A King's ransom

daylight. Matthew peered through it and watched as Joaquin disappeared into the cottage. A noise from behind gave him a start. Rats, he feared, or worse.

“Hola,” a man said.

Slowly, Matthew’s eyes adjusted. The man was one of four seated on the floor, far in the corner. With all the shadows, Matthew hadn’t noticed them upon entering.

“Hola,” said Matthew.

“Are you the American?”

Just one word, and the man could tell. His friend Hector had been right: He was Juanito Carson. “Yes. Who are you?”

“An unlucky son of a bitch. Just like you.”

The man rose and said, “Emilio Sanchez. From Bogota.”

Matthew shook his hand and introduced himself. “Who are these people?”

He took Matthew to the door. Together, they peered out. “See the insignia on the left sleeve?” he said, pointing toward the guard outside the door.

Matthew squinted to make out what appeared to be a dragon holding a sword of equal height. “Yes, I see it.”

“That’s FARC.”

His heart sank. He’d heard of FARC, and what he’d heard wasn’t good. “I didn’t notice that insignia on the guerrillas who kidnapped me.”

“That’s because those guys aren’t FARC.”

“What are they?”

“Worse than FARC.”

Matthew almost scoffed. “What could be worse?”

“You have to understand, kidnapping has become like an industry in this country, especially for groups like FARC. It’s gotten to the point where they basically subcontract their work. They hire negotiators, intermediaries, people to house the kidnap victims, even people who pull off the abductions. All these extras might have nothing to do with FARC. They’re just part of the industry.”

“How do you know so much?”

“This is the second time I’ve been kidnapped in three years.”

“Damn. That’s awful.”

“Tell me about it. But you learn. Some guards can be a good source of information if you talk to them the right way. That’s how I got the goods on you. I know all about Joaquin, too.”

“My kidnapper?”

“Si. I saw him prancing around the cottage earlier this morning when I had my bathroom break. He was strutting like a big shot, so I asked the guards about him. They said he was bringing in an American.”

“Who is he?”

“Who knows? Just some ex-guerrilla who’s decided he can make good money selling kidnap victims to FARC.”

“I’m being sold to FARC?”

“He’s trying to sell you. The guards told me that he was asking for too much money. I guess he decided to come back with you live and in person, give it one more try. But if he doesn’t strike a deal, you may be stuck with him.”

Matthew looked around the hut. The other three men were silent, not part of the conversation in English. “Who brought you in? FARC?”

“No. The same group who got you.”

“Joaquin?”

“Not him, personally. His group. The guard tells me he has about twenty followers. Not sure where they’re from. Not even sure they’re all Colombian. Part of his band brought you in. The others pulled a reten outside Cali three days ago.”

“What’s a reten?”

“Roadblock. They just throw some tires in the road, stop any cars that come along. They have a computer with Internet access right on site to run a background check on each person they nab. Anyone who looks like they have money goes in the back of their truck. The others lose their cars and walk home.”

“How many did they take?”

“Six, including me.”

“I only see four here.”

“The women are in the other hut.”

It sickened him that they’d take women, too. He thought of his wife or daughter at the mercy of teenage boys with automatic weapons.

Joaquin stepped out of the cottage. He didn’t look happy as he walked toward the hut. Matthew and Emilio stepped back from the door. It opened, and the guard ordered everyone out. Matthew and the four others stepped into the daylight. The day was overcast, but Emilio and the others who’d been in the hut for hours still had trouble with their eyes. Joaquin walked to the other hut, the same drill. Out walked the women. One looked close to Cathy’s age; the other, about the age of their daughter, Lindsey.

Joaquin and his two men herded the seven prisoners together. Four FARC guerrillas assisted. It seemed to be an unwritten rule that there were always at least as many guards as prisoners. Joaquin spoke to the group in Spanish.

“Welcome to the valley of smiles,” he said.

The group was silent, unamused by his humor. He continued, “Some of you will remain here in the good hands of FARC. Some of you will leave here today. I have only one way to decide who stays and who goes.”

He reached inside his knapsack and removed two billfolds. He opened one and held it up so all could see. It was a picture of a young boy. “Who is this?”

“My son,” said Emilio.

“How old?”

“Six.”

“Come forward.”

Emilio stepped up, apart from the group. The younger woman started crying. “Please, please, senor. I have children, too.”

Joaquin pulled another billfold from the pack and displayed it the same way, so that all could see. There were two children in this photograph, a boy and girl. “How old?” he asked.

“Rafael is two,” she said, her voice cracking. “Alicia is four.”

“Come here.”

“Thank you, oh, thank you,” she said.

With just a signal from Joaquin, the FARC guards herded the three remaining men and one woman back into the huts. They went quietly, though the expressions on their tired faces screamed with despair. The young mother was still crying and thanking Joaquin, even kissing his hand, as if he were the pope. She obviously thought they were going home.

Matthew could only assume that Joaquin had been unable to persuade FARC to pay the high price he wanted for the American. But that didn’t explain why Emilio and the young mother had been segregated from the group along with him. Could this be some kind of humanitarian gesture? Maybe they somehow knew that his wife was pregnant, and they’d pulled out the mother, the father, and the father-to-be for special consideration.

“We have a long journey ahead of us,” said Joaquin, still speaking in Spanish.

Then he looked at Matthew and spoke in English. “And these are the rules. Don Matthew, do not try to escape. If you try to escape and are captured, we kill the daddy. If you try to escape and succeed, we kill the mommy. And I assure you, it won’t be quick and painless.”

He patted the large knife attached to his belt, then reverted to Spanish. “Any questions?”

Emilio said nothing, having understood it all. The young woman looked confused, as she spoke only Spanish. Matthew was angry, but he felt foolish, too, for even having considered the possibility that this animal was capable