A King's ransom

3

Shortcuts shaved about twenty minutes off my trip. I knew all the winding back streets, having logged thousands of miles as a kid on a bicycle in the area known as the golden triangle in Coral Gables. My parents still lived in the same colonial-style house on Toledo Street that the family had moved to when I was eight and my sister was five. It was all so familiar, with one exception: the unmarked vehicle parked in the driveway. It was a reality jolt, my first visual confirmation that Dad was really in trouble and that the FBI was truly involved.

I parked my Jeep on the street and hurried up the sidewalk. Through the front window I saw my mother seated on the edge of the living room couch. A man was seated in the armchair, his back to the window. I entered quickly without a knock, then halted in the foyer. My mother rose, and we locked eyes. She said nothing, but the expression said it all. I went to her and held her. She was heavy in my arms, sobbing. Finally she broke away to dab her eyes with a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “I’m being so rude. Nick, this is Agent Lester Nettles from the FBI.”

Nettles rose but didn’t smile, almost too somber even for an occasion as serious as this one. He was well groomed, handsome, very professional-looking. He struck me as the African-American version of the quintessential G-man portrayed on those old television shows back when the FBI seemed to be comprised entirely of white ex-Marines. We shook hands, dispensing with the formalities as I got right to the point.

“Is my father okay?”

“We believe he’s alive.”

“What happened?”

He finished off the last swallow of coffee my mother had brought him, then continued. “It appears that three fishing boats belonging to your father’s company were overtaken by force while in port in Colombia. Three crew members were shot and killed. Three others jumped in the harbor and swam for their lives. One is still missing. Two have been recovered, the only witnesses so far.”

“Do any of them know what happened to my father?”

“No one’s a hundred percent sure. They all say that the gunmen seemed to want to take your father alive. But there was a lot of gunfire exchanged.”

“That doesn’t mean he was hit. He could have escaped, right?”

Nettles was slow to respond. Too slow. My mother shuddered, realizing that there were only two realistic possibilities, neither of them pretty.

“For now,” said Nettles, “we’re assuming an abduction.”

“Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to? Is the FBI doing an investigation?”

“No. The only information the FBI has so far is through intelligence bulletins from the State Department.”

“That’s not too reassuring. I just called the U.S. embassy in Colombia on my way over here, and they weren’t very forthcoming. I’m not sure what to make of that.”

Nettles glanced at my mother, then at me. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay? But the primary interest of the State Department is foreign policy. Most American families who go through this ordeal are surprised to find that the one government agency that puts the interests of the victim first is the FBI.”

“Well, then, thank God you’re here,” said Mom.

Nettles seemed to enjoy the praise, but if we were going to get all kissy-face, I decided to push for extra information-like the things the embassy had told me were for the government’s eyes only. “At least now we have someone who can tell us what’s in the State Department’s intelligence bulletins.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked cautiously.

“For starters, who took my father?”

“That’s not clear yet. One of the attackers was killed in the skirmish. According to the local police, he was dressed as one of the guerrilla groups that operate in Colombia. Combat fatigues, the whole getup. But it could also be someone who was trying to make it look like the work of guerrillas. We can’t rule out common criminals or even one of the paramilitary organizations.”

“Excuse me,” Mom interrupted. “Are you saying my husband may have been kidnapped by the Colombian military?”

“Quite the opposite. The Colombian Army has been at war with both right-wing and left-wing groups for years. The Marxists are the guerrillas. The right wing is paramilitary.”

“Why would they want my dad?”

“They don’t. They want your money. You should expect a ransom demand to come by mail or international courier service very soon.”

I stepped toward the window, not quite believing this. “You’re saying that some Marxist group over a thousand miles away killed half my dad’s crew, kidnapped my dad, went to all this trouble, just to squeeze a little money out of the Rey family from Coral Gables?”

“First of all, it won’t be a little money. They usually have inflated ideas about the wealth of American families.”

“How inflated?”

“It’s best not to speculate about these things. Whatever the demand is, it’s negotiable.”

“Negotiable?” I said, almost scoffing. “We’re talking about my dad, not a used car.”

“Trust me, if you decide you have no choice but to pay a ransom, you still negotiate. It’s sad, but kidnapping has turned into a big business worldwide, and in Colombia it’s literally out of control. Two hundred a month, at least.”

“My God, it’s like some kind of a mill.”

“A money mill, to be exact. Hundreds of millions of dollars in ransom every year. These groups would like the world to think that they’re politically motivated, but they’re mostly thugs looking for money to bankroll drug labs and other criminal activity.”

That last remark struck me, especially coming from an FBI agent. “So if we pay a ransom, we’re dumping cash into some criminal’s war chest.”

“In a broad sense, yes.”

“And the FBI doesn’t have a problem with that?”

“We’re not thrilled about it. For years we had a no-concessions policy in dealing with international kidnappers. But the more progressive view in the bureau these days is that if the family wants to pay a ransom, we don’t stand in their way.”

“What if we just can’t come up with the money?”

“If you’re asking whether the U.S. government will pay the ransom or even lend you the money, the answer is no.”

“So then what happens?”

With the subtle arching of an eyebrow he seemed to be signaling that it was best not to answer that question in front of my mother.

“Stupid question,” I said, backtracking. “Of course we’ll get the money.”

Mom asked, “What happens next, Mr. Nettles?”

“There’s a lot involved in an international kidnapping,” said Nettles. “Not the least of which are jurisdictional issues between Colombia and the U.S., between the FBI and other U.S. agencies, between the Colombian police and the Colombian Army.”

“I think my mother and I are in agreement that we don’t want to leave this up to anyone but the FBI.”

“That’s right,” said Mom.

“I hate to inject a dirty word like ‘politics’ into the equation, but certain matters of diplomacy must be resolved before the FBI can officially get involved.”

“What does that mean?”

“The bottom line is that the FBI’s negotiators can’t assist in a case outside the United States until the State Department invites us. As yet, we haven’t been formally invited.”

“This isn’t a wedding. What kind of invitation do you need?”

“It’s not just a formality. The State Department has to respect local autonomy, and they have relationships with the host country that have to be maintained long after the resolution of this kidnapping. They don’t just send in the FBI every time an American gets into trouble.”

“Is there something we can do?” Mom asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Make a list of who you know and call them. I hate to say it, but connections matter. The higher up, the better.”

“I don’t have any connections,” said Mom.

“I’ll work on that,” I said.

“Good,” said Nettles.

I thought for a second, then backtracked. “Except, how am I going to be plying for contacts? Shouldn’t I go to Colombia?”

“My advice is no. You’ll find yourself much more effective here, trying to get your own government moving. You should send someone down to represent the family. Your lawyer, a friend of the family.”

“Guillermo,” my mother said.

“My father’s business partner,” I explained.

Mom said, “He’s going to be in Cartagena tonight. He has to check on the surviving crew members and make arrangements for the ones who passed away. And he’s Nicaraguan. His Spanish is a lot better than yours, Nick.”

“That’s perfect,” said Nettles.

I was a little reluctant. I didn’t really know Guillermo, though it was true that he’d been my father’s partner for over a decade. I glanced at Mom, however, and it was obvious that she didn’t want me to leave her here to deal with the FBI and State Department by herself.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll let Guillermo handle things in Colombia.”

Nettles seemed to approve of the decision. He glanced toward the door, as if it were time to leave. He’d dumped a ton of information on us, and he seemed experienced enough to know that the family needed time to digest it, time alone to grieve. Mom shook his hand and thanked him profusely. I saw him to the door and followed him outside.

“Level with me,” I said as we reached his car in the driveway. “If this is a kidnapping, and the kidnappers are some kind of guerrilla group, what’re the chances of my father coming back alive?”

“Too early to say. There’s so many variables.”

“You must have statistics of some sort.”

“Reliable numbers are hard to come by. The police, the army, the politicians-just about everybody in Colombia has a stake in making the situation seem better than it is.”

“All I want is a general idea, not an answer written in stone.”

He hesitated, then answered. “The most reliable numbers I have are from our legal attache in Bogota. One hundred four kidnap victims murdered from January to June of this year.

But the violence can go in spurts, depending on how the war is going between the rebels and the Colombian Army. If the guerrillas are trying to make a statement, you may see more kidnapping victims murdered.”

“How many more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. The family deserves to know the truth.”

He seemed to be searching for a positive spin. “The truth is, worldwide only about nine or ten percent of kidnapping victims are killed or die in captivity.”

“Only?” I said.

“The flip side is that there’s a ninety percent chance of survival. Pretty good odds.”

“Oh, really? Think of the last ten people you said hello to. Now imagine one of them dead. How good do those odds sound to you now?”

His expression fell, as if he’d never thought of it quite that way.

“We need the FBI on this case,” I said. “Let’s get that State Department invitation.”

He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. I needed to get to work on my list of connections. It was time for me to call on friends in high places.

Now I just had to figure out who the hell they were.