Guaviare Jungle, Colombia

October 18

Zoe’s stomach rumbled as she peered out through the gap between the boards of her hut, watching the other hostages line up at the kitchen tent. Her hunger and thirst had become so acute that she’d pay anything for a simple glass of water and gladly suffer another plate of the gooey beans and rice she’d eaten two days prior. She’d been furious at the rebel doctor for nearly force-feeding her, but the woman had done her a huge favor. Without that nourishment, her only real meal in days, she’d probably have been too weak by now to even attend to her most basic needs.

As the doctor had predicted, her initial refusal to eat had repercussions. The whole next day she’d been ignored. No one had come near her hut or even acknowledged her screams and curses of protest. Besides denying her food and water, they hadn’t come to empty her waste bucket so the hut reeked of her own excrement. And the bandages on her feet badly needed changing. For a short while, after the doctor’s treatment, they’d begun to feel a little better. But she’d moved around so much the day before they’d begun to bleed again, and the restraint had rubbed her left ankle raw. Now she could barely stand without excruciating pain.

“Please!” she shouted, to no one in particular. Her tongue was swollen, her mouth parched. “This is inhumane! I need food and water!”

No one answered or even looked her way. If they ignored her for another day, she would be in serious trouble.

The doctor might have helped. Though judgmental, she seemed more compassionate than the rest of these animals. And other things set her apart from the other rebels Zoe had come in contact with since her kidnapping. The medic was definitely less coarse and crude, and more intelligent—her English was quite fluent. But Zoe hadn’t seen the woman since the night before last. Perhaps she’d been sent to another camp. If so, Zoe had no one to turn to.

The line for food got shorter, and still no one came to get her. She had about given up hope when the rebel chief gestured her way while talking to another guerrilla, a stocky, bearded man. The second man nodded and headed toward her hut.

“About time,” she murmured under her breath as the rebel entered and bent to release her from her ankle cuff. He yanked the chain violently, which pulled her off her feet and sent her crashing to the dirt. Pain shot up her shoulder when she hit the hard ground, but she said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt her.

He smiled anyway and unlocked the restraint, then jerked her to her feet with an iron grip around one bicep. Pushing her along, he shoved her through the doorway and she fell again. The man only leered down at her with a laugh, and the rebels watching them joined in, amused at her plight.

She wanted to scream at them but held her tongue, knowing any further protests would only abort any chance she had at food and water. She got shakily to her knees, but before she could get to her feet the rebel again clamped his hand around her arm, this time dragging her toward the kitchen fire pit.

Once there, he released her and returned to his companions.

Zoe gathered her remaining strength and struggled to stand. Her hand shook as it reached into the wooden crate for a bowl and spoon. Three rebels were ahead of her in line. Could she stay upright long enough to get to the cooking pot? When she did, the same cook in her filthy apron watched Zoe as she scooped out a ladle of foul-smelling soup for herself. Her bowl was only half full, so she reached for another, but the cook barked something in Spanish and grabbed the ladle. Zoe held back a retort, then greedily downed a big gulp of the greasy concoction before making her way unsteadily toward a nearby stump to sit.

She had to get out of here. The rebels obviously didn’t care whether their hostages lived or died. The prospect of spending months, maybe years in these conditions, suffering under this brutality, was inconceivable. When she finished her soup, she staggered toward a makeshift table where four of the other hostages were huddled, talking in low voices. Marcella, the Italian woman she’d met; Willy, the tall blond Australian; and the dark-haired man and young woman she guessed were father and daughter.

“How are you?” Marcella asked gently as she joined them.

“Not so great.”

The Italian woman held out her flask of water, and Zoe drank from it greedily. “Thanks.”

“In the beginning, they are very hard on new people,” Marcella said. “They want to break you so you will be quiet. Not cause trouble or try to escape. It is best to go along, or you will only make things more difficult for yourself.” She turned to the dark-haired strangers sharing her bench. “This is my husband, Tino, and my daughter Octavia.” Both acknowledged Zoe with sympathetic smiles.

“These people are animals.” Zoe drained the meager remnants of her soup. “I had no idea people could be so cruel.”

Willy, the blond Aussie, snorted. “Doubt you have any real idea yet of what these whackers are capable of. Cut your throat if ya look at ‘em wrong.” He had a bit of soup left in his bowl, as did Tino, and both men silently pushed them toward Zoe. She accepted the offerings with a smile of thanks and gulped those down, too.

“Some are worse than others,” Marcella said. “That one there…” She nodded toward a brutish hulking rebel with a pot belly. “Don’t be alone with him if you can help it. Or him.” She indicated another man with a subtle glance left. “They are the worst. They will hurt you if you do not let them…do things.”

The implication was clear. The threat of rape was something Zoe hadn’t dared consider. She shuddered. “Have you…did they…?” How did you ask someone such a thing?

“Not me. Or my daughter. I think because Tino is here. But Kylee…she has suffered much.”

“I can’t protect her.” Willy’s hands tightened into fists. “They keep her isolated most of the time on the other side of camp.”

“Kylee?” Zoe remembered the painfully thin blond woman she’d seen when she arrived.

“Kylee and I were working for a humanitarian-aid group when we were taken,” Willy said. “She’s in a bad way. Doesn’t talk much now and might lose her leg, I think, if they don’t get her out of here soon. Bad infection.”

“Where is the doctor?” Zoe asked. “Why isn’t she taking care of her?”

“I heard one of the rebels say she was sent to another camp to treat someone. She’s done what she can, I reckon,” Willy replied. “She’s really just a medic, and she doesn’t have a lot in the way of supplies. Kylee needs to be in a hospital.”

“Is the doctor coming back?” Despite her irritation with the woman, Zoe fervently wished she were still here.

“Non lo so… I don’t know,” Marcella said. “Everyone—rebels and hostages—we all get moved. No one says to us when or to where.”

Zoe scanned the camp, noting the positions of the guards at the perimeter. “Has anyone ever escaped from here?”

“It is suicide to try,” Tino said in a thick Italian accent. “There are traps and guards everywhere, and they will track you easily. If they do not shoot you on the spot, they will make things even worse for you. They had two Colombian policemen here when I arrived, and they tried to escape. One was killed, the other was starved to death. Besides, even if you made it away, where would you go? There is nothing here but jungle. You would not survive. Believe me, if I could get my family out of here, I would.”

Zoe’s depression deepened. Until she was released or found a way to escape, she would have to make the best of it. “I’ll go crazy being cooped up all day, chained like a dog, without even the bare necessities. And I’m so filthy I can’t stand myself.”

“That will change once you stop fighting them. You’ll be given work to do—find wood, work with crops and animals, keep the fire going. It will pass the time and get you out of your hut,” Marcella replied. “And they do take us to the river to wash now and then.”

“If you want things like a comb, toothbrush, or candle,” Willy said, “you can usually get them. But they’re special favors for those who work hard and don’t complain or make trouble. Sometimes you have to give something in return,” he added vaguely, looking uncomfortable. “At another camp I was at, a few even got books, pillows, and radios. The radios were a real luxury, because sometimes we could hear messages from family and friends. They play ‘em on a station in Bogota.”

To hear her father’s voice saying that he loved her and was working to get her free would certainly help keep her sane. But was she willing to become a docile sheep?

She stared at two ants, making their way to the few crumbs on the table. Probably left over from the night before, since she hadn’t seen any bread served this morning. She gently coaxed one onto her finger and watched the disoriented struggle as it tried to make its way back to the familiar surface of warm wood. Her skin was probably just as foreign to the creature as this environment was for her.

Did the bug realize that whether it got to eat, live, or die was up to the human holding it? Strange how their lives were on a disturbingly similar path.

Zoe rested her hand on the table and the ant ran toward the morsel. It was almost there when a big hand came down from behind her and crushed it.

The soldier grabbed her roughly by the arm. “You get wood now.”

Zoe didn’t move. She was so upset by the bug’s brutal end, the sad finality of its fate, after it struggled so hard to get to the food that would sustain it, that she didn’t register the pain in her arm. She looked up at the soldier hovering over her and wanted to hurt him, scream, and run. She wanted to be put back down too, so that she could return to her life. But she feared that if she tried to fight she would end in the same crushing manner. She wasn’t prepared to die, and just like that little ant, she’d do anything to get back on her own path.

Zoe stood up. “Of course,” she said, and the soldier poked her toward the jungle with his rifle. If bowing to these men was what it took to hear her father’s voice over the radio, to help her stay focused on her own morsel of hope, that’s exactly what she’d do.

London, England

October 19

As the clock on his mantel chimed the half hour, Derrick stared out the window of his den at the darkness beyond. Dawn was still two hours away. He’d tried to catch some sleep, but whenever he shut his eyes he could only picture Zoe and imagine the worst. Her terrified expression in the proof-of-life photo was burned into his brain. Colombia was six hours behind London, so it was eleven-thirty p.m. there now. He prayed that Zoe was sleeping soundly, finding some brief escape from her real-life nightmare in a pleasant dream.

He paced, full of restless energy, waiting for the phone to ring with an update from the negotiator Jamie Farnsworth. Something was wrong. He could feel it. If the scheduled radio contact with the FARC had happened as planned, surely there would be some news to relate by now.

When the phone finally pealed, Derrick snatched it up before the second ring. “I’m here. How is she?”

“Sorry, Derrick.” It was Collier Morris. “Farnsworth hasn’t called you, then, I take it?”

“No. Not yet. Is this a bad sign? It’s been an hour since they were supposed to make contact, and Jaime said the rebels usually keep these things fairly brief for security reasons.”

“I wouldn’t worry until there’s reason to, Derrick. It could be any number of things. Radio interference. Maybe they’re doing a back-and-forth every few minutes, which could be a positive sign. Or perhaps the rebel negotiator deliberately missed the appointed time. They do that sometimes, to make the families sweat. Make them more anxious so they’ll pay the asking price.”

“I feel so helpless just sitting around here.” He’d wanted to go to Bogota, but Morris and Farnsworth both had advised against it. “Can’t I do something to speed this up? I mean, of course I’m trying everything possible to raise as much as I can for the ransom, but surely I can do something.”

“I know it’s difficult, but try to be patient. These things take time. Your focus is right where it needs to be, on raising the money.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, Derrick,” Morris finally said. “And I can’t go into specifics. But let’s just say I know of some contacts who are trying to help. Contacts well-positioned to find out exactly where Zoe’s being held. And perhaps ensure she’s kept safe and looked after, as much as possible, until her release.”

“What are you saying? That these contacts are actually with her, right now?”

“No. I don’t know that,” he replied. “Like I said, I don’t want to get your hopes up. But just know more’s going on than just Jamie’s negotiations. Speaking of which, we’d better keep this line free so he can reach you. I’ll ring you later. Stay strong.”

Derrick was relieved that Collier’s high-level position in the intelligence community was getting them expert behind-the-scenes help to keep Zoe safe. But it didn’t lessen his anxiety about why he hadn’t heard from his man in Bogota.

To pass the time, Derrick switched on the television and tuned to the BBC. This global pandemic was worrisome. His airline was suffering staggering losses as the virus spread and people stopped flying. He’d have trouble finding a buyer if he had to sell Skye Lines to pay the ransom, and the value of the company was shrinking by the day. Some of his own employees had been infected.

Most troubling, the virus was racing through Colombia. It was far worse there than in Britain, and Zoe might become infected. However, Farnsworth had said she was most likely being held in a remote mountain location, many miles from the hard-hit cities. That should lessen her chances of becoming a victim. Of course she would be far from any adequate medical help, not that doctors anywhere seemed to be able to keep people from dying.

He tried not to picture Zoe lying on some godforsaken filthy cot in the jungle, wretchedly sick and coughing up blood like the victims on television. And perhaps even dying there, alone, her body dumped into an unmarked shallow grave. But the images persisted, driving him nearly mad.

When the phone rang again, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Jamie Farnsworth got straight to the point. “They’ve reduced the ransom demand from fifty million to forty. It’s only a token concession, and about what I expected at this early stage. They’re still demanding two million immediately to ensure her safety. I countered with a quarter of a million; they’re considering that and will call me back in an hour. We should give them something in return for the proof of life, but it has to be a fraction of what they’re asking. As I told you before, if we give them too much too soon, the FARC will drag this out for months or years. And they’ll be much less willing to come down on the final number.”

Farnsworth’s counteroffer was roughly one hundred sixty-five thousand pounds. Derrick had stretched himself so thin to keep the company going that even this initial down payment would nearly empty his bank account. But he’d call his bank when it opened and ask a few friends for some short-term loans, if the rebels demanded more. “Did they say any more about Zoe’s condition?”

“I’m afraid not,” Farnsworth replied. “Nothing beyond the usual bullshit that a quick payment will ensure her safety. I told them we’d require another proof of life when we wire the money, and further proof every week until this situation is resolved.”

“I need her out of there, Jaime. Time is critical with this damn virus sweeping through Colombia.”

“I know that, Derrick. I’m seeing it all around me.” Derrick detected the first hint of worry in Farnsworth’s normally placid tone. “At least I got them to agree to a contact every twenty-four hours, instead of every three days,” he said. “That’s something. I’ll call you when I know more.”

Derrick hung up and went to his desk drawer to withdraw the proof-of-life photo. Slumping into the chair, he traced his fingertips lightly over Zoe’s image, stroking her face. Then he broke down, wailing aloud and slamming his fist against the desk so hard that a loud knock soon sounded on the door. His housekeeper, awakened in her room one floor above.

“Mister Howe? Are you all right, sir?”

No, I’m not all right, he wanted to scream. Nothing will ever be right until she’s safe at home with me again.

Chapter Fourteen

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 672