A King's ransom

PART TWO
21

I reached Miami International Airport at 6:00 A.M., two hours before my flight.

Even if I’d known how to contact the kidnappers, I wouldn’t have dared to reschedule our first meeting. I’d done my homework, I was prepared psychologically, and logistically everything was set. With or without insurance, I was going to Bogota. End of story.

I’d represented enough insurance companies to know that I wasn’t about to resolve a coverage dispute overnight, so I didn’t even try. I did call Duncan Fitz, however, and told him exactly what Alex had said. He seemed like the right person to get things moving in my absence. Since Quality Insurance was a major client of Cool Cash, he couldn’t be adversarial and browbeat them into reversing their position. But Duncan felt confident that he could at least make an inquiry and elicit a more detailed explanation of their about-face. We agreed to powwow when I got back and figure out where I stood.

I checked in at the crowded international terminal, then found a seat and killed some time reading a Spanish-language magazine called Semana. One of the things Alex had told me was to blend into the Colombian culture while traveling. I left my Sports Illustrated and John Grisham novels at home. Another piece of advice was never to let go of my travel bag. I kept it right at my side. Interestingly, the baggage tag was still on it from the last time I’d checked it on a flight home from La Guardia to Miami International. “MIA” the airport abbreviation read, which in this context struck me as ironic. I wondered if I would end up MIA-missing in action.

The bag was filled with maps and travel books, things I didn’t dare pull out in public and effectively announce to the world that I was a naive American tourist traveling alone to Colombia. I’d already read all of them several times anyway. The travel hype made Bogota sound vaguely like Miami, sophisticated in some segments, crude and violent in others. It boasted futuristic architecture and old colonial churches, world-class museums that showcased everything from pre-Columbian to contemporary art. It was a vibrant mix of all things Colombian-culturally diverse, an intellectual center, its busy streets a forum for the daily clash between rich and poor, pack mules and Porsches. There was no shortage of great restaurants either. It seemed like a city I might have actually liked to visit under different circumstances, save for one glaring statistic: Every hour someone got killed. Some deaths were accidents, but as many as eight a day were homicides-more, if you counted at least a portion of the twenty-five hundred annual deaths from “unknown causes.” The confirmed homicides alone added up to an annual murder rate higher than that in Miami, New York, Atlanta, and Los Angeles combined.

I turned my thoughts back to restaurants.

Forty minutes before the flight, the airline made the first boarding call. First class only. The entire waiting area started toward the gate. That was another tidbit Alex had shared.

“Don’t expect South Americans to queue up like a bunch of Brits,” she’d said. “Wherever you are-airport, movie theater, bus station-act like you’re on the Titanic and they’re loading the last lifeboat.”

When in Rome, I figured. I joined the mob at least twenty minutes before my row would officially be called for boarding.

Through the crowd, an attractive Latina woman caught my eye. She was standing at the check-in counter, her travel bag draped over her shoulder. She wore a stylish, short-waisted leather jacket and jeans that fit extremely well. Her face was partially hidden beneath the broad rim of a felt hat, but what little I caught of her profile was promising. She finished with the airline attendant, then turned and shot me a discreet sideways glance. I definitely wasn’t looking for it, but even my travel book had mentioned that there was more to Colombia’s beauty than just countryside.

She started walking toward me, pushing through the semblance of a line, and then it registered. The long hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, and I hadn’t recognized her.

“Alex?” I said.

“Surprise.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m going with you.”

Wow, I thought. Duncan works fast. “What happened?”

Clearly she didn’t want to talk in the crowd. Neither did I. We gave up our places in line and moved to an open space near the finger-smudged window that looked out on our Boeing 767.

“Did the insurance company change its tune?” I asked.

“No. They’re denying your claim. I had a long chat with their general counsel after you and I talked yesterday evening. My sense is that they’re never going to change their minds.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I think you’re getting a raw deal.”

“I’m glad someone sees it my way.”

“ It’s hard for me, as a professional to see it any other way. It’s unethical what the insurance company did to you, pulling out just hours before your flight leaves for Colombia.”

“How are you handling this with them?”

“I still need to think that through. I figured I’d get you through this first go-round with the kidnappers and then sort things out.”

“I’d like to be able to pay your normal fee, but now that I’m without insurance, I’m worried about how I’m going to cover the ransom.”

“For now let’s just say this trip is a freebie. We’ll figure out something. Maybe you can give me some free legal services someday.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. All I ask is two things. One, from this moment forward, you don’t utter the word ‘insurance.’ ”

“Done. What’s the second thing?”

She smiled wryly. “Try not to embarrass me in my home country.”

“How would I embarrass you?”

“You’re a gringo. You’ll find a way. Just remember the advice I gave you yesterday: No se puede dar papaya.”

“I looked that up in my phrase dictionary, and it still doesn’t make sense to me. It means, ‘You can’t give papaya.’ ”

She shook her head, still smiling. “It’s an expression, genius. It means, ‘Don’t let your guard down, don’t give anyone a chance to take advantage of you.’ ”

“Good advice.”

“Come on. Let’s get back in line.”

We started back toward the mob. Even the pushing and shoving at the gate seemed to be less of a hassle with Alex on my team. My spirits were up, and with the challenges ahead, I sorely needed the boost.

I looked at her and said, “I’m glad you’re back on the case.”

“Well, you do need a negotiator.”

“I know I do. And I’m glad it’s you. I think my father would like you.”

“I think I’d like him, too.”

“Because of all those great things I told you about him?”

“No. Because the apple usually doesn’t fall far from the tree. And I happen to think his son is a pretty great guy.”

“Thank you.”

“For a lawyer.”

“Ouch.”

“You’re welcome.”

She gave me a little wink, then nudged me forward. Together we pushed toward the gate. Just me, Alex, and two hundred Colombians.