,” said Joaquin.

Will looked around, not sure who Joaquin was talking to. “You mean me?”

“Yes. You.” Joaquin handed over the knife. Two guerrillas aimed their assault rifles at Will’s chest, just in case he had any ideas.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Exactly what I just did.”

“I can’t.”

Joaquin removed a nine-millimeter pistol from his holster. “You will,” he said flatly, aiming at Will’s forehead.

Will swallowed hard and acquiesced. He spread his fingers once more atop the stump.

Matthew watched with his heart in his throat. Will grasped the knife firmly, though even from fifteen feet away Matthew could see it shaking in his hand. It seemed bigger, more unwieldy for Will.

He started where Joaquin had started, with the tip of the long blade between his thumb and index finger. He left it there for several long, silent moments, afraid to move.

Finally, Joaquin cocked his pistol. “Begin.”

Will drew a deep breath, then slowly moved the blade from the first position to the second, then to the third, the fourth.

“Rapido,” said Joaquin.

He picked up the pace. The tapping continued. A rhythm was building, though not as steady as Joaquin’s. Will’s eyes bulged, the intense concentration broken only by intermittent flashes of pain from the slightest of scratches. The first nick was to the ring finger, followed by several clean taps, then another glancing blow to a knuckle. Little white and crimson specks of flesh were starting to collect on the blade.

“Count it off!”

“One, two, three, four.”

“?Rapido!”

Will was too breathless to count. Joaquin pressed the barrel of his pistol to the prisoner’s forehead. “?Mas rapido!”

Will turned it up a notch, his hand a blur, the tapping incessant, his breathing erratic, until he could maintain the pace no longer.

The tapping ended with a thud-then a bloodcurdling scream. It rolled across the mountain peaks, down into the valley, then returned in what seemed like three or four waves in a long, chilling echo. The knife was protruding from his hand, having made short work of the tender webbing between his thumb and index finger.

Joaquin grabbed the handle and held the blade in place, so that Will couldn’t remove it from the wound without ripping the skin.

“Get it out!”

Joaquin held the blade firm. Then in one quick motion he jerked it down like a mini-guillotine, adding a little hop to bring down the full force of his body weight. The bone snapped with a loud pop. Another scream followed, this one even worse than the other.

The severed thumb rolled off the stump and landed at Joaquin’s feet.

Even the guerrillas were stunned silent. Matthew started forward to help, but Aida trained her rifle on him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Por favor. He’ll bleed to death!”

The stump was soaked in red. Will was holding his bloody hand between his legs. “You animal! You didn’t have to do this to me!”

Joaquin gave a signal to Aida, who then allowed Matthew to pass. Another guerrilla tossed him an old gray scarf, which Matthew wrapped around Will’s hand to stop the bleeding. The hand felt cold. His whole body was like ice, his face pale.

“He’s going into shock!” said Matthew. “We need more blankets.”

No one moved.

“If he dies, you get no ransom,” said Matthew.

Joaquin seemed torn, as if giving the man a blanket might undermine the point he’d been trying to make in front of the prisoners. But Matthew could see in his face that his own point about the ransom was hitting home. Joaquin finally gave the order, and one of the guards disappeared into the hut for some blankets.

Will was shivering in Matthew’s arms. “It’s going to be all right,” Matthew said quietly. “Just hang in there.”

Joaquin took the knife and gave it one last flick. The tip stuck perfectly into the tree stump. Then he picked up the severed thumb and held it up for the other prisoners to see.

“No need for Don William to write a letter now,” said Joaquin. “His wife gets this.”

The prisoners stood silent. Finally the young mother in the group began to weep. Joaquin started to walk away, then stopped and addressed the group in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

“Soon I’ll ask each of you to write another letter home. Not just to prove you’re alive but, more important, to urge your families to pay your ransom. Write it. Write it with conviction.” He turned away and headed for the smoky hut.

Matthew kept pressure on Will’s bloody stump to control the bleeding. Part of him wanted to grab the knife and tell Joaquin that the Rey family would never pay either, but this man was evil, perhaps even psychopathic. There was no telling what he’d do to keep his prisoners in line, to squeeze a ransom out of their families.

Thank God I bought insurance, he thought as the Canadian groaned once more in pain, his body growing colder in Matthew’s arms.