“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 completed by the handful of partners in the Miami office. Ninety-eight percent of my colleagues were virtual strangers, whom I would never meet, never even talk to on the telephone. They worked in different states, different countries, different time zones. Many spoke English as a second or even third language. When one of them was fired-or sometimes even when an entire office closed-I usually found out about it weeks after the fact, usually by happenstance, and then only by inference from the fact that an e-mail I’d sent was returned as “undeliverable.” Cool Cash could be an overwhelming, impersonal workplace.
At the same time, it had a way of making the world seem very small.
Duncan was in an exceptionally good mood, having just returned from a long celebration lunch at the City Club with his client from Med-Fam Pharmaceuticals. From the looks of his red nose, it appeared as though a few glasses had been raised to the health of the not-so-healthy Gilbert Jones.
“Sorry you didn’t join us,” said Duncan, seated behind his antique desk. “Where did you run off to?”
“Emergency. I got some distressing news.”
His grin completely vanished. “Those bastards didn’t call the judge, did they?”
“No. It’s not about the Med-Fam case.”
“Good.”
“It’s about my father.”
As a rule, Duncan didn’t shift easily from work to personal issues, but he listened with concern as I told him everything I knew so far-the phone call from Mom, the meeting with the FBI agent. I didn’t come right out and ask for any favors. That wasn’t the way to operate with Duncan. I just made it clear that the FBI wouldn’t get involved in the case without an invitation from the State Department and that political connections might expedite the process.
“Consider it done,” said Duncan.
“You can help?”
“Can camels spit?”
I had to think about that one.
“We have a former undersecretary of state working in our Washington office. I’ll call him right now.”
“That’s fantastic. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” he said proudly. He leaned back in his leather chair and rested his hand atop the globe on his credenza. It was another antique, a distinctive but ugly piece with the oceans in black. He gave it a spin and asked, “What do you see here?”
“The world?” I said tentatively, sensing a trick question.
“Look closer. It’s Coolidge, Harding and Cash. We’re everywhere. Which is very good news for your father. This phone call I’m about to make is only the beginning.”