Kidnapped and a Daring Escape Page 4

  She frowns briefly and then shrugs her shoulders. "Professor Visconti is the expert. He should know."

  "You believe every word he says when he theorizes about archaeology? If humanity had taken experts by their word, we would still believe that the earth is flat and that the sun turns around the earth, as the Church insisted well into the middle ages, and as thousand of people in Texas still do to this day. No, it is exactly by critically challenging the theories of experts that new knowledge is gained. Only religious fundamentalists and the Pope believe they are infallible. And why did you have to introduce the professor into this serene setting?"

  "Stop it right there," she interrupts, "before your mouth runs away with some nasty remark. He is my fiancé."

  He grins. "Yes, I’m fully aware of this fact, and can’t help regretting it."

  "He has many good qualities, even if dancing isn’t one of them, and he comes from a distinguished family. His grandfather was a count. They own a castle on the shores of Lago di Bolsena’

  "The exact opposite of me then. I have few good qualities. I can say without boasting that I dance well, and I claim no distinction in my ancestry. My grandfather was a simple tenant farmer. I think he owned two cows … Oh what a cruel world we live in when a nice guy like me is doomed from the outset. But I console myself that I’ll still be able to relish your delightful company for another four hours at least."

  "You’re impossible," she cuts in.

  "And I can always hope to snatch another few dances with you tonight."

  "I doubt that. Our tour bus leaves for Ipiales tomorrow morning at seven. I’m afraid that means packing and an early night."

  "What a pity! But tell me which room you’re in and I’ll serenade you from the courtyard at ten tonight with my harmonica."

  "You really are incorrigible," she laughs. "It’s room 211, and to make it worth your while I’ll invite several class mates to join me at ten."

  * * *

  It is getting on to noon by the time they finish viewing and photographing the statues at the Alto de Lavapatas. The temperature has risen to a balmy 24 degrees. André holds his jacket over one shoulder. The two male students and their guide ride into the clearing and tether their horses. Bianca meets them and they exchange impressions. Once more, he feels left out. He goes to a vantage point that offers good views. Undulating hills and valleys extend to the south and east, the lush scenery dotted by palms, poinsettia trees, and dense clusters of bamboo. Rectangular fields of crops add color patterns. The clouds are breaking over the mountains to the west and north, leaving only patches fog hugging some of the forested slopes. He catches glimpses of the deep gorge the Magdalena has carved into the terrain, separating the hills around San Agustin from the slopes gradually rising toward the volcanoes on the true left of the Magdalena River. He scans the vast landscape for signs of towns or villages, but can only spot a few farmhouses. San José de Isnos is some ten kilometers up that slope, he reckons. Is that really the place the squat fellow in the Alcazar named? He sure wishes he knew.

  He sees Bianca wave and returns to where the Jeep is parked. A sudden cold sweeps through his mind. Didn’t ‘le trapu’ say that they would intercept the Jeep before that town? There in the parking lot is a Jeep. One of its occupants is a young woman from a wealthy Italian family. On the other side of the river is San José de Isnos. He is suddenly sure that this is the name he only partially overheard. All the parts are there and fit, or is it only a specious coincidence?

  * * *

  Bianca watches André approach. He seems preoccupied, even agitated, and his face has the same somber expression as when he asked her to repeat the name of the town on the other side of the river. She again asks hrself what that was all about.

  "What happened? I didn’t think that you could ever look serious," she questions mockingly.

  "Nothing happened, and yes, I can be serious under the right circumstances."

  "And such right circumstances have just occurred?" she teases him, for once sensing of having the upper hand.

  "Maybe. Do you really want to cross to the other side? Couldn’t we just explore this side more thoroughly? There are still dozens of sculptures to see, as well as the museum."

  "Oh, no. I want to see the biggest of the statues on the other side. Franco, um, Professor Visconti stressed that I have to see that one and if time permits also the ones beyond San José de Isnos."

  He eyes her intently, squinting, remaining silent, as if some crucial thought has suddenly occurred to him. It feels disturbing.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  He waits several seconds before answering. "Don’t you find it strange that there so few visitors here, as if people deliberately avoided this area? Isn’t it one of the major tourist sites in southern Columbia?"

  "Yes, to all three questions. But this isn’t strange at all. Didn’t you get warned by the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad that there is renewed guerrilla activity in the mountains around here?"

  "No, I usually stay well clear of the security police."

  "Professor Visconti checked with them and in view of their advice thought it unwise to take our entire group here by road. That’s why a few of us chartered a plane."

  "And why did the professor not join you to be your expert guide?"

  "He couldn’t leave the other twenty students alone in Popayàn."

  "You mean a bunch of twenty-year olds need baby-sitting?"

  There he goes again, crosses her mind. "Why do you always have to be so cynical whenever Professor Visconti’s name comes up?"

  "You ask me? … after having spent three hours in my company? Isn’t that obvious?"

  She is getting annoyed by these oblique and not-so-oblique hints that he is wooing her. She cannot take them seriously, nor does she want any distraction of that sort, now that she promised herself to do whatever is in her power to bring her relationship with Franco back to what it was prior to the trip. So she spits out: "Oh, knock it off. This doesn’t even deserve an answer."

  "Maybe not. You’re right. But I still would like you not to dismiss out-of-hand my suggestion of remaining here in the safety of the park."

  "I see no good reason for doing that. Why?"

  Again he hesitates. "If you really must know, because I have this ominous feeling that something bad is going to happen on the other side."

  She almost laughs out loud, but suppresses it at the last moment. Instead she mocks: "You have powers of premonition?" When he does not rise to her irony, she adds: "You are ridiculous. I’m definitely going, and if you’re afraid, stay here and meet us again at three at the park entrance for the ride back to Pitalito."

  "Is there no way I can convince you not to go to San José de Isnos?"

  "What is your obsession with that town? And no, I will go."

  He sighs. "So be it. I’ll come along."

  She shakes her head in disbelief. What was that all about?

  3

  They have an early lunch in the Donde Richard Restaurant, eating in silence the tasteful house-made sausages so recommended by their driver. Bianca welcomes the respite of not having to spar with André. Although she found it often amusing in spite of herself, his less than oblique attacks on Franco have soured things. She tries to study the brochure they picked up at the park office, but soon drifts back to their discussion about the interpretation of the shape of the female faces. She was surprised by his knowledge of early archaeology. His arguments were beguilingly convincing, and she has to admit that he is right at least in one respect. A serious scholar should always critically examine any theory. She is tempted to renew that discussion, but he seemed to have turned inward, engrossed in the local map.

  By twelve thirty their guide picks them up and retraces the way back to the bridge over Rio Magdalena where the road to San José de Isnos turns off the highway to Pitalito. Theirs is the only vehicle on the road. They cross the bridge and begin the steep ascent toward the plateau high abo
ve the river. The dirt road winds in sharp turns and switchbacks through tall evergreen trees, offering the occasional eye-catching glimpse down to the river.

  They catch up with a mud-splattered, gray Toyota Landcruiser. Its yellow license plate is covered in dirt and unreadable. There is no way for their Jeep to pass. In fact, Bianca has the distinct impression that the Toyota is deliberately going slowly. At a tight turn, the vehicle comes to an abrupt halt, blocking the road. Their guide brakes sharply, propelling her almost into the windshield. She hears André’s alarmed exclamation of ‘merde’ and sees him jump from the Jeep.

  "What are you doing," she shouts.

  The next thing she sees is the muzzle of a gun pointed into her face. At the same time, a burst of machine gun fire shatters the silence. Her heart jumps into her throat, cold sweat breaking out. She feels paralyzed, her eyes glued to the black hole of the muzzle. For a moment her mind goes blank, and then she cries in Italian: "Please, don’t shoot."

  The man holding the gun rips the door open and pulls her roughly from the vehicle. She almost falls over, but his iron grip on her arm holds her upright. He shoves her roughly into the side of the Toyota, shouting in Spanish: "Stand still."

  For the first time she consciously looks at him. He wears military fatigues. Only dark brown eyes and a cruel mouth menace through the holes in the balaclava. He is just a fraction taller than her, but makes up his relative shortness by the raw strength of his solid body. The beating of her heart feels painful. Her whole body is shaking.

  Another guy is pushing his machine gun into André’s back, marching him up the road. André has his hands raised above his head. He too is shoved against the Toyota. The driver of their Jeep is still at the wheel, kept in check by a third disguised man.

  While one man has his gun trained on them, the squat fellow expertly pats down André. She only sees it in her peripheral vision, not daring to turn her head.

  "Remove your coat."

  André does and the man searches through the pockets. From one outside pocket he retrieves a camera, from the other a gadget she recognizes as a IPhone.

  "What’s this?" he asks, inspecting its front and back. "A cell phone?"

  "No, an French/Spanish dictionary," André answers.

  Why does he lie? she wonders.

  The man slips it into his ample pant pockets. One inside pocket contains a passport. It is red and has the white Swiss cross in the upper right-hand corner. So André didn’t lie about that, crosses her mind fleetingly. His captor’s eyes light up. He briefly leafs through the thin notebook he finds in the other inside pocket. It is about half-full of tiny writing. A small silver pen is stuck in its spine. He throws the empty jacket into the backseat of the Toyota. Next he reaches for the back pocket of André’s pants. From one side he pulls out a wallet, which he rifles through, from the other a Swiss army knife. He briefly searches the front pockets of the pants. There seems to be nothing of interest in them.

  "Remove your money belt," he orders.

  "I don’t wear a money belt," André replies.

  "Show! Open your pants!"

  André pulls up his shirt, partially undoes the leather belt so that he can pull down his pants a hand-width, and reveals hairy skin below his belly button.

  Their captor looks disappointed. Before André can do up his belt, the man reaches for his left wrist and removes the watch, quickly inspects it, and mutters: "Not worth much."

  He turns to her. She closes her eyes, dreading what is to come, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Although there is really no need — she only wears a cotton shirt — he pats down the side of her chest, giving her breast a slight squeeze and then rubs down the right of her tight-fitting pant legs, both outside and inside.

  She hears André exclaim: "Hombre, show the señorita some respect." She opens her eyes, just as the man punches André hard on the side of the face, bellowing at the same time: "Shut up. Nobody asks you."

  André hardly reacts, eyeing his assailant defiantly. The side of his face slowly colors blue. Renewed fright assails her. Please André, don’t make them angry, she prays silently.

  His rebuke though seems to have the desired effect. Rather than also do her left leg, the man orders her to empty her pant pockets. She only has some Kleenex paper towels in one. He makes her remove her earrings, her engagement ring and her gold watch, but leaves the silver chain and cross pendant she has around the neck.

  "Señorita, your money belt," he demands.

  She lowers the zipper of her pants, revealing the top of her black thong, unclips the cloth bag and passes it to him, zipping herself up quickly.

  "Where’s your purse and passport?"

  "On the floor of the Jeep." Her voice trembles. One thought, more like prayer, is repeating itself in her mind: "Let them only be robbers, let them only be robbers." Losing her possessions is the least of her fears.

  The man who pocketed their things now goes over to the Jeep. He removes her jacket, purse, camera, and pack, which also contains her cell phone.

  "What are we going to do with the guy?" questions the man holding the gun at them. "I thought we only wanted the girl."

  Did she hear right? They only want the girl?

  "We’ll take them both. Didn’t you see the Swiss passport? He may be worth quite a bit."

  A silent scream tears through her mind. They are kidnapping us. Her whole body begins to shake uncontrollably. She feels André’s hand briefly touch her shoulder and hears him whisper: "Courage, Bianca, we’re still unharmed."

  The apparent leader now removes two sets of handcuffs from his jacket. They are ordered to face the Toyota and bring their hands to their back. A second later she hears the metal clip snap close around her wrist. Next he produces two loose hoods and slips one over André’s head, the other over hers. She feels him tighten a strap. She almost screams in fright, swamped by claustrophobia and the feeling of not getting enough air.

  "Please, let me see," she sobs.

  His only response is a firm grip on her elbow. She stumbles a few steps and then is pushed and pulled up a high step into the vehicle.

  "Lie down and stay put." She recognizes it as the voice of the leader. He forces her to bend her legs into a crouching position.

  A few seconds later somebody else is made to lie down next to her. André, she guesses. At least I’m not alone. It offers scant comfort.

  "No sound from either of you. Understood?" the leader growls.

  She nods, shaking in fright. Next, she senses a blanket being spread over them. It smells of horse. Several light objects are thrown on top of them.

  "Move your head to create enough breathing space," she hears André’s whisper.

  A short time later, doors are slammed shut, the motor starts, and they move off. As the vehicle accelerates and negotiates turns, she is thrown around, bumping both into the metal wall, as well as André’s softer body. She notices that they continue to go uphill. After a while, the cramped position becomes uncomfortable, then painful, every pothole, bump, or stone in the road feeling like a punch to her right shoulder and hip. Several times she cries out in pain, when her head bumps into the sides or floor of the car.

  "Move closer to me, away from the wall, so that I can cushion you a bit," André tells her.

  For a moment, she is beyond reacting.

  "Come, Bianca. Do it."

  "I can’t." She begins to sob.

  "Pull your knees up and wedge them against the wall and then lift your hips, pushing back."

  She forces herself to do it in spite of the pain. A leg is wrapped over her left thigh, preventing her from sliding away with the swaying of the vehicle. It removes one source of getting hurt, but not the pain of having to lie on the side.

  "I must confess that this isn’t the way I dreamed of lying with you," he chuckles.

  "Oh, André, I’m frightened to death and you joke," she sobs.

  "I’m sorry, Bianca. I thought a bit of humor would help. I won’t do it ag
ain."

  She feels his nose nuzzle the back of her head.

  "Courage, Bianca. If you are a believer, pray if that helps … or would it help to talk?"

  She answers with a sob. "I’m so frightened; I can’t help it. What are they going to do with us?"

  "I guess they want to ransom us. Is your family wealthy?"

  "Yes."

  "Wealthy enough for a ransom of two to four million euros?"

  Four million? Would her father be able to raise this much? Panic creeps again into her voice. "Will they ask for that much?"

  "Yes, that’s the usual amount."

  Yes, her father should be able to raise that much. "I guess my father can pay that." She is certain he would pay whatever is needed to get her released. "And what about you?"

  "Not the slightest chance of that. My father is a humble carpenter in a small village above Lake Geneva. My parents own little more than a small old cottage."

  "So what happens if the ransom isn’t paid?"

  "I let you answer than question yourself."

  How can he speak so casually? "Aren’t you frightened?"

  "I am, but being frightened will not change a thing. You have to focus on the present and the future, on what will allow you to come out of this sound in both body and mind. Look, Bianca, if you want to get out of this sane, you have to exercise infinite patience. It will not be over in just a few days. From what I’ve heard, it takes weeks before the ransom demand is presented and then weeks, if not months before all arrangements for payment have been made and the condition and location for your release negotiated. Fortunately from what I’ve read, the kidnappers usually treat women reasonably well, as long as they do what they’re told. If the kidnappers belong to FARC, they won’t rape you. It’s against their code of conduct."

  They might rape her? Renewed fright grips her. She has not even thought of that. "You think that they are from FARC?"

  "I don’t know. I hope so because I may have a better chance with FARC guerrillas. I may convince them to let me write a friendly and supportive newspaper article about them. In fact, my true reason for being in Columbia is to get an interview with one of their leaders."