A King's ransom

49

We reached the Hotel Los Andes at ten minutes before three. No need to ask where the shared bathrooms were. I just followed my nose, literally.

The hotel was in the colonial barrio of La Candelaria, the oldest part of downtown Bogota. The heart of the area was Plaza de Bolivar, the original town center. Though the square itself was surrounded mostly by government buildings and modern architecture, the neighborhood to the east retained many old houses from the Spanish era. Some were restored and brightly painted, others dilapidated and on the verge of falling down. Scores had been converted into budget hotels that were popular with foreign travelers. Hotel Los Andes was on the lowest end of the spectrum. It hadn’t seen a coat of paint in decades, and chunks of stucco had fallen from the walls. The roof was sagging, and those windows that weren’t boarded up were covered with rusty iron security bars. A handwritten sign on the door offered rooms for the Colombian equivalent of about three American dollars a night. I didn’t need to go inside to tell that it would have been a rip-off at any price.

We followed a narrow side street to the hotel’s rear entrance. I carried the cash in a nylon backpack. Alex was at my side, armed with a concealed SIG-Sauer P 228. Muggings happened every day in this area, but Alex assured me that anyone who made a play for my backpack was in for a nine-millimeter surprise between the eyes.

“You nervous?” she asked.

“Should I be?”

“Just remember what I told you. There’s nothing you can do here today that is going to get your father released. This is all about showing the kidnappers that we can follow instructions. No heroics. Just go inside, get the note, and do exactly what it tells you to do.”

We stopped at the bathroom entrance. Behind us was the restaurant. Clanging kitchen noises filtered through the torn window screens. A sleeping drunk was on the doorstep, snoring. Sewage ran in a little stream from the bathroom to piles of garbage stacked high behind the restaurant. On a warm afternoon like this one, the mixture emitted a sweet, nauseating odor.

“If I don’t come out in five minutes, come in and get me.”

“I was going to give you two,” she said.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I clutched the sack of money and entered the men’s room. As the door slapped shut behind me, the immediate assault on my senses nearly knocked me off my feet. The place smelled like an open sewer. Along one wall was a trough urinal. It was clogged with paper and the scummy yellow-brown runoff from toilets that had overflowed. The wet floor had the same disgusting brown tint of watery feces. The lone sink was cracked and rust-stained. The wall above it showed the painted outline of a mirror that had evidently been stolen. In the back were showers for hotel guests. To my shock, two were actually occupied.

I walked cautiously toward five dirty white stalls. The first one was empty. Behind the closed door of the second I could hear a man struggling, presumably with his bowels. I stopped at the open door to stall number three, the one Joaquin had designated for the drop-off. It had an old-fashioned toilet with a pull chain overhead. There was no toilet seat. The rim was splattered and filthy. Flies buzzed over the unflushed waste that had collected in the bowl.

One thought consumed me. What in the hell am I doing here? It made me realize, however, that I couldn’t possibly imagine the conditions under which my father had been living. In accordance with the kidnappers’ instructions, I closed the door and checked behind the tank.

There I found the envelope. I tore it open immediately. It was written in Spanish, but fortunately I could read my second language better than I could speak it.

“Stacy was seven years old when she drowned,” it read.

I read that first proof-of-life sentence twice, almost in disbelief. This was for real, I realized. My father was alive. I continued to the next paragraph: “Slide the money under the divider to the stall on your left. Say nothing. Information about the release of Matthew Rey will arrive in ninety seconds. If you leave your stall before then, or if anyone follows the money, you will receive no further information.”

To my left was stall number two, the same stall from which I’d heard noises on my way in. With a discreet glance I noticed a pair of feet beneath the divider. The groaner was here to take my money.

My mind raced with thoughts of who this person might be. Alex had told me that kidnappers used “mules” for transactions like these, neighborhood kids who would deliver drugs, pick up ransom money, or do just about anything else for a few pesos. They were extremely reliable. If they screwed up or tried to run off with the loot, their entire family would be slaughtered.

I held my backpack close to my chest, unable to move. I wanted to hop right over the flimsy partition that separated us and ask this stranger where my father was. But it would have been pointless. As Alex had said, the guy was surely a know-nothing mule.

I took a deep breath, leaned over, and slid the backpack underneath to the other stall. The stranger picked it up.

Instantly a wave of conflicting emotions ran through me, from hope that the money would keep my father alive to hatred of these bastards for all the grief they had caused. Somewhere in the mix was the visceral sensation that I’d just been robbed. Even though Alex had talked him down to a hundred thousand dollars, more than half of my entire net worth had just passed to a total stranger beneath the graffiti-covered walls of a bathroom stall.

Alone in the stench, I checked my watch and counted off the seconds until the promised arrival of further information. I heard the stranger’s footsteps as he left, then the slamming of the bathroom door. Ninety seconds passed, and I heard nothing. I waited another fifteen and was beginning to feel scammed. I ran out of the stall and checked the one next to me. There was no sign of the stranger or of any forthcoming information. I raced outside and found Alex.

“Did you see him walk out?”

“Who?”

“The guy with my money.”

“No one came out.”

“I heard a door slam. There must be another door!”

“Nick, don’t try to follow!”

“In ninety seconds we were supposed to receive information about the final exchange. There’s no one here!”

I ran straight to the back. Sure enough, beyond the showers was another exit door. I opened it and froze, struck first by the noise and activity, struck second by the irony. I’d assumed that my money would be laundered. I’d had no idea that the Hotel Los Andes shared bathrooms with a busy Laundromat.

A minute later Alex was standing right behind me. “Just let him go.”

“How perfect,” I said cynically. “People come and go all day long with bundles in their arms. How would anyone know which one was walking out with my money in his basket?”

“I’m sure it’s just a mule. There’s no point in tailing him. In fact, if he delivers the money and says we tried to follow, that’s bad news for your father. We might never do the real exchange.”

“Joaquin promised that the note would have information about my dad’s release. The note said to wait ninety seconds and it would be here. Those sons of bitches gave us nothing.”

“I believe this is what you’re looking for,” she said, holding a yellow sheet of paper. “It was taped to the back of the door.”

I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. I grabbed it and started reading, but I wanted to know the bottom line faster than I could translate. “How much time did they give us to raise the money?”

She averted her eyes, a clear signal that the news was bad.

“A month?” I asked hopefully.

“A week,” she replied.

“That’s impossible. Short of walking into the corporate headquarters of Quality Insurance Company with a gun, I can’t resolve a claim dispute and have three million dollars in a week.”

“All the kidnappers know is that you have a policy worth three million dollars.”

“Then we have to tell them that the insurance company has denied our coverage.”

“They’ll think we’re stonewalling. Or, worse, they’ll decide that your father isn’t worth keeping alive.”

“So what should we do?”

“Next Sunday they expect us to be atop Monserrate for the next radio transmission. Maybe I should go alone and tell them you’re working out a few details. Something minor but believable, so they don’t get concerned. It might buy a little extra time.”

“How long do you think you can string it out?”

“I wish I knew.”

I sensed that she didn’t like her answer any more than I did, but no one had a crystal ball. “God help us,” was all I could say.