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Guaviare Jungle, Colombia

October 11

The new FARC camp where Fetch had been transferred was bigger than all the others she had been rotated through. Some of the smaller ones were extremely primitive—merely a bivouac of two-man tents that moved to a new location nearly every other day. Because this one held the most valuable of the hostages, it had a semi-permanent look. Crude, frond-covered huts, with walls made of stout tree limbs and boards cut by chainsaws, dotted the encampment, along with a few dozen small tents made of camouflage material. Wood planks had been laid as walkways through the ever-present mud. The large kitchen tent, open on one side, was well stocked with small crates of canned goods and bags of rice. Beside it was a large fire pit for cooking.

There were other resources she hadn’t seen elsewhere. A small divided pen to one side held some thirty pigs and a pair of donkeys, and the ground had been tilled in the small patch where sun penetrated the thick jungle canopy. Several rows of seedlings poked their heads from the rich brown earth.

The importance of the camp was underscored by the fact that nearly one hundred guerrillas were here, and the person in charge was Chief Diego Barriga, one of the Secretariat—the FARC’s seven-man Central Command. Outside his large tent was a small satellite dish and gasoline-powered generator, which provided power for his laptop, electric lights, and sophisticated communications equipment.

On her first tour of the camp, Fetch took note of the multitude of booby traps that had been placed around the perimeter. Well-concealed stake pits, trip wires connected to grenades and land mines, bear traps, and spring-loaded snares and nets were positioned on more than half the crude trails leading into the camp. These were supplemented with regular patrols of guerrillas armed with AK-47s, M16 rifles, and M60 machine guns. Guards were also positioned near the huts that housed the hostages.

The location of the camp itself was an additional deterrent to any potential surprise attack. Fetch and her escort had to travel two hours by Jeep from the nearest town, most of it over rough terrain, then hike for several hours to reach the high mountain campsite. There were no clearings anywhere within a reasonable distance large enough to land a chopper, and the guerrillas had been careful to pick a site so dense with lush trees it would be difficult to spot from the air.

Orchestrating a rescue mission in this remote and well-guarded camp would be perhaps the greatest challenge of Fetch’s illustrious career in the EOO.

 

London, England

October 11

Derrick Anderson-Howe sipped his seventeen-year-old Glenfarclas single-malt Scotch and forced himself to remain calm, as he waited for Collier Morris to pull up outside his eighteenth-century brick residence in the exclusive Mayfair district, just three blocks from the U.S. Embassy. He’d explained the little he knew about Zoe’s kidnapping to Collier on the phone, and his old friend had said he’d make a few calls and meet with him later that evening to chart a course of action.



In the interim, Derrick had spent much of his time surfing the Internet for information on the FARC, and what he’d learned had only added to his distress. The guerrilla group was well-organized, well-armed, and nearly impossible to locate. Their hostages were often held for years in deplorable conditions. Rescue efforts usually ended in the death of the kidnap victims. The few rare exceptions—notably the 2008 rescue of fifteen high-profile hostages—included Colombian presidential candidate Ingrid Betancourt, who’d been in captivity more than six years. But that mission took months to plan and had involved both the Colombian and U.S. military.

The sound of tires on the gravel outside alerted him to Collier’s arrival, and Derrick went to the front door to admit him. He’d sent his housekeeper home early, telling her he’d fix his own dinner tonight. Until Collier advised him otherwise, he was keeping the crisis quiet, fearful that any misstep on his part might further endanger Zoe.

“Hello, Derrick,” Morris said, offering his hand. “How are you holding up?”

“How bad is this?”

“We’ll get her back. But you have to be patient.”

“Where do we start?” He gestured toward his den.

“How about one of those,” his friend replied, glancing at the drink in Derrick’s hand. “Put mine on the rocks.” Morris settled into one of a pair of high-backed padded chairs set before the fireplace. As he took the Scotch, he loosened the perfectly formed Windsor knot in his red silk tie and unbuttoned his double-breasted suit jacket. Morris looked several years older since they’d run into each other at the club. In the past eighteen months, Collier’s hair had thinned considerably, and his face was etched with wrinkles. No doubt the result of his stressful job.

“I’ve contacted one of the foremost experts at this sort of thing,” Morris said. “A few private companies specialize in conducting the lengthy negotiations required for the release of hostages, and Jaime Farnsworth has agreed to take your case. He’s had extensive experience in dealing with the FARC.” Morris pulled one of his business cards from the breast pocket of his suit and wrote a number on the back. “This is his cell. He’ll drop by later tonight and meet with you en route to the airport. He’s booked on your evening flight to Bogota.”

“That’s excellent news,” Derrick said. “You said lengthy negotiations. What are we talking about here? Days? Weeks?”

“Probably months, Derrick. These things take a great deal of back-and-forth. That’s why I told you on the phone you mustn’t be alarmed by their initial fifty-million-dollar demand. They always begin with an outrageous figure. It’s Jaime’s job to negotiate it down to something more reasonable.”

Derrick ran his hand through his hair. “Months?” he repeated, unsure how Zoe might contend with such a long imprisonment. Nothing in her pampered life had prepared her for this. She was a strong, independent woman, but months in captivity would certainly break even her indomitable spirit, not to mention the unspeakable things those bastards might do to her, and the threat of disease and who knew what else.

“There will be some very tough moments, Derrick,” Morris warned him. “Typically they’ll say they’ll torture or even kill her in the early stages of the negotiations. They’ll want a large down payment to guarantee her safety, which you mustn’t give them. If you pay too much, too soon, they will conclude they can ask for the moon. The negotiator will guide you through all this.”

“How can we be certain they won’t just kill her right away?” Derrick asked.

“She’s too valuable to them,” Morris explained. “During the negotiations, Jaime will ask periodically for proof she’s still alive and well. They expect that. Often that proof will come as a video or photograph that can be dated—she’ll be holding a current newspaper or something. But it’s never pretty. The pictures are meant to shock the families into complying with their demands.”

Derrick took a long swallow of his whiskey. “Does this Jaime have any idea what the final figure will be?”

“He estimated, based on his experience and your position, that the negotiated ransom will be somewhere between ten-and twenty-million U.S. in cash.”

Jesus. Derrick had mortgaged most of his considerable assets to keep the airline going. He could raise ten, maybe, by shutting down the company, and solicit another million or two at most from friends, but he could never meet a twenty-million demand.

“I’m pursuing some other avenues that may be of help.” Morris downed the last of his drink and got to his feet. “Contacts within the intelligence community that may be useful. I’ll be in touch.”

 

Seattle, Washington

October 12

The man in Seattle had barely fallen asleep when the bedside phone jangled beside his head. The digital clock said 1:30 a.m., so it had to be the hospital and the news couldn’t be good. He’d kept a vigil beside his wife’s bedside for forty-eight hours and had only reluctantly agreed to his daughter’s demands that he get some rest and allow her to sit with her mother overnight.

“Yes, hello,” he answered, trying to control the tremor of uncertainty and fear in his voice.

“Daddy…” It was his daughter, and she was crying. He gripped the phone tighter. “Daddy… Mom’s… Mom’s gone. She…” More crying. He was crying too, now. “She started coughing up blood. It was everywhere, and they couldn’t stop it. They tried…”

He was already out of bed, reaching for his pants. “I’ll be right there, honey,” he said, his voice breaking. Damn it to hell. Oh, God. She couldn’t be dead. It couldn’t be true. He shouldn’t have left her side. No, he should never have allowed her to go to China with her sisters. But he’d never refused her anything in thirty-two years of marriage.

All three of the women had come back ill. His wife’s sisters really shouldn’t have continued to their homes in Chicago and Cincinnati after staying overnight here. They already had fever and headaches. But they were eager to see their husbands and said they’d rather consult their own doctors. He wasn’t particularly fond of either of them. But he’d call them in the morning. They’d have to be notified. And warned that whatever this flu was they’d all come back with, they should take it seriously.

 

Cali, Colombia

October 12

“You feeling okay, man? You look like shit.”

The driver took two more aspirin, chewing them so they’d work faster, and slumped back in the seat of the truck. He hoped this damn flu he’d gotten would blow over soon. He and his cousin had a full day ahead of them, the long drive to San Jose del Guaviare followed by three dozen deliveries to small groceries scattered throughout the city. His cousin didn’t know the route, and it took both of them to unload the heavy crates of produce.

 

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

October 13

“Try the doctor’s number again,” the chief resident at Kinshasa General Hospital told the nursing supervisor. “We need every available body here. I don’t care how he’s feeling.”

“I’ve tried five times already,” she replied. “He’s not answering. Should I send someone to his house?”

“We don’t have anyone to spare,” he replied, surveying the bustle of activity around the ER. The hallways were lined with patients, in cots and chairs and some even on the floor. The waiting room was jammed as well, and they couldn’t send the overflow elsewhere. Every hospital and every private clinic in Kinshasa had been overrun with patients suffering from this damn illness, and half the medical staff had caught it as well. Two of their best physicians were among the more than five-hundred known dead. Bodies in the morgue downstairs were stacked like cordwood, their relatives too sick or too afraid to claim them.

He thought he’d seen everything in his four decades at the hospital. It had been the first in the world to deal with an outbreak of AIDS, and they’d suffered through Ebola, typhus, Lassa fever, cholera, and other diseases not seen in most of the West. But he’d never experienced anything that killed so many, so fast. Nothing they had tried had been effective against it.

As bad as the situation was, he knew it could only get worse.

 


Date: 2015-01-11; view: 858


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