Chapter Nine

As the rebel busied herself pouring water into a large bowl and laying out her medical supplies, Zoe studied the woman and her surroundings. The cot she was sitting on was low to the floor and consisted of a thick sleeping bag over hard wood planks, but it was still more luxurious than the cold ground she’d been sleeping on since her abduction. The makeshift nightstand was an old wooden crate set on its side. On top were a pair of candles, in crudely carved wooden candlesticks, and a clear plastic box of assorted toiletries—toothpaste and toothbrush, shampoo, bar of soap, and a tube of insect repellent. Inside the crate were a well-worn olive cap with brim, three pairs of socks, and a pair of camouflage pants, all neatly folded. Beside it sat a well-polished pair of combat boots. How strange. None of the other soldiers seemed to give a damn about their footwear. A pile of dirty clothes was dumped on the end of the cot.

On the other side of the rectangular tent space a small wood table with a warped top held a chipped ceramic pitcher and bowl. On the floor beside it, a newer-looking backpack. The rebel was on her knees, rummaging through the pack for gauze, tape, ointment, and pills.

Zoe tried to reconcile the conflicting signals the woman was giving out. She seemed to have more in common with the male guerrillas than her female compatriots, which is why Zoe had first mistaken her for a man. She had a low voice and was tall—five foot eight or so—with an almost gender-neutral build: firmly muscled thighs, calves, and arms, a flat stomach, and small breasts. While the other female rebels outside clearly strove to maintain their femininity—they were braiding each other’s hair and sharing makeup—this one seemed far removed from such concerns. Her dark brown hair had been cut quite short, in a style more suited for convenience than fashion. She wore no jewelry. And her overall demeanor was cool and businesslike, the professional soldier personified.

Only her face gave away that she was all woman. Her dark brown eyes were doe-soft, and her olive skin was smooth and unblemished. She had a thin, slightly upturned nose and full, pouty lips.

When the woman removed Zoe’s mud-encrusted boots to look at her feet, she worked slowly and carefully, obviously trying to be as gentle as possible.

Zoe couldn’t bear to look. “How bad is it?”

“How bad do they feel?” the woman asked as she painstakingly peeled shredded panty hose from her open wounds.

Zoe winced and bit her lip. “Like someone’s taken a razor to them.”

The rebel stood to retrieve the bowl from the table and a large plastic bag of cotton. “I’ll get them cleaned up and apply some antibiotic. They should feel better in a couple of days.” She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Zoe and began to wash the blood and mud from her wounds.

“How long will I be here?”

“Can’t say,” the rebel replied without looking up from her task. “Maybe a week, maybe two.”

“Just two more weeks before I’m out of this hellish nightmare?” Zoe repeated, more to herself than the woman tending her cuts. A couple more weeks she could do in her sleep, especially if they weren’t marching her through the jungle all day and all night. The news was such a welcome surprise she felt almost giddy. But the euphoria was short-lived.

The woman paused and looked up at her. Zoe sensed from the regret and sadness in her eyes that bad news was coming. “Before they move you to another camp.”

Her heart sank all the way to her painful feet. “But surely all this will be resolved by then.”

“No, it won’t.”

“How can you know? I’m certain my father is already in the process of transferring you the money.”

The rebel continued to gently bathe her wounds. “It’s not that simple.” Her responses were detached and cool, but not unkind. At least she was answering Zoe’s questions, while the other rebels had all ignored her.

“What do you mean?”

She paused again to regard Zoe carefully. “That it takes time.”

“Why? How much?” None of this made sense. The process seemed simple and straightforward. Ask for ransom, get ransom, and everyone moves on.

“Can’t tell.”

Zoe gripped the edge of the cot to stem her frustration. “Why is everyone being so bloody evasive?”

The woman ignored her question. “Does this hurt?” she asked as she smoothed antibiotic ointment over Zoe’s tortured feet.

“No.” The salve stung like hell, but she refused to admit it. “So, you’re the…” What had the rebel chief called her? “The medica?”

“Yes.”

That probably explained why the woman seemed brighter than most of her confederates, also why she treated the hostages with more dignity and caring. “Have you studied medicine?”

“You could say that.”

The cagey answer piqued her curiosity. Why would a licensed physician choose to spend her life in such extreme, deplorable conditions? “To what do you owe your fluent English?”

The doctor looked up at her. “You ask too many questions.”

Zoe sighed. “It doesn’t seem to make a shite of a difference, since no one answers them.”

To her surprise, the doctor said, “I studied general medicine in the States.”

That tidbit was even more intriguing. Zoe had a hard time picturing this woman sitting in a classroom in a U.S. medical school, chatting casually with colleagues, then deciding to set up a practice in a jungle guerrilla camp. Something was fishy. “How did you end up here?”

“Circumstances,” the doctor replied, as she unfurled a length of gauze and began to wrap Zoe’s feet. “And the cause,” she added.

“What cause are you talking about?” she snapped. “Kidnapping, torturing, and robbing people of their hard-earned money? Have you lot ever considered the option of decent hard work like the rest of us?”

“Is that what you call what you do for a living, Zoe?” There was challenge in the doctor’s voice, and it was the first time she’d called her by name. “Because I don’t think partying qualifies as hard work.”

The remark, and the realization this backwoods doctor dropout had any clue about who she was, stunned Zoe. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know what I see and read,” the woman said. “Maybe the next time you decide to vacation in this part of the world, you should avoid making headlines.”

Zoe tried to mask her shock at hearing that the damn tabloids had made it halfway around the planet, to the Colombian interior, no less. It was bad enough that she had to deal with condemnation and scorn from her so-called peers, but to have a bloody terrorist dress her down like this? Unbelievable. “How I choose to live is my own damn business.”

“Sad, yet true,” the doctor replied in that same infuriatingly accusatory tone. “But if acting like a sex-deprived debutante is your idea of hard work, don’t act surprised when people are alerted to your decent existence.”

“How dare you presume to…to…” Zoe stuttered. She was furious. “And even if that were true, it still doesn’t give you the right to abduct me. You…you—”

“Call me Doc,” the rebel interjected, as she finished taping the gauze around Zoe’s feet.

But Zoe wouldn’t be stopped from telling this woman exactly what she thought of her, consequences be damned. “You…presumptuous, money-grabbing, filthy…baboon.”

“I would opt for the first,” the doctor calmly suggested. “It’s easier.” She threw a pair of socks at Zoe and set her spare combat boots beside her on the cot. “These should be closer to your size.”

Zoe was still so boiling over with outrage she refused to move. As she tried furiously to come up with some clever comeback, the doctor stood and drew back the tent flap at the entrance. Two guerrillas with rifles were waiting outside.

“Hop to, princess,” the doc said. “We need the daylight for your photo shoot.”

As she waited for Zoe to emerge from the tent, Fetch tried to reconcile their exchange with her assessment of the Brit from the media.

Her resolve to dislike the pampered, self-indulgent heiress was softening. She felt sorry for Zoe, even respected her a little. Though her feet would heal without permanent damage, they were bad enough to cause a lot of discomfort. But when Zoe strode out with her boots on, head held high, she did an excellent job of concealing how much pain she most certainly was enduring. Maybe, Fetch considered, there was more to the princess than met the tabloids.

But that didn’t change the fact that Zoe presumed herself untouchable. Like Daddy’s money would fix any trouble she got in to. She had an air of this all being just a temporary setback, rather than the dire situation it was. So be it. Fetch hadn’t been hired to put up with rich-bitch tantrums. Zoe wasn’t even one of the hostages assigned to her rescue mission. All she could do was to try to subtly advise her on how to act so that she might stay alive long enough to get out of here. How she was treated in the meantime would be entirely up to her.

The pair of armed guerrillas led them back to the chief’s tent. Barriga emerged and pointed to a large rock and told Zoe to sit on it. To Fetch’s relief, Zoe did as she was told. Barriga handed the woman a copy of USA Today, dated the previous day, and told her to hold it up. Then he walked over to Fetch and handed her a Polaroid camera.

Fetch positioned herself about three feet away and carefully framed the photo to make sure the newspaper was legible. Just as she snapped the picture, Zoe’s expression changed from serious to arrogant. Not the look Barriga wanted. The hostages were supposed to look terrified to get the desired reaction from their families. Barriga stood behind Fetch and patiently waited for the picture to appear.

“Did you get my good side?” Zoe asked.

Barriga cursed under his breath when the picture finally cleared.

“Damn it,” Fetch whispered under her breath, knowing what was about to happen.

Barriga stomped angrily over to Zoe and smacked her hard across the face. Then he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. He leaned over so his mouth was almost on hers. “Maybe I have been too good,” he said in English. “Maybe you are not worth my time.” He straightened, took a rifle from one of his aides, and pointed it at her temple. “Maybe I should kill you. Or tie you to a tree for a week.” He cocked the weapon and glanced over at Fetch. “What do you think, Medica?”

Fetch pursed her lips, as though considering the possibilities, and forced herself to wait a few seconds before answering. “I think she gets one more chance,” she replied, trying to sound casual.

“Last chance, bitch.” Barriga kept the rifle aimed at Zoe’s temple, but retreated a few steps to be out of camera range.

Fetch snapped another picture and pulled it out of the camera. Several seconds later, the image of a terrified and bedraggled Zoe slowly started to appear.

Barriga gave the rifle back to his aide and came over to look at the picture. “Muy buena.” He took the camera and photo and glanced over at Zoe, whose expression hadn’t changed. “Give her some food,” he told Fetch in Spanish, before retreating back inside his tent.

Zoe got up, a bit unsteadily, and Fetch went to her. She felt sympathy for the Brit, but she had to be put in her place. Did she really think these people would let her get away with her juvenile, recalcitrant behavior? They’d shot hostages for a lot less. The only reason Zoe was still alive was the promise of a fast, fat ransom. Fetch hoped she’d been scared into submission, because she was already getting tired of Zoe’s misplaced sense of entitlement.

She was encouraged when Zoe fell wordlessly into step beside her as she headed toward the cook tent. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“What do you think?” Zoe shot back.

Fetch stopped and turned to her. They were far enough away so no one would hear them. “That you should learn when to keep your mouth shut,” she said in a low voice. “Your attitude will make being here a lot harder.”

“Maybe you were born to take orders, be a good little soldier and do as you’re told,” Zoe said angrily. “But I—”

“You what? Listen to nothing but your self-absorbed self?” Although Zoe had no idea who Fetch really was, she’d hit the nail on the head, and that bothered her. In a sense, she had been born to be a soldier. Though it hadn’t been her choice initially, she was a good one because she believed in what she did. At least she fought for ideals, not a good slot for her weekly manicure.

“What is your problem?” Zoe snapped. “Does my privileged background offend your collective beliefs that much? Are you blaming me for having money? I work for it, you know.”

“Your father works for it.”

“And I work for him,” Zoe insisted. A flush of pink colored her pale, mud-stained cheeks, but Fetch couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or embarrassment.

Fetch crossed her arms across her chest. “Let me guess. He’s put you in a comfortable office and given you some comfortable task to justify your comfortable, overpriced existence.”

“Do you realize how absurd this conversation is? And have you any idea how tired I am of having to justify myself, when you don’t know a good God damn thing about me?” Zoe laughed, a condescending snicker of disapproval. “I mean, look at you. You steal, kidnap, and maybe even kill. Yet somehow, you’ve convinced your twisted self that you’re better than me.” She laughed again. “You probably fancy yourself some kind of bleeding Robin Hood, when everyone knows you’re all nothing but a bunch of cocaine dealers.”

It was an accurate assessment of the FARC, and probably the first thing out of Zoe’s mouth that she agreed with. But Fetch could say nothing to set her straight about her own motivation without exposing her real identity. If Zoe had said this to any of the real guerrillas, particularly the men, they’d have been so offended they’d probably have hit her, or worse. So to make her role believable, Fetch couldn’t remain silent. As much as she hated it, she had to defend the rebels and their lifestyle. “That’s the world’s misconception about who we are and what we fight for. All we want is equality. We are tired of watching the majority of our people live in poverty while the few live like kings. Our children die of hunger in the streets every day, and our politicians, together with the Colombian army, make us look like amateurs.” Fetch hated every lousy excuse coming from her mouth.

“Oh, cry me a river,” Zoe said. “Yes, your country is poor and your government corrupt. But trafficking in cocaine and hurting innocent people is still not right. What kind of animals kidnap and kill not only foreigners, but even their own?”

Fetch knew she was right. She had no rebel-textbook answer to reasonably justify these radical groups. “I can see how it would be impossible for someone like you to comprehend,” she said. “Carmen is giving manicures after dinner. Go join them. I’m sure that’s something you do understand.”

“You know, I’d rather have you think I’m a superficial twit than a homicidal drug dealer,” Zoe said, “which is exactly what I think of you.”

Fetch wasn’t sure why, but the description hurt. She had spent her life protecting people from exactly the sort of injustices she’d just been accused of. She would never be recognized for her deeds, since all assignments were covert and all accomplished missions credited to governments and official agencies. But to be accused of such atrocities, even if out of ignorance, felt painfully unfair.

Though she’d never really talked at length to any of the hostages she’d interacted with during her time in the FARC, she was rather certain that all of them felt the same as Zoe. She’d gone out of her way and risked her cover on many occasions to keep them safe, but always secretly—sneaking food to them while they slept, or an extra blanket. They couldn’t know who was helping them, because they might use that information as a bargaining chip with the chiefs.

But even if all the hostages did view her the same, Fetch probably would’ve had an easier time taking criticism from any one of them but Zoe. The others were mostly humanitarians—people giving back to the world. Or policemen, or honest judges and politicians—all of whom risked their lives to protect and help those too poor to have a voice in their future. But, no, she had to be put down by a self-important, overindulgent hedonist. Someone so far removed from her own reality and values it was almost surreal. “You wouldn’t understand any cause that didn’t include party decorations,” she told Zoe. “Because you don’t understand—”

“Because I don’t know the real you? The deep and profound makeup of the complicated existence that led you to your choices? No, I don’t. But screw you for judging me when you don’t have those insights into my life either.” Zoe turned to walk away, but she’d taken only a couple of steps when she pivoted to face Fetch again. Her face was red from fury. “I may be everything you despise,” she said, closing the distance between them again. “But I,” she pointed her thumb at herself, “contrary to you,” she pointed at Fetch, “have never tortured or killed anyone.”

There was fire in Zoe’s clear blue eyes, and they were standing so close to each other, Fetch couldn’t look away.

“How about you, soldier?” Zoe said, the last word dripping sarcasm. “Have you ever killed? Or stood by, watching while it happened? How did it feel to look down at that innocent, lifeless body? Was it a woman like me? Did you look her family in the face to tell them you were responsible for their daughter’s death? More important, did it help your cause?”

Fetch knew this woman had no idea what she was talking about, but she’d just touched a sensitive place. A place she hadn’t chosen to visit in a long time. In a matter of seconds, she was back in that dreadful dilapidated house, taking cover behind a wall while she proposed to Sam. Again she was caught in that horrible limbo between present and past. That painful place where she was aware of the tragedy to come but helpless to change it.

She was so far away she’d forgotten her present surroundings until she felt someone’s breath on her neck. Zoe’s face was mere inches from hers.

“I didn’t think so,” Zoe said. “So don’t make my existence sound so wrong. At least I don’t rob anyone of theirs.”

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 747