A King's ransom

Tears welled in her eyes. She reached out for me, our first hug ever on the bathroom floor. She wasn’t just holding me; she was holding on to me. I’d never thought of my mother as weak. But if Alex was right-if this ordeal could last twelve months-I honestly wasn’t sure how Mom would deal with it. Especially now.

“We’ll be fine,” I said as we rocked gently in each other’s arms on the cold tile floor. “The whole new family is going to be just fine.”

12

Matthew Rey lay sleeping beneath the makeshift remains of a shoddy old army tent. A cold rain dripped onto his foul- smelling bed, which was nothing more than a dirty blanket stretched atop a pile of corn husks. The canvas roof was so saturated from steady rainfall that it leaked even where there were no holes. It would have been impossible for most people to sleep under these conditions. Matthew slept from exhaustion.

The first night he and his five armed escorts hiked for two hours. The valleys here were savanna, with a broad belt of trees about halfway up the mountain, then more savanna at the mountain crest. All of it was swampy, even the mountainside. Thick grass, clover, and mosses held rainfall like a sponge well into the higher elevations. Soggy ground made for tough going in the moonlight, but the guerrillas seemed determined to evacuate the grassy valley and reach the cover of tall trees before making camp. The next morning they’d risen at dawn and continued deeper into the forest, walking at a healthy clip beneath the canopy of bushy trees and twisted vines. The guerrillas didn’t seem concerned that they were wearing boots and Matthew wasn’t. The higher altitudes brought cooler temperatures, about a drop of three degrees centigrade for each five hundred meters. Matthew had no jacket and was still wearing the short-sleeved shirt in which he’d been captured.

As the sun descended toward the jagged mountaintops, the thinning air turned chilly, though not unbearable. Just before dusk they stopped to make camp, and Matthew was finally given a blanket. The guerrillas made a small fire and ate boiled goat, the one Joaquin had butchered in such cruel fashion. Matthew had only a tin of Vienna sausages and a hot cup of sabayon, a milky drink made from aguardiente, a local firewater that tasted like a bad imitation of French Pernod. They didn’t tell him what it was until after he’d finished, and it was the first alcoholic beverage he’d had in almost fifteen years. It warmed him slightly, but in the fading afterglow of the sunset he had to focus hard on his surroundings to take his mind off his goose bumps. Their camp was near a field of onions intercropped with magnificent blackish- purple plants topped with bright scarlet flowers. In a country that boasts over a hundred and thirty thousand different plant classifications, Matthew couldn’t even hazard a guess. “Amapola,” one of the guerrillas had told him. “Poppy,” said another. The translation belied the beauty. It struck Matthew that few Americans had ever been this close to the raw materials for heroin.

No one had told him exactly where he was, of course. The endless peaks and valleys suggested western Colombia, the most mountainous part of the country. The five-thousand-mile Cordillera de los Andes runs the length of South America, then splits into three ranges in Colombia. Sandwiched between the peaks of Cordillera Occidental, Cordillera Central, and Cordillera Oriental are two great valleys, Valle del Cauca and Valle del Magdalena, whose two rivers run northward until they merge and flow into the Caribbean. Just the sight of moving water had Matthew thinking of possible escape routes, though escape seemed impossible this far from civilization. Last night at their campsite, Matthew looked up through the trees to the vast ocean of stars twinkling overhead. They were so brilliant and plentiful, he had to be hundreds of miles from any city lights. The world was so quiet at this altitude, and the weather changed so quickly. By the time he’d made up his tent and bedding, the stars were gone. Low-hanging clouds had turned the camp pitch-dark, and he slowly became more aware of sounds than sights. The river churned through the valley a thousand feet below, like static on the radio. The gurgling sounds just ten meters from his tent were from a stream of the sweetest, purest water he’d ever tasted. Ten meters in the opposite direction stood a patch of bamboo, the bathroom, from which a strange clicking noise emerged in the darkness. A bird, he assumed. Colombia was full of birds, more species in this one country than in all of North America and Europe combined. The lure had gotten many an unsuspecting bird-watcher kidnapped.

The last sound he’d heard before dozing off to sleep was the patter of raindrops on canvas. It continued until he woke at the crack of dawn the next morning.

“Up,” said one of the guerrillas.

His eyes opened to instant disappointment. The shooting and kidnapping on the boat, the daylong ride in the back of a truck, and the hike through mountains had all seemed like a bad dream. The sight of a girl almost ten years younger than his daughter, armed with an M-1.30-caliber carbine, only confirmed how real it was. She poked him with the barrel.

“Por favor,” said Matthew, pushing the barrel aside. All the guerrillas had the dangerous habit of misusing weapons as pointers and prods.

For Matthew, breakfast was a cold, chewy roll. He ate alone beneath his dripping-wet military canvas. By the time he’d finished, the rain had stopped. The guerrillas started a fire with wood they’d kept dry beneath a canvas tarp that was far superior to the so-called tent they’d given to Matthew. Something was sizzling in a pan over the fire. It didn’t smell very appetizing to Matthew, but he would have preferred it if only because it was hot. They gathered around the fire to eat as Matthew watched from several meters away. He noted that Joaquin, the leader, was not around. A minute later he was coming through the forest, instantly recognizable with his Australian-style hat.

“For you,” he said as he handed Matthew a plastic sack.

Inside were a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a roll of toilet paper, and a bar of soap. Matthew was torn as to whether he should say “Gracias” or “Don’t do me any favors, you murdering pigs.” Showing appreciation toward these thugs wasn’t going to be easy, but they did hold his life in their hands. A rapport on some level was essential to his survival.

“All the comforts of home,” he said. It was as close to “thank you” as he could muster.

“Later. Come with me now.”

Joaquin and two other guerrillas led him back by the same route Joaquin had just taken. They walked for almost fifteen minutes along the edge of the poppy field, then another twenty minutes deep into the forest. Joaquin seemed to know where he was headed, even as the foliage grew thicker. Again the thought of escape crossed Matthew’s mind, but it was quickly dismissed. Even if he could break away, he doubted that he could ever find his way out of this jungle.

Finally he heard voices ahead. In a minute they reached a clearing in the forest. A large cottage stood on stilts in the center. It was constructed of roughly hewn logs and a thatched roof. Several smaller huts were nearby, two with the doors open, three with the doors closed. It was a busy place, like a way station. Almost a hundred men and women in combat fatigues were standing around, sitting on rocks, walking from one place to another. A team of pack mules was hitched behind the cottage, munching hay. Goats picked at the garbage near the latrine.

Joaquin was smiling as he walked into camp with his catch. Matthew once again wanted to deck him, but he was even more incensed by the reaction of the other guerrillas. They whistled, some cheered. He felt like the prize fish on the dock.

“El gringo,” said one of the guerrillas, smiling.

“La mina,” said Joaquin. The name seemed to be sticking. Matthew was the gold mine.

Joaquin led them toward the cottage, slowly, so that he could soak up the praise. He especially enjoyed the adoring glances from guerrillas of the opposite sex. He even removed his hat once and took a bow. The girls-and they were just girls-giggled in response. Joaquin winked. He obviously fancied himself the ladies’ man.

Matthew thought they were headed for the main cottage, but Joaquin led him past the entrance to a smaller hut behind it. Two armed guards were posted outside the door. One of them unlocked it. Joaquin pushed Matthew inside.

Inside it was dark. The floor was dirt, not even flat. The air was thick with a musty odor emitted from a thatched roof that was perpetually rain-soaked. A small rectangular opening in the door was the only source of