I couldn’t deal with Duncan right then. I started back toward my office, then heard my name called as I crossed the main lobby.
“Nick Rey, caller holding.”
It was a page from the operator, which concerned me. The firm’s policy was to refer unanswered calls to the voice=mail system. Pages were only for true emergencies. I took the call at the phone bay off the main lobby. It was my mother, which only heightened my worries. Never did she bother me at work. She sounded awful.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s-” Her voice broke.
I could tell she’d been crying. “Mom, what is it?”
“It’s about your father.”
My heart leaped to my throat. “Is he okay?”
“We don’t know. He’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“He may have been kidnapped.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where?”
“On one of his boats, in Cartagena.”
“Colombia? What was he doing there?”
“No one seems to know anything for sure. It’s all so confusing to me, the things I’m hearing.”
“Who told you this?”
“I went numb when he called. I’m sorry. Maybe you should call him back and speak to him directly.”
“Who, Mom? Who did you talk to?”
“Oh, dear. I’m blanking out. Your father’s business partner in Nicaragua.”
She was getting more scattered by the minute. “Guillermo,” I said.
“Yes, Guillermo. He was trying to be strong, but he sounded so worried.”
Guillermo had survived Nicaragua’s earthquakes, revolutions, and hurricanes. If he was worried, I was worried. But I didn’t dare let Mom pick up on my concern. “Don’t be scared. Everything’s going to be okay, I’m sure.”
“Just come home, please. The FBI will be here any minute.”
“Did you call them?”
“No. Guillermo did.”
“That’s good. Things are moving already.”
“I need you here now. I can’t do this by myself.”
“I’m on my way.”
As I hung up, I noticed my hand shaking. A deep breath calmed my nerves. None of that in front of Mom, I told myself. Then I ran back to my office to grab my car keys.
3
Shortcuts shaved about twenty minutes off my trip. I knew all the winding back streets, having logged thousands of miles as a kid on a bicycle in the area known as the golden triangle in Coral Gables. My parents still lived in the same colonial-style house on Toledo Street that the family had moved to when I was eight and my sister was five. It was all so familiar, with one exception: the unmarked vehicle parked in the driveway. It was a reality jolt, my first visual confirmation that Dad was really in trouble and that the FBI was truly involved.
I parked my Jeep on the street and hurried up the sidewalk. Through the front window I saw my mother seated on the edge of the living room couch. A man was seated in the armchair, his back to the window. I entered quickly without a knock, then halted in the foyer. My mother rose, and we locked eyes. She said nothing, but the expression said it all. I went to her and held her. She was heavy in my arms, sobbing. Finally she broke away to dab her eyes with a tissue.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “I’m being so rude. Nick, this is Agent Lester Nettles from the FBI.”
Nettles rose but didn’t smile, almost too somber even for an occasion as serious as this one. He was well groomed, handsome, very professional-looking. He struck me as the African-American version of the quintessential G-man portrayed on those old television shows back when the FBI seemed to be comprised entirely of white ex- Marines. We shook hands, dispensing with the formalities as I got right to the point.
“Is my father okay?”
“We believe he’s alive.”
“What happened?”
He finished off the last swallow of coffee my mother had brought him, then continued. “It appears that three fishing boats belonging to your father’s company were overtaken by force while in port in Colombia. Three crew members were shot and killed. Three others jumped in the harbor and swam for their lives. One is still missing. Two have been recovered, the only witnesses so far.”
“Do any of them know what happened to my father?”
“No one’s a hundred percent sure. They all say that the gunmen seemed to want to take your father alive. But there was a lot of gunfire exchanged.”
“That doesn’t mean he was hit. He could have escaped, right?”
Nettles was slow to respond. Too slow. My mother shuddered, realizing that there were only two realistic possibilities, neither of them pretty.
“For now,” said Nettles, “we’re assuming an abduction.”
“Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to? Is the FBI doing an investigation?”
“No. The only information the FBI has so far is through intelligence bulletins from the State Department.”
“That’s not too reassuring. I just called the U.S. embassy in Colombia on my way over here, and they weren’t very forthcoming. I’m not sure what to make of that.”
Nettles glanced at my mother, then at me. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay? But the primary interest of the State Department is foreign policy. Most American families who go through this ordeal are surprised to find that the one government agency that puts the interests of the victim first is the FBI.”
“Well, then, thank God you’re here,” said Mom.
Nettles seemed to enjoy the praise, but if we were going to get all kissy-face, I decided to push for extra information-like the things the embassy had told me were for the government’s eyes only. “At least now we have someone who can tell us what’s in the State Department’s intelligence bulletins.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked cautiously.
“For starters, who took my father?”
“That’s not clear yet. One of the attackers was killed in the skirmish. According to the local police, he was dressed as one of the guerrilla groups that operate in Colombia. Combat fatigues, the whole getup. But it could also be someone who was trying to make it look like the work of guerrillas. We can’t rule out common criminals or even one of the paramilitary organizations.”
“Excuse me,” Mom interrupted. “Are you saying my husband may have been kidnapped by the Colombian military?”
“Quite the opposite. The Colombian Army has been at war with both right-wing and left-wing groups for years. The Marxists are the guerrillas. The right wing is paramilitary.”
“Why would they want my dad?”
“They don’t. They want your money. You should expect a ransom demand to come by mail or international courier service very soon.”
I stepped toward the window, not quite believing this. “You’re saying that some Marxist group over a thousand miles away killed half my dad’s crew, kidnapped my dad, went to all this trouble, just to squeeze a little money out of the Rey family from Coral Gables?”
