A King's ransom

69

By the time the mass was over, the rain had stopped. We waited outside in the picnic area for the noon telephone call. A South American priest with a cell phone struck me as somehow odd, but I sensed he had it for a very specific reason. Undoubtedly this wasn’t his first kidnapping.

The cell phone was resting on the table between us, Alex and me on one side, Father Balto on the other. I watched without interest as a group of tourists snapped photographs on the observation platform behind the church.

The priest seemed to have something on his mind. Alex asked, “What is it, Father?”

His reluctance was evident, but curiosity won out. “Three million dollars is much money for a ransom. Even half that is much, much more than I’ve ever delivered before.”

“This is not your usual case,” said Alex.

“Your father must be very wealthy.”

“He’s very blessed.” I preferred to sidestep the whole insurance nightmare, though I had a sense that he’d know soon enough. If Joaquin would ever call.

It was a few minutes past noon, and I was getting nervous. I checked to make sure the telephone was on. “Father, are you sure Joaquin said noon?”

“He’ll call. Don’t worry.”

“And you’re certain he said he’d phone you? He talks to us only by radio.”

“That’s because a cell phone isn’t an option when you’re calling from the jungle.”

“So this means they’re in the city now?”

“Definitely.”

I asked Alex, “Do you think they ever were in the jungle, or were they just using the radio to make us think that they were?”

“You never know. A straight criminal element like this, as opposed to one of the Marxist groups, is more often an urban operation. Unless they have some kind of working arrangement with FARC or ELN.”

“So this is good,” I said. “They’re back to where they feel most comfortable.”

“I suppose.” Her voice was flat, as if she sensed that I was reaching too far for anything positive.

The phone rang, and I nearly jumped. The priest answered and gave me a nod, confirming that it was Joaquin. He spoke in such rapid Spanish that I didn’t catch every word, but I detected considerable pleading in his tone. His hand was shaking as he handed the telephone to Alex.

“God be with you,” he said.

Alex held the phone just far enough away from her ear so that I could lean close and listen. “Good afternoon,” she said amicably.

“Where’s the money?” he replied.

“In a very safe place. We have one and a half million dollars for you.”

“Congratulations. That’s just enough to get him back dead.”

That made my stomach flop. Alex said, “Listen to me, Joaquin. This is a good-faith offer.”

“I’m tired of this stalling. I don’t know if it’s you or the insurance company, but either way I’ve had enough.”

“You have no idea what’s going on with the insurance.”

“I know it’s a three-million-dollar policy. That’s all I need to know.”

“It’s blown up in everybody’s face. Jaime’s dead.”

“What?”

“He killed himself. It’s over. The family was able to get you one and a half million. It’s all you’re going to get.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Don’t be a pig. It’s all yours, all one and a half million. There’s no kickbacks, no one you have to split it with. I’m serious. Jaime’s dead.”

There was silence on the line. Finally he said, “If you’re lying to me. .”

“I’m not lying. Get on the Internet, check yesterday’s Miami Herald.”

Again he paused. I was biting my lip, not sure that Alex had played the right card by dragging Jaime’s death into this.

“All right,” he said. “Give the money to the priest. If Jaime’s really dead, I’ll let the prisoner go.”

“No.”

“No?” he said, his voice rising with anger.

“We’re doing a simultaneous exchange.”

“Never.”

“Then you don’t get your money.”

“Then I kill the prisoner.”

“Then I repeat, you don’t get your money.”

“This was not the deal, damn you!”

“It’s the deal now.”

“Then there’s no deal!”

“Come on-”

“No, it’s over! This guy has been trouble from the beginning. That was my fifteen-year-old cousin that got shot and killed by his Nicaraguan piece-of-trash crewman in Cartagena. I’ve had to watch him constantly, feed him, clothe him, put up with his disrespect. I couldn’t get a fair price from FARC, couldn’t get half a fair price from ELN, and now you want to shortchange me? Forget it. I’m done. We’re done. He’s done.”

“Wait,” Alex said, but the line clicked.

I’d heard it all, my ear practically pressed against hers. I pulled away slowly, the sound of dead air from the telephone humming between us.