it a good one.”
“Stop this right now,” said Alex.
“Are you offering nothing?”
I gave her a hard look, wanting to make sure she knew what she was doing.
She said, “We’ve come to listen to your demand. Not to make an offer.”
“If the family was dealing in good faith, the son would know exactly how much to offer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He knows what his father is worth. I know what his father is worth. It’s just a question of who is going to be the first to spit out the number.”
“We’re listening.”
“No,
“We don’t play guessing games.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” he said sternly.
“Then tell us what you want.”
There was silence on the line. My hands were shaking. Nearly ten seconds passed. I looked helplessly at Alex. I was sure the gun would go off.
“Three million dollars,” he said.
Alex laughed. I snatched the microphone from her hand and covered it so the kidnappers couldn’t hear. “Don’t laugh at him! The crazy son of a bitch is going to shoot my father.”
“I know what I’m doing,” she said as she took it back from me.
The kidnapper said, “Do you think I’m joking?”
“
“That’s our demand.”
“Fine. Here’s our demand. We need proof that Matthew Rey is alive.”
“You get only what you pay for.”
“No. Before we plunk down a cent, we need proof.”
“What do you want?”
I knew what she was going to say. Alex and I had worked this out in Miami. “We want Matthew to answer a question. His son had a dog when he was a child. A golden retriever. What was his name?”
“Okay. We’ll get that.”
“You said Matthew was sitting there with you. Ask him now.”
“Can’t do that.”
Alex covered the microphone and said, “I knew he was bluffing.”
This time I wasn’t so sure she
“Have the answer at our next talk,” she told the kidnapper.
“Easy enough. Same time, same place. Four weeks from today.”
I whispered, but it was still a shriek. “Four weeks!”
She gave me a little wave, as if to convey that the timetable was reasonable. “Four weeks it is.”
“Of course, at that time I will expect you to have a commitment from the family to pay us three million dollars.”
“We’re not going to pay you three million dollars. The family doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“I know with certainty that they do. They’ll pay it, or Matthew Rey is a dead man.”
The radio hissed. We didn’t hear another word.
“He’s gone?” I asked.
“For now.” Alex switched off the radio.
“What do you think?”
“First off, don’t you ever snatch the microphone from my hand while I’m negotiating.”
“Sorry. When you laughed at his demand, I thought for sure he was going to pull the trigger.”
“The way I handled it is the way the game is played. I must have told you a dozen times that most kidnappers settle for ten to fifteen percent of the original demand.”
“I know. This guy just didn’t seem all that open to negotiation.”
For a split second her tough exterior melted, and I saw a look of concern in her eyes. I asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that you may be right.”
“What?”
“You heard how he was talking. The way he stressed that both you and he know your father is worth three million dollars.”
“So you’re saying what? He knows my father bought kidnap-and-ransom insurance?”
“I’m saying more than that. I’m afraid he might know the exact amount of coverage.”
A chill ran right through me. “So my instinct is right? It’s no coincidence that the policy was for three million dollars and he asked for the same amount?”
“It’s possible it’s a coincidence. Three million is a nice round figure, and kidnappers always demand millions for Americans, usually somewhere between one and five.”
“But you don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“I’m reading between the lines, but I think he was telling us that much.”
“My God. What could be worse than a kidnapper who knows we have a three-million-dollar policy and an insurance company that refuses to pay?”
She looked away. She clearly didn’t have an answer for that one. And neither did I.
The morning sun was burning brightly now, but I still felt cold. We packed up the radio and started back down the mountain.
26
I returned to Miami with one priority: resolve the insurance coverage issue.
The situation was touchy. My law firm represented Quality Insurance, the Bermuda company that had written my father’s policy. I knew the realities of life in a big firm. Not even the partners who liked me would dare tell a paying client to do right by Nick Rey or take their big book of business elsewhere. I was Lawyer Number 1,826 in seniority at a firm so riddled with turnover that nameplates were fastened to office doors not with glue or nails but magnets, as if second-year associates were as secure in their position as refrigerator art. My only hope was that just one lawyer with clout would have the backbone to arrange a meeting at which I could at least plead my case to the right set of deaf ears. Duncan Fitz was my best shot.
Before my trip to Bogota, Duncan had promised to make some inquiries with Quality. I followed up first thing Monday, my first day back to work since the kidnapping. I felt guilty about resuming normal activities with my father still in captivity, but my mother encouraged it, and our financial situation required it, especially if we ended up without insurance to pay the ransom and Alex’s expenses. Besides, I could think of no better way to get to the bottom of the insurance issue than to plant myself right in the hallowed halls of the law firm that represented the insurer.
The door to Duncan’s office was open, so I poked my nose inside.
“Got a minute?” I asked.
He looked up from his computer screen and waved me in. “How’d the trip go?”
I closed the door and took a seat in the wing chair facing him. Perched on the corner of his desk, he seemed eager for an update. Over the next few minutes I recapped the details, with a nifty tap dance around any mention of Alex. Since the insurance company had officially pulled her off the case, she didn’t want it known that she was helping me nevertheless.
“Wow,” he said. “Three million dollars. That’s a lot of money.”
