“Por favor,” said Matthew, pushing the barrel aside. All the guerrillas had the dangerous habit of misusing weapons as pointers and prods.
For Matthew, breakfast was a cold, chewy roll. He ate alone beneath his dripping-wet military canvas. By the time he’d finished, the rain had stopped. The guerrillas started a fire with wood they’d kept dry beneath a canvas tarp that was far superior to the so-called tent they’d given to Matthew. Something was sizzling in a pan over the fire. It didn’t smell very appetizing to Matthew, but he would have preferred it if only because it was hot. They gathered around the fire to eat as Matthew watched from several meters away. He noted that Joaquin, the leader, was not around. A minute later he was coming through the forest, instantly recognizable with his Australian-style hat.
“For you,” he said as he handed Matthew a plastic sack.
Inside were a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a roll of toilet paper, and a bar of soap. Matthew was torn as to whether he should say “Gracias” or “Don’t do me any favors, you murdering pigs.” Showing appreciation toward these thugs wasn’t going to be easy, but they did hold his life in their hands. A rapport on some level was essential to his survival.
“All the comforts of home,” he said. It was as close to “thank you” as he could muster.
“Later. Come with me now.”
Joaquin and two other guerrillas led him back by the same route Joaquin had just taken. They walked for almost fifteen minutes along the edge of the poppy field, then another twenty minutes deep into the forest. Joaquin seemed to know where he was headed, even as the foliage grew thicker. Again the thought of escape crossed Matthew’s mind, but it was quickly dismissed. Even if he could break away, he doubted that he could ever find his way out of this jungle.
Finally he heard voices ahead. In a minute they reached a clearing in the forest. A large cottage stood on stilts in the center. It was constructed of roughly hewn logs and a thatched roof. Several smaller huts were nearby, two with the doors open, three with the doors closed. It was a busy place, like a way station. Almost a hundred men and women in combat fatigues were standing around, sitting on rocks, walking from one place to another. A team of pack mules was hitched behind the cottage, munching hay. Goats picked at the garbage near the latrine.
Joaquin was smiling as he walked into camp with his catch. Matthew once again wanted to deck him, but he was even more incensed by the reaction of the other guerrillas. They whistled, some cheered. He felt like the prize fish on the dock.
“El gringo,” said one of the guerrillas, smiling.
“La mina,” said Joaquin. The name seemed to be sticking. Matthew was the gold mine.
Joaquin led them toward the cottage, slowly, so that he could soak up the praise. He especially enjoyed the adoring glances from guerrillas of the opposite sex. He even removed his hat once and took a bow. The girls-and they were just girls-giggled in response. Joaquin winked. He obviously fancied himself the ladies’ man.
Matthew thought they were headed for the main cottage, but Joaquin led him past the entrance to a smaller hut behind it. Two armed guards were posted outside the door. One of them unlocked it. Joaquin pushed Matthew inside.
Inside it was dark. The floor was dirt, not even flat. The air was thick with a musty odor emitted from a thatched roof that was perpetually rain-soaked. A small rectangular opening in the door was the only source of 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.