A King's ransom

“First of all, it won’t be a little money. They usually have inflated ideas about the wealth of American families.”

“How inflated?”

“It’s best not to speculate about these things. Whatever the demand is, it’s negotiable.”

“Negotiable?” I said, almost scoffing. “We’re talking about my dad, not a used car.”

“Trust me, if you decide you have no choice but to pay a ransom, you still negotiate. It’s sad, but kidnapping has turned into a big business worldwide, and in Colombia it’s literally out of control. Two hundred a month, at least.”

“My God, it’s like some kind of a mill.”

“A money mill, to be exact. Hundreds of millions of dollars in ransom every year. These groups would like the world to think that they’re politically motivated, but they’re mostly thugs looking for money to bankroll drug labs and other criminal activity.”

That last remark struck me, especially coming from an FBI agent. “So if we pay a ransom, we’re dumping cash into some criminal’s war chest.”

“In a broad sense, yes.”

“And the FBI doesn’t have a problem with that?”

“We’re not thrilled about it. For years we had a no-concessions policy in dealing with international kidnappers. But the more progressive view in the bureau these days is that if the family wants to pay a ransom, we don’t stand in their way.”

“What if we just can’t come up with the money?”

“If you’re asking whether the U.S. government will pay the ransom or even lend you the money, the answer is no.”

“So then what happens?”

With the subtle arching of an eyebrow he seemed to be signaling that it was best not to answer that question in front of my mother.

“Stupid question,” I said, backtracking. “Of course we’ll get the money.”

Mom asked, “What happens next, Mr. Nettles?”

“There’s a lot involved in an international kidnapping,” said Nettles. “Not the least of which are jurisdictional issues between Colombia and the U.S., between the FBI and other U.S. agencies, between the Colombian police and the Colombian Army.”

“I think my mother and I are in agreement that we don’t want to leave this up to anyone but the FBI.”

“That’s right,” said Mom.

“I hate to inject a dirty word like ‘politics’ into the equation, but certain matters of diplomacy must be resolved before the FBI can officially get involved.”

“What does that mean?”

“The bottom line is that the FBI’s negotiators can’t assist in a case outside the United States until the State Department invites us. As yet, we haven’t been formally invited.”

“This isn’t a wedding. What kind of invitation do you need?”

“It’s not just a formality. The State Department has to respect local autonomy, and they have relationships with the host country that have to be maintained long after the resolution of this kidnapping. They don’t just send in the FBI every time an American gets into trouble.”

“Is there something we can do?” Mom asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Make a list of who you know and call them. I hate to say it, but connections matter. The higher up, the better.”

“I don’t have any connections,” said Mom.

“I’ll work on that,” I said.

“Good,” said Nettles.

I thought for a second, then backtracked. “Except, how am I going to be plying for contacts? Shouldn’t I go to Colombia?”

“My advice is no. You’ll find yourself much more effective here, trying to get your own government moving. You should send someone down to represent the family. Your lawyer, a friend of the family.”

“Guillermo,” my mother said.

“My father’s business partner,” I explained.

Mom said, “He’s going to be in Cartagena tonight. He has to check on the surviving crew members and make arrangements for the ones who passed away. And he’s Nicaraguan. His Spanish is a lot better than yours, Nick.”

“That’s perfect,” said Nettles.

I was a little reluctant. I didn’t really know Guillermo, though it was true that he’d been my father’s partner for over a decade. I glanced at Mom, however, and it was obvious that she didn’t want me to leave her here to deal with the FBI and State Department by herself.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll let Guillermo handle things in Colombia.”

Nettles seemed to approve of the decision. He glanced toward the door, as if it were time to leave. He’d dumped a ton of information on us, and he seemed experienced enough to know that the family needed time to digest it, time alone to grieve. Mom shook his hand and thanked him profusely. I saw him to the door and followed him outside.

“Level with me,” I said as we reached his car in the driveway. “If this is a kidnapping, and the kidnappers are some kind of guerrilla group, what’re the chances of my father coming back alive?”

“Too early to say. There’s so many variables.”

“You must have statistics of some sort.”

“Reliable numbers are hard to come by. The police, the army, the politicians-just about everybody in Colombia has a stake in making the situation seem better than it is.”

“All I want is a general idea, not an answer written in stone.”

He hesitated, then answered. “The most reliable numbers I have are from our legal attache in Bogota. One hundred four kidnap victims murdered from January to June of this year.

But the violence can go in spurts, depending on how the war is going between the rebels and the Colombian Army. If the guerrillas are trying to make a statement, you may see more kidnapping victims murdered.”

“How many more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. The family deserves to know the truth.”

He seemed to be searching for a positive spin. “The truth is, worldwide only about nine or ten percent of kidnapping victims are killed or die in captivity.”

“Only?” I said.

“The flip side is that there’s a ninety percent chance of survival. Pretty good odds.”

“Oh, really? Think of the last ten people you said hello to. Now imagine one of them dead. How good do those odds sound to you now?”

His expression fell, as if he’d never thought of it quite that way.

“We need the FBI on this case,” I said. “Let’s get that State Department invitation.”

He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. I needed to get to work on my list of connections. It was time for me to call on friends in high places.

Now I just had to figure out who the hell they were.

4

Faster than you can say “Who do you know?” I was back in my office-or, more precisely, Duncan Fitz’s office.

Working as an associate in one of the largest law firms on earth certainly had its disadvantages. The lawyers who set my salary and measured my progress toward partnership knew me only from written annual review forms