Chapter Twenty-One

Guaviare Jungle, Colombia

October 21

Fetch groaned as she gingerly extricated herself from her cot and stood to dress. Every muscle in her body ached and she hadn’t had nearly enough sleep. She’d managed a few hours the previous afternoon, thanks to a heavy dose of painkillers and the fact that the camp had been deathly quiet after Barriga’s execution of the two sick boys. But she’d spent most of the night preparing for the escape. And she still had much to do.

Barriga had four guards posted overnight, and they were taking their duties extra seriously because of his unpredictable behavior. Fetch didn’t blame them, but their vigilance had made it difficult to surreptitiously obtain the supplies they needed. She’d had to watch them for hours, waiting for an opportunity to slip from her tent to the kitchen area unnoticed. The right moment came at two a.m., when the guards chanced congregating for a smoke, and probably the opportunity to discuss what had happened.

She had stashed water, rice, beans, and other staples under her cot, in and behind her duffel. Her backpack was stuffed with medical supplies, clothes, a blanket, and the personal items she’d brought from her locker. Fetch was grateful the kitchen had ample supplies. The cook wasn’t likely to immediately notice that a handful of crates at the bottom of several stacks were half empty.

Tonight, she had to get the rest of what they needed from the supply tent. Rucksacks for the hostages and assorted other essentials, including insect repellant, water-purification tablets, a machete, and tarps.

Downing another pair of painkillers before she put on her mask, she left her tent and surveyed the camp. The guards from the night before had been replaced with four new ones. The cook was making breakfast, and a handful of rebels waited for their food or headed into the jungle to relieve themselves. All wore masks and gloves, and no one dared get within fifteen feet of each other.

She slowly walked toward the nearest tent, trying to ignore the persistent ache in her abdomen and the pain that radiated through every muscle and joint when she took a step. “Back away from the entrance,” she called out loudly to the rebel inside, then paused before opening the entrance flap. “How are you feeling?” she asked in Spanish.

“I’m fine. No problems,” the man replied quickly. “I’m not sick.”

She repeated the process at each tent and hut and got the same answers. Even so, she looked carefully at each man and woman for signs of sweating or other symptoms, and spent an equal amount of time visually examining their waste buckets, cots, bedding, and floor for evidence of blood, vomit, or diarrhea.

At the sixth tent, she immediately noticed the lingering and distinctive scent of vomit when she pulled back the flap. She saw no sign of it inside, so the young female rebel had evidently cleaned up her mess and disposed of the evidence. But she was sick, though she denied it vehemently. Her forehead had a sheen of perspiration, and though the morning was cool, she wore only a single layer of clothes.

When she reached the hut that housed the three Italian hostages, Fetch glanced around before she went inside to make sure no one was within earshot.

The parents were huddled together on the floor in one corner, and the daughter sat alone at the far end. “How are you all feeling?” Fetch asked, looking at them one at a time. She never removed her mask anymore in the presence of others. No one could be trusted, especially since they most likely wouldn’t even know if they’d been infected.

“We are all fine,” the father, Tino, answered immediately. “But getting a bit crazy in here.”

“It’s for your own protection. So none of you feel sick?” Fetch asked again.

“How much longer we have to remain indoors?” Tino asked.

“That’s what I came to talk to you about.” In a low voice, Fetch explained what she had planned and that she would come get them that night for the escape. “You cannot say a word to anyone, not even the other hostages. If they find out, they’ll kill us all. Do you understand?”

“Why are you doing this, Doctor?” Marcella asked.

“Because if we stay here, we’ll die.”

Marcella looked at her daughter, then back to Fetch. “But why do you care about us?”

“Is this a trap?” the husband asked.

“The guerrillas don’t need to trap you to kill you,” Fetch replied. “If they want you dead, they just shoot. And if you stay here long enough to get sick, you’ll be worthless to them. This virus can kill within a few days. They will not let you live and put their own lives in danger.”

“Kills in days?” Marcella repeated with alarm.

Fetch nodded. “Let’s hope they find a cure fast.”

The father was clearly still wary. “Why do you want to help us?”

“Because…I just want to,” Fetch said, for lack of a better explanation.

“You are not like them, are you?” Marcella asked.

“No, but we can talk about that after we get out of here.”

Marcella put her hand on her husband’s arm reassuringly. “We will be ready tonight, Medica.”

Continuing her rounds, Fetch found that two more guerrillas among the next dozen she visited also had signs of infection, though like the other rebel they had tried to conceal it and adamantly denied being sick. No one wanted a repeat of the previous day’s events.

Fetch came to Willy’s hut and knocked. The Aussie hostage didn’t answer. Steeling herself, she opened the door and stuck her head inside. Willy was on his hammock, covered in blankets. He appeared asleep but was shaking, his brow sweaty. Damn it. She shut the door without going inside. Willy would never find out about her plans.

The next twenty-two rebel tents yielded three more obvious sick. All denied it, and she didn’t let on she knew they were lying.

At Kylee’s hut she had no answer to her knock there, either, but she really didn’t expect one after her last visit. The Aussie woman had been deteriorating for weeks, both physically and mentally. Fetch stuck her head inside. Kylee was curled up in a corner.

Although she didn’t intend to include this hostage, she needed to say good-bye in her own way. “Kylee,” she whispered loudly, not wanting to startle the already emotionally fragile woman. When she didn’t get an answer or sign of movement, Fetch approached and bent over to get a better look. Kylee was facing away, and it was hard to see much of anything in the dark hut.

With her gloved hand, Fetch touched the woman’s arm. It felt cold and stiff. Fetch turned her over and only then saw dried blood around her mouth, and on her cheek and hair. Fetch turned her back over to face the wall.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Kylee.” Fetch fought back tears. How unfair and cruel to have to die like this. To have to spend the last year of life in this prison and go crazier by the day. Had the rescue mission gone through, it would’ve been too late for this woman to fully recover anyway, even if she had made it back to her previous life.

In war there was no such thing as an unwounded soldier. Only one thing was worse than being killed: being caught and held in captivity. Most hostages and POWs could pull through with the help of family and psychiatrists, and return to at least an imitation of their former selves. But some were too damaged to ever make the mental journey. “You can’t save them all,” Montgomery Pierce had said when she’d returned from a disastrous SAR mission in Gaza. “All you can do is try.” Why was that never any consolation?

She left Kylee, and instead of going to the next tent in order, she detoured to Zoe’s hut. Without knocking this time, she stormed in. “When was the last time you saw Kylee?”

Zoe was in her hammock. She sat up in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Just answer.”

“I don’t know…” Zoe paused, as though trying to remember. “Two days ago.”

“Was she sick?”

“She’s always seemed…unwell.”

“I don’t mean that. Did she show any symptoms of the virus?”

“I don’t know,” Zoe replied, getting out of the hammock. “Why?”

“She’s dead. Has been, for a few hours. Willy’s sick, too.”

Zoe was wearing her mask, but Fetch could see the shock in her eyes. “Oh, my God.”

“Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Fine,” Zoe said defensively. “Look, I’m sorry about—”

“I’ve talked to the Italians. Be ready to move tonight.” She had no time for discussions and apologies. Things were escalating too fast. “I’ll knock on your door when the time comes,” she said, and strode from the hut. She’d been abrupt, but the thought that she might lose someone else, especially Zoe, was too much. She had to get her out of there immediately.

Munich, Germany

October 21

By the time Domino and Allegro returned to their hotel with the digital video from the biocenter security cameras, it was nearly three-thirty in the morning. They still had five or so hours to kill before they could head back to Zimmerman’s apartment complex to begin interviewing his neighbors, so they took turns screening the tapes, allowing the other to catch some sleep.

The task was mind-numbing because they had to go through tape from several cameras: two at the entrances, one mounted down the hallway from Zimmerman’s office, others near the labs and classrooms he went to, and additional ones near the cafeteria and elsewhere that might have picked him up interacting with someone.

Domino took the first shift. She started with the eight a.m. to eight p.m. loop shot by the main entrance camera on October first, the date that Reno had determined was the likeliest period Zimmerman had been infected. Using photos that Reno had sent them from Zimmerman’s driver’s license and passport, she found the professor entering the building at eight twenty a.m., according to the time stamp. He was alone. Consulting her blueprint of the building, she called up the next nearest camera’s tape from the same time period and tracked him heading toward a lab. Using this method, she was able to follow Zimmerman fairly effectively as he went about his day, but it was a time-consuming process. And there weren’t cameras everywhere, so she lost sight of him several times.

In the two-and-a-half hours she had before Allegro relieved her, she was able to find only one occasion when he might have been infected—alone with a student in his office at ten twenty a.m. She captured a still photo of the student and sent it to Reno, to match against the university records for identification.

“Anything?” Allegro asked, as she entered Domino’s suite through their connecting door.

“This’ll take forever,” Domino groused. “I’ve only gotten through the first four hours of the first day.” She got up to stretch. “I sent one possible off to Reno, but I think it’s just one of his students.”

Allegro took the seat she’d just vacated and stared at the laptop. Domino had paused the tape she was watching. It showed an empty hallway, and the time stamp read: 1/10/11 12:10PM “What am I looking at?”

“Last time I had him he was heading back toward his office from the cafeteria. He’ll pass by here en route, I think. Good luck.” She crawled into bed.

Allegro woke her two-and-a-half hours later. “Time to head to the complex.”

“Did you turn up anything?” Domino asked sleepily as she pulled on her boots. She was feeling much more jetlagged than usual on a mission. No doubt, she thought, because she hadn’t slept well before she’d left, worrying about Hayley and anxious about getting their results back.

“Isolated four more photos and sent them to Reno,” Allegro said. “But I think they’re all just faculty members.”

Forty minutes later, they arrived at Zimmerman’s apartment building.

“We split up, we can do this faster.” Allegro pulled on her mask and gloves as they mounted the front steps.

“I’ll start with Zimmerman’s floor,” Domino said, reaching into the back pocket of her trousers for hers. “Call me if you get anything useful.”

Domino began to knock on doors, asking those who answered whether they had seen anything or anyone unusual during the time period they thought Zimmerman had been infected, and she asked whether they’d noticed if he’d been ill. Some of his neighbors refused to open their doors, and at others she got no response at all—meaning the residents were away, ill, or dead. She made notes on them all.

When she stopped at one door at the end of his hallway, a middle-aged man finally answered after she knocked repeatedly. She stepped back automatically when she got a good look at him. He had blood on the front of his pajamas and sweat on his forehead, and he seemed so weak he could barely stand.

Domino quickly ran through her questions, then advised the man to go immediately to the hospital, though they could do nothing for him. Likely he already knew that, which was why he was still at home.

“Anything?” Allegro asked in her ear an hour later.

“Covered his floor, and the floor above,” Domino replied. “Nothing useful.”

“I’m through the first two,” Allegro said. “A lot of not-at-homes. Bag it for now and come back tonight?”

“Meet you downstairs,” Domino said.

Allegro was waiting for her at the entrance, staring out at the empty streets. When she heard Domino approach from behind, she turned to face her. “Hey, I’m starving. How—”

“What is it?”

“Was anybody you talked to infected?” Allegro was uncharacteristically somber, and Domino knew something was up.

“Yes,” she said. “Why?”

“You have a rip in your mask.”

Domino pulled it off and saw a two-inch tear in one side. She’d snagged it on something and hadn’t noticed when she’d put it on. Her heart sank. She headed toward the van, thinking of Hayley and the baby they hoped was on the way. Allegro trailed her.

When she got inside, she pulled a new mask out of the duffel bag and put it on.

“Damn, Luka,” Allegro said when she shut the car door.

Domino stared out the windshield. “Yeah.”

“What if—”

“Keep your mask on around me from now on,” Domino said.

“Fuck.”

October 22

Guaviare Jungle, Colombia

At midnight, the camp was quiet and virtually deserted, except for four guards Fetch could see stationed at the perimeter who stayed far apart from each other. Most of the rebels and hostages had stayed inside their tents and huts all day, emerging only to retrieve their meals, not willing to risk Barriga’s wrath.

After completing her rounds that afternoon, she’d stopped off at the commander’s tent to report the situation unchanged. She refused to tell him she had found one hostage dead and another sick, and a total of fourteen guerrillas showing symptoms. Fortunately, he was apparently too afraid of getting sick to check to see whether she was telling the truth.

Once it had gotten dark, Fetch had used her binoculars to note the positions of the guards and their routine. They were stationary for the most part, but every hour or so, two of them would patrol the camp perimeter. The sky was partially overcast, occasionally obscuring the nearly full moon, so it’d been relatively easy to get what she needed from the supply tent undetected. Now it was time to put her plan into action. Dressed in black fatigues, she snuck again from her tent and slipped past the perimeter between two of the guards.

She carried three rucksacks packed with food, supplies, ammo, and whatever else they might need. After she stashed them in the jungle, she returned for her backpack and a fourth rucksack and hid them with the others.

Carrying her FARC-issued M14 rifle, she approached the guard positioned nearest to the Italians’ hut. “Time for my shift,” she told him.

He mumbled something and took off, looking tired. The other closest guard was to her right, some distance away. She walked over slowly, trying to keep a friendly expression in her eyes since her mouth was covered. After glancing about conspiratorially, she asked, “Have anything to drink?”

“Mine is finished, Medica. How about you?”

“Back there,” she said, pointing to the edge of the jungle.

Although the rebels weren’t allowed to drink when on duty, most did, but some were always more than willing to snitch. And considering recent events, this guard seemed especially leery of having any infractions reported to the commander. “Get it,” he said.

“Not here,” she replied in a low voice. She tilted her head to the right. Another guard had just lit a cigarette, giving away his position fifty feet from where they stood. “Come with me.” She led him away from the other guard, back to her old position, and stepped into the thick jungle.

Fetch picked up her flask and poured some liquid into a cup and handed it to him. When the soldier turned away from her to look at his post while he drank, Fetch smashed the back of his head with her rifle butt and he crumpled to the ground. The constant buzz of insects effectively covered the sound. He was out cold, but she had to make sure he couldn’t come to and sound the alarm. She still had to get the hostages and move them away from the camp.

She brought her heavy army boot down on his head a few times until she was sure he was dead, then dragged his body farther into the jungle into a dense thicket of undergrowth.

Keeping track of the other guards’ positions, Fetch quietly made her way to the Italians’ hut and knocked softly. When the door opened, she motioned for them to be quiet and follow her. After leading them to the beginning of their escape route in the jungle, well out of sight of the guards, she went to Zoe’s hut. Zoe opened when Fetch knocked. She hushed Zoe as well and led her to the others. In silence, she gave each hostage a rucksack and shouldered her backpack.

She pointed in the direction they were headed and led them to one of the faint trails out of camp that was free of booby traps. They’d barely reached it when Fetch detected movement in the leaves several feet in front of her and to the left. She turned and motioned to the hostages to stop and get down. They all immediately complied. She crouched as well and whispered, “Wait here.”

They were crowded close together, and in the faint light penetrating the canopy above, she could make out the fear in their eyes. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered as she set down her rifle and removed a knife from her belt.

Zoe watched the doctor creep cautiously away, the knife at her side shining in the moonlight. They were so close to escaping that the thought of being caught made her want to lose her dinner. She knew all too well what that would mean.

The medic disappeared into the blackness of the undergrowth on one side of the path and Zoe tensed, listening intently, but all she could hear were insects and the distant cry of a bird or animal of some sort. After only a minute or two, the doc reemerged, retrieved her rifle, and motioned them to move on.

The path was wide enough here that Zoe could walk beside the doctor while the others stuck close in a tight group just behind them. But they’d gone only a few more yards when the medic grabbed her arm. “Stay behind me,” she said quietly.

Zoe looked down at the woman’s hand. It was too dark to see well, but the once-pale surgical gloves now appeared black. “Is that blood?” she whispered.

“Not now.”

“Are you all right?” Zoe asked

“It’s not mine,” the doctor answered coldly. “Stay behind me.”

Zoe fell back a step, knowing it had to belong to a guard about to discover them. Had the doc killed him? After the incident with the two boys, Zoe knew all too well these guerrillas killed, and mercilessly. And now the doctor had killed one of her tormentors. Things like this happened only in movies. Seeing someone’s blood on the hands of another was not reality, not her reality.

Could someone live with the fact that they’d killed? Zoe had a hard time believing she could forget, and she’d only witnessed it. What turned a healthy person into one capable of taking a life? It was self-preservation, Zoe thought. If she had to, she’d have probably done the same. Yeah, that was it. The doc wasn’t a killer, per se.

But something in the medic’s eyes just now—the detachment, the emptiness—told her that this woman was no stranger to taking lives. The ease and calculated proficiency with which she drew her knife told Zoe the doctor was as dangerous as all the others. And right now, Zoe was happy to have her on her side.

After a couple of hours of walking, the path narrowed and became almost indiscernible, the brush on either side grazing their rucksacks and slowing their progress. All the hostages, Zoe included, were gasping for air from the exertion in the high altitude.

The medic allowed them five minutes’ rest while she quietly briefed them on how to move most efficiently in the thickets—turning their bodies sideways to slide through the gaps, varying their stride to avoid tangling themselves in the roots beneath. She warned them not to try to use vines or brush to help them up the steeper slopes they would soon face, because much of the vegetation had thorns or sharp spines.

Too soon, they set off again, the doctor allowing them no further rests except brief stops to relieve themselves. More time passed in a blur. They’d been marching for what felt like all night. It was hard for Zoe to tell. All she knew was that the fear and freedom that had pushed them all forward when they started was slowly turning into exhaustion. She didn’t understand how the doc found the energy to keep going, especially after the beating she’d taken the day before.

“What time is it?” Zoe asked the medic.

“Time to keep moving,” she answered without stopping.

Zoe caught up and grabbed her wrist. “We’ve been walking for hours.”

“We can’t stop yet.” The doc shook her off and continued forward, glancing at her watch. “The camp will be up in another forty minutes. It won’t take long for them to realize we’re gone.”

“Please,” Tino pleaded from behind them. “My daughter needs to rest for a little. “She is going to… sprofondare.”

Zoe turned around. Octavia was lagging several feet back from the rest, and she was stumbling rather than walking. In the moonlight Zoe could see how pale she was. “Just a few minutes,” she begged the medic. “You heard Tino. I don’t know what sprofowhatsit means, but she’s about to drop.”

“Collapse,” the doctor replied dryly. “It means collapse.” She stopped so abruptly Zoe crashed face-first into her back. She turned and looked down at her. “You okay?”

Zoe rubbed her already aching nose through her mask. The metallic tang of blood hit her lips. “I think it’s bleeding again.”

The doctor looked past her to the others, who had stopped well back and stood gasping for breath. “Ten minutes,” she said. “Drink, but not too much, and do not share your flask.”

Then she turned her attention to Zoe and looked closely at her face. “Yeah, it’s bleeding.”

Zoe pulled her mask away enough to wipe her nose with her sleeve.

“Wait,” the doc said, letting her backpack drop from her shoulders. She pulled out a fresh pair of surgical gloves and put them on, stashing the bloody ones in a side pocket. She reached into the pack again and withdrew a roll of toilet paper.

Zoe reached to take it but the doctor brushed her hand away. “Let me,” she said, and gently lifted Zoe’s chin.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can. I want to make sure nothing’s fractured.” The medic pulled down Zoe’s bloodstained mask to get a better look. “He got you good.” She was standing so close their bodies were almost touching.

“It was stupid,” Zoe mumbled. “My display of pride with that primate.”

“I won’t argue that. You should be more careful when picking your weapons for survival. Pride is rarely the best option. In the worst case it’ll ruin you. In the best, you always feel ashamed when you fall.”

“I’m sorry I got you hurt.”

“Stop talking and let me see the damage.” The doctor dabbed at her nose and mouth with the softest touch Zoe had ever felt. The unexpected tenderness almost put her in a trance and she couldn’t look away from the medic’s eyes. Her surgical mask covered her beautiful mouth.

“I take it that’s a no,” the doctor said.

Zoe had been so enthralled she’d obviously missed something. “Excuse me, what?”

The doc had put away the toilet paper and was gazing at her with a hint of a smile in her eyes, her hand now cupping Zoe’s face. “I asked if I was hurting you,” she said, stroking Zoe’s cheek with her thumb.

Zoe was aware she was staring. Although she could hear the doctor speak, it took a moment to register the words. “I…um…no, not at all. I must look like a wreck.” She ran her hand over her hair, suddenly self-conscious.

The medic gently placed a new mask over Zoe’s mouth and nose. She was done, but she didn’t move away. “Your nose and upper lip are swollen,” she said. “But otherwise…beautiful.” For a long moment both stood silent, staring at each other.

The doctor stepped back first. “Drink some water. We have to move again.” She sounded almost agitated.

The sky was beginning to lighten. Dawn was fast approaching, and Zoe had never dreaded daylight more. The camp would soon come awake, and it probably would only be a matter of minutes before Barriga knew of their absence. The hunt would start.

Could they pull this off? Zoe couldn’t let herself think otherwise. Not only would they drag her back and hurt her and the other hostages in brutal ways, they would most likely kill the medic on the spot. She watched the doctor’s back as she led them to God knew where. Why was this woman helping them? If she was afraid of getting sick, all she had to do was save herself. Why was she taking the risk of rescuing a bunch of strangers? It didn’t make sense, not that much in her life did at the moment. But this soldier’s actions were far beyond her understanding. She couldn’t imagine watching the doctor die before her eyes.

Zoe looked up as the sun pierced the horizon through the trees ahead. She wasn’t the only one. For a moment, all of them stopped to stare. She turned and looked back at the Italians. Fear was plain in everyone’s eyes.

“Keep moving.” The doctor pushed on again, but veered off the faint trail they’d been following and into the jungle.

“How far are we from where you take us?” Marcella asked from behind Zoe.

“Three or four days’ walk, if we don’t waste too much time with stops,” the medic said over her shoulder.

“Are we going to a town?” Tino asked.

“There’s only one town anywhere close, and it’s days away on foot. We’d never make it,” the doctor replied. “When Barriga finds out we’re missing, he’ll radio every camp in the region, and he’ll be expecting us to go that way. We’d be surrounded and caught within hours.”

“Where, then?” Marcella asked loudly, clearly tired and agitated by the uncertainty of the situation.

“Please keep your voice down,” the doc snapped, half turning to glare at the Italians but never slowing her stride. “We’re going to a safe house. It’s an abandoned shack in a valley, on the other side of the next big mountain. We’ll trick them by moving farther into the jungle.”

“They will not find us there?” Marcella asked.

“Of course not.” Tino said something in Italian that calmed her down.

The daughter, Octavia, hadn’t said a word the entire journey until now. “Do you think they are after us?” she called out from her position at the end of the line.

The barrage of questions was driving Zoe crazy and only increasing her anxiety. Now was not the time to panic or develop second thoughts. She was determined to make it out of this jungle and she refused to allow the Italians’ loud voices and hysteria to stand in her way.

She stopped walking and turned to face them. “Listen, I realize you’re hungry and tired and scared out of your skulls, but you have to keep it together.” She tried to speak softly. “Let the doctor do her job. Distracting her with questions won’t keep us alive. We need her alert.”

Zoe turned back around, ready to start off again. The medic stood with her arms crossed a few feet ahead, staring at her, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Why are you angry with us?” Tino’s voice was as petulant as that of a scolded child. “You do not feel afraid?”

Zoe turned her head to glare at the man. “No, I feel like I caught a rainbow and put it in my pocket,” she shot back, and heard the doctor snicker. “Of course I am. I’m terrified. But I will not allow fear to stand in the way of my freedom. If we’re to stay alive, we have to fight. Now save the third degree for the next stop.”

She pivoted and forged ahead, passing the doc, who’d paused to watch the interaction. Zoe could tell by the medic’s eyes she was smiling. “Wipe that grin off your face and lead the way.”

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 595