the kidnappers’ instructions, I closed the door and checked behind the tank.
There I found the envelope. I tore it open immediately. It was written in Spanish, but fortunately I could read my second language better than I could speak it.
“Stacy was seven years old when she drowned,” it read.
I read that first proof-of-life sentence twice, almost in disbelief. This was for real, I realized. My father was alive. I continued to the next paragraph: “Slide the money under the divider to the stall on your left. Say nothing. Information about the release of Matthew Rey will arrive in ninety seconds. If you leave your stall before then, or if anyone follows the money, you will receive no further information.”
To my left was stall number two, the same stall from which I’d heard noises on my way in. With a discreet glance I noticed a pair of feet beneath the divider. The groaner was here to take my money.
My mind raced with thoughts of who this person might be. Alex had told me that kidnappers used “mules” for transactions like these, neighborhood kids who would deliver drugs, pick up ransom money, or do just about anything else for a few pesos. They were extremely reliable. If they screwed up or tried to run off with the loot, their entire family would be slaughtered.
I held my backpack close to my chest, unable to move. I wanted to hop right over the flimsy partition that separated us and ask this stranger where my father was. But it would have been pointless. As Alex had said, the guy was surely a know-nothing mule.
I took a deep breath, leaned over, and slid the backpack underneath to the other stall. The stranger picked it up.
Instantly a wave of conflicting emotions ran through me, from hope that the money would keep my father alive to hatred of these bastards for all the grief they had caused. Somewhere in the mix was the visceral sensation that I’d just been robbed. Even though Alex had talked him down to a hundred thousand dollars, more than half of my entire net worth had just passed to a total stranger beneath the graffiti-covered walls of a bathroom stall.
Alone in the stench, I checked my watch and counted off the seconds until the promised arrival of further information. I heard the stranger’s footsteps as he left, then the slamming of the bathroom door. Ninety seconds passed, and I heard nothing. I waited another fifteen and was beginning to feel scammed. I ran out of the stall and checked the one next to me. There was no sign of the stranger or of any forthcoming information. I raced outside and found Alex.
“Did you see him walk out?”
“Who?”
“The guy with my money.”
“No one came out.”
“I heard a door slam. There must be another door!”
“Nick, don’t try to follow!”
“In ninety seconds we were supposed to receive information about the final exchange. There’s no one here!”
I ran straight to the back. Sure enough, beyond the showers was another exit door. I opened it and froze, struck first by the noise and activity, struck second by the irony. I’d assumed that my money would be laundered. I’d had no idea that the Hotel Los Andes shared bathrooms with a busy Laundromat.
A minute later Alex was standing right behind me. “Just let him go.”
“How perfect,” I said cynically. “People come and go all day long with bundles in their arms. How would anyone know which one was walking out with my money in his basket?”
“I’m sure it’s just a mule. There’s no point in tailing him. In fact, if he delivers the money and says we tried to follow, that’s bad news for your father. We might never do the real exchange.”
“Joaquin promised that the note would have information about my dad’s release. The note said to wait ninety seconds and it would be here. Those sons of bitches gave us nothing.”
“I believe this is what you’re looking for,” she said, holding a yellow sheet of paper. “It was taped to the back of the door.”
I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. I grabbed it and started reading, but I wanted to know the bottom line faster than I could translate. “How much time did they give us to raise the money?”
She averted her eyes, a clear signal that the news was bad.
“A month?” I asked hopefully.
“A week,” she replied.
“That’s impossible. Short of walking into the corporate headquarters of Quality Insurance Company with a gun, I can’t resolve a claim dispute and have three million dollars in a week.”
“All the kidnappers know is that you have a policy worth three million dollars.”
“Then we have to tell them that the insurance company has denied our coverage.”
“They’ll think we’re stonewalling. Or, worse, they’ll decide that your father isn’t worth keeping alive.”
“So what should we do?”
“Next Sunday they expect us to be atop Monserrate for the next radio transmission. Maybe I should go alone and tell them you’re working out a few details. Something minor but believable, so they don’t get concerned. It might buy a little extra time.”
“How long do you think you can string it out?”
“I wish I knew.”
I sensed that she didn’t like her answer any more than I did, but no one had a crystal ball. “God help us,” was all I could say.
50
In a city of eight million people, I felt completely alone. It was well after midnight, and Alex had retired to the master bedroom more than an hour before. A cozy bed awaited me in the guest room. Though our return flight to Miami was just hours away, I couldn’t possibly sleep. I sat in the living room at the open window, looking out onto a relatively quiet street below. A faint nightlight from the kitchen left me in dim solitude. Headlamps from the occasional passing car sent shadows dancing across the living room wall behind me. One by one the lights blinked off in the apartment buildings across the street. The minutes passed slowly, yet each time I checked my watch I got the same sinking feeling that time was running out.
I wondered how many others in Colombia were at that very moment living the same nightmare.
Sudden shouting from across the street jarred me. A man and woman in a second-floor apartment were arguing over something. On a balmy night with windows open, sound traveled freely. After several heated minutes, it ended with the loud slamming of a door. I watched from my window as the man angrily left the building, his footsteps clicking on the old cobblestones below.
“You still up?” asked Alex.
I turned to see her standing in the hallway. “I think the whole neighborhood is awake now.”
She smiled a little, then crossed the room and sat in the white wicker armchair beside me, facing the window. She didn’t wear pajamas. She was dressed in her preferred sleeping clothes, running shorts and a rather skimpy athletic top that was little more than a sports bra.
“Are you going to stay up all night?” she asked.
“Probably. I’m worried about this deadline. I almost wish you hadn’t pushed Joaquin for a release date. Don’t you think it would have been smarter to leave it vague till we had some hope of scraping the ransom money together?”
“I felt like I needed to push him today. We can’t always appear to be stalling. If we do, that’s dangerous for your dad.”
I looked out the window into the night, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
“Have you considered borrowing the money from Guillermo?” she asked.
“Are you serious?”
“I just wondered if you’d considered it, that’s all.”
“I don’t see how I can. After today it’s more clear than ever that someone told the kidnappers about Dad’s
