“How old are you?” she asked.
He straightened up. “I am nineteen,” he said proudly. “In my village many of my friends are already married,” he said.
Patricia nodded. “Yes, but even as old as I am, sometimes things happen that make me upset as well. A lot of times, it just takes a friend to talk to.”
The sound of footsteps was heard outside and the young man sprang to his feet once more. Patricia moved away from the door. After a moment, the footsteps faded.
Patricia glanced back at the young guard. He saw her and let out a slow breath with a grin. With one hand he indicated the conversation was over. But he looked down at her and whispered, “Gracias, Señora.”
Patricia nodded and moved away from the door. Despite the fact she was a captive and he was a captor, she felt closer to the young man. At least it made for a more pleasant morning.
Carlos Verdes was driving his old Chevrolet pickup along the dusty mountain roads heading toward the last of his village pickups. For nearly twenty years he had plied between the small villages in the western part of Venezuela picking up the handmade mountain wares and then selling them as souvenirs in Caracas and the coastal resorts. As it was, this made a very lucrative living for the villagers and kept him busy while performing his main job as an in-country operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. Verdes wasn’t sure who had come up with the cover, but it made a real difference for the mountain people and allowed him the freedom to travel almost the entire country without being noticed. He had grown to love the work and the people, despite the governments they had to live under.
The old Chevy took a big bounce in one of the many potholes along the dirt road. She squeaked and rattled, and it appeared the rust would finally consume the body at any moment, but the engine just kept on going. Verdes was quite proud of his truck. Made in the late 1980s, it was probably one of the last ones still doing real work. Never mind that the Agency made sure it was always in top shape even though it looked decrepit. Never mind that it was like a Bond car with its little tricks. There was even a small switch under the dash that caused the engine to run rough if inspected. Despite it all, he had grown to love it and rely on it every day.
In the back of the truck was a load of woolen blankets and ponchos for trading and sale. Once he made this last stop, he would head toward the capitol and deliver them to his distributors for sale in the shops. But there was one more reason for this stop. Since the kidnapping, the Agency had been screaming for information on the FARC and anything else going on in the region. Today he would meet with Oro Etosa, a longtime friend and one of the original leaders of the FARC. He had long since retired and had moved back to his home in Venezuela, but Carlos knew he still kept up with the organization.
After another half hour of bouncing along the roads, Verdes pulled into the very small village of Llanuras de Montaña (Mountain Plains), which sat on a wide open area overlooking several deep gorges. For centuries, the villagers had hunted in the gorges and farmed what little would grow on the mountaintop. There was one electric line going to the village, which would occasionally provide power. The poles also carried the one telephone line that led to the village store. The simple homes were adobe, occasionally whitewashed, with the only color coming from the doorways which the owners would decorate. As the truck pulled up, children ran beside it and several of the villagers came out to welcome Verdes.
“Welcome back Carlos!” shouted one of the men under a wide straw hat. His handshake was rough but firm.
“Esteban, it is good to be back. How are Elesa and the children?” asked Verdes.
“Much better this time. Little Paco finally healed up. The medicine worked well,” Esteban said proudly. Paco had gotten an infection when stepping on a sharp splinter. Verdes had acquired some antibiotics from a doctor he knew and it had made all the difference.
Verdes beamed. Little things like that made his work much more enjoyable. “That’s good. Just make sure he stays away from the old trash heap before it is burned. Now, what have you got for me this trip?” he asked.
As the two men talked, several villagers came around them, several with items they wished Carlos to sell for them. Before long there was a large crowd, all sharing stories and eager to hear more news from the cities and other villages. Within an hour, Verdes had pulled out his ledger and began handing out the money from everything that had sold. For the villagers, it was like Christmas.
As the sun began to set, Verdes made his way to the home of Oro Etosa. Located at the far end of the village, it was a little more substantial than the others, but Carlos noticed there was a bustle of activity inside and a large truck sat to one side partially loaded with the family’s belongings.
As he approached, the towering form of Etosa appeared in the lit doorway. “Thank God it is you, Carlos. I was afraid they had come for me,” Etosa said.
The two men embraced like the good friends they were. “Who would be coming for you, my friend?” asked Carlos. “Better yet, who would have the courage,” he grinned.
Oro laughed heartily. “Only you,” he said between laughs. “I heard you were distributing the earnings. I hope it’s not the last time.”
“Not if I can help it. Now what’s going on? Why are you moving?” asked Verdes. The concern in his voice was real.
Etosa shrugged his shoulders. “The government is rounding up FARC members all over the country. My source says they are disappearing from all the villages. We don’t know why, unless Parente has decided to equal some old score. They even took old Hernando in Pueblo Cielo. I am taking my family to an old place higher in the mountains. Hopefully they will leave us alone there.”
So that’s what’s going on, Verdes said to himself. These people don’t know what they are accused of. “Then you need to know the news,” said Verdes as the two men sat down. He told Etosa about the kidnapping and how a video with the hostages claimed that they had been kidnapped by the FARC.
Etosa’s eyes shot wide. “It is false! Everyone knows we do not do such things anymore. Even our most radical branch in Colombia is now working in politics instead of these acts of barbarism. I know this for a fact!” Etosa demanded. He sat by Verdes. “I know the FARC did not do this, Carlos. I was the one who got the leadership to agree to the more peaceful ways to get things done. We are now more successful than ever. It doesn’t make sense,” he pleaded.
Carlos took Oro’s arm. “I believe you, my friend. I have watched all the good things happening, but why is Parente doing this in Venezuela when this happened in Colombia?”
Oro took a deep breath. “I do not know. True, we haven’t been as cordial lately, because we have been opposed to some of his policies, but he had always supported us before.”
“Tell me, are there any militant factions in the FARC at all now?” asked Verdes.
Oro shook his head. “None. We don’t wear uniforms and we don’t carry weapons. Those days are gone. In Venezuela and Colombia, the only ones with uniforms and rifles are the military. Are you sure they said it was the FARC?”
“That’s what they say. In the video, the captors were wearing dark camouflage uniforms and they had the flag of the FARC on the corner. It looked like some of the old posters you used to put out long ago.” Verdes placed his hand on Oro’s shoulder. “But if you say it is untrue, I believe you. We have been friends a long time. Too long for me to mistrust you.”