They journeyed on, relentlessly, crisscrossing trails, possibly even doubling back to confuse the UN team members.
Then they came to a river so swollen with rain it had carved a gorge of boiling, rushing water. Their only way to cross it
was via a box, drawn by pulleys across a steel cable.
Hell, why not?
Lucy thought, choking down the sudden, near hysterical urge to laugh as she met Gus’s grave gaze. “Fire with fire,” she said
to him in Spanish, earning quizzical looks from the others.
By the time they stepped onto land on the other side, S¸ ukruye had nearly fainted from fear, and even Lucy felt weak in the
knees. Having left the mules behind, they were forced to walk again, into a jungle that grew increasingly dark.
Her stomach began to burn from hunger, yet they neither spoke nor stopped for food. The only sound besides the splashing and
stamping of their feet was the incessant chatter of jungle creatures. Higher and higher they climbed, into the deepening gloom.
An exchange between the FARC leaders broke the silence. Suspending the march, they decided to make camp, right there in the
thick of the jungle.
Let the bugfest begin,
thought Lucy, scratching at half a dozen bug bites on her neck.
Gus scooped a glob of dirt off the trail and smeared it on his face. “Here,” he said, offering some to Lucy. “It’ll keep the
bugs off.”
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Mud? Are you kidding?”
“What’s worse? A little mud, or malaria?”
He was right, of course. With a shudder, she accepted the glob of cold soil and applied it delicately to her face and neck.
The rebels, in the meantime, had hacked a clearing with their machetes. Lashing bamboo together with vines, they built platforms
for their guests, stringing hammocks for themselves around the periphery of the camp. A fire was lit to boil the rice and
quickly snuffed out.
Huddled on their platforms, each team member was offered a cup of rice to eat and a sweet beverage of boiled sugar cane called
panela.
With nightfall came the emergence of still more insects—buzzing, whirring, and screeching until Lucy longed to cover her
ears.
They were ordered to relieve themselves and go to sleep.
Lying on their bamboo bed, shivering with cold, and soaking wet, Lucy felt nothing but relief when Gus pulled her on top of
him. She shuddered silently against him, shamelessly absorbing his body heat.
“How’s the hip?” he whispered in her ear, placing a gentle hand over the area in question.
“Fine.” It had hurt until he touched it, his hand warm and soothing.
“Your feet?” he breathed. “Any blisters?”
Her feet were used to worse punishment than a hike. “Nope,” she assured him, cringing as a flurry of wings tickled her cheek.
God, she hated camping! “Could you find your way back?” she heard herself whisper.
“It’d take me a while,” he admitted. “It’s too late to change your mind now, Luce,” he added.
“I haven’t,” she assured him.
“Good. Try to sleep,” he urged in a voice too quiet for anyone else to overhear. “Tomorrow I’ll search you for leeches and
jungle ticks.”
Lucy’s breath caught. “You’re kidding right?”
“Sadly, no.”
She grew conscious of every squirming, creeping thing around her. Wilderness stretched for miles in every direction. An ancient
and instinctive fear rose up in her as she considered the possibility of a jaguar lurking close by.
Snapping her eyes shut, she tried to melt into the solid warmth of the man holding her. With her stomach still hungry, she
doubted she would sleep any better tonight than she had the night before. Out here, there was nowhere to run.
Midmorning the following day, the trail ended abruptly, spilling the guerrillas and UN peace-keepers into a partial clearing.
A handful of buildings stood in a thin, wet mist. Chickens pecked aimlessly in the mud. What was probably once the farm of
a
campesino
had been commandeered by the FARC’s forty-eighth front and turned into an outpost, the perimeter of which was guarded by
a fifty-caliber machine gun.
Soldiers at the camp, mostly bedraggled teens, meandered out of a lean-to to eye the gringos as they staggered with relief
toward the burning campfire.
“Are the hostages kept here?” S¸ukruye whispered, betraying her ignorance. Still suffering the effects of altitude sickness,
she held her head in her hands.
“Probably not,” Fournier replied, sweeping the area with a practiced eye.
Lucy met Gus’s eye. She was certain they were not. The camp had an air of restfulness about it. With several targets standing
on one end of the clearing, it appeared to be a training camp, only there was no training going on now.
“Who’s that?” Carlos asked as a light-skinned gentleman ducked out of a leaf-covered bungalow to approach them. He wore the
same camouflage as the rebels, but his fair complexion and hesitant demeanor set him apart. Nor was he armed with any weapon.
They all converged by the fire where Comandante Marquez made introductions. “This is Señor Álvarez,” he explained, which told
them nothing. “He was brought in to represent the FARC in this negotiation. You may begin the process at once.” He gestured
to a brick and clay structure with a screen door. “Step into the officers’ quarters.”
The clatter of a generator and the light shining inside made the hooch a welcoming sight. Lucy’s confidence edged aside her
misgivings. This was why she was here in this godforsaken jungle. Gus might have the advantage with his knowledge of the environment,
but no one was better at reading people. She could interpret the smallest of nuances, the flicker of private thoughts, the
flutter of eyelashes—details most people overlooked. It was a gift that couldn’t be taught, inherited from her father, making
her the best.
Once inside, Fournier insisted on more personal introductions. The thin, dapper Álvarez turned out to be an Argentine businessman
with pipelines in northern Colombia. He explained that he was being forced to play middleman between the FARC and the UN or
risk having his pipelines attacked.
Lucy’d had no idea a middleman was needed, but it made sense. The FARC’s front commander, Rojas, wouldn’t want to show his
face to outsiders.
As they helped themselves to mismatched chairs around a worn table, she and Gus took stock of the single room, seeking items
that might offer clues as to Barnes and Howitz’s location.
The only other furnishings besides the table were a desk and a set of bunk beds. Stacked on the desk were several books of
Marxist leanings, a worn notebook, and a pen. A shortwave radio had been left on the windowsill. Catching Gus’s eye, Lucy
made certain he’d seen it.
With tact and consideration for Álvarez’s unwilling involvement, Fournier got the meeting under way. “Have you seen the hostages?”
he inquired.
“No, no,” said the Argentine. “I arrived here only last night. Before that I was at my home in Buenos Aires.”
“Then please take our request for proof of life to the FARC leader—I believe his name is Rojas? When will you see him?”
“Soon, I suppose,” said Álvarez.
Lucy slid a casual glance at Gus. This business of negotiations could take weeks, even months to accomplish. They had to find
Howitz and Barnes before the batteries for their phone ran out—before Howitz and Barnes succumbed to the cruelty of their
captors.
“We cannot proceed, you understand,” Fournier insisted, “until we have proof of life.”
“I understand,” said Álvarez, looking gloomily overwhelmed.
With nothing else to accomplish, they basked in the luxury of electricity until Marquez leaned into the doorway, suspending
conversation. “I will take you to Rojas,” he said to Álvarez.
“How long will that take?” Fournier dared to ask.
Marquez didn’t answer. As the screen door banged shut, the UN team members stood uncertainly, trailing Álvarez out. “Deputy
Buitre will assume command till my return,” Marquez announced as he swung a pack onto his back. “In the meantime, you will
sleep there.” He pointed to the bamboo-and-thatch bungalow from which Álvarez had emerged earlier.
Leaving Buitre with last-minute instructions, Marquez marched off with the Argentine, plus a small detachment of soldiers,
back the way the UN team had just come.
Had they passed Rojas’s camp on the way here? Lucy wondered. What about the hostages? Maybe they’d walked right by them without
even realizing.
Buitre swaggered toward them, suspending her thoughts. A ripple of unease ran through the team members as he hitched his trousers
in a gesture of self-importance.
“
Oigan,
” he commanded.
Listen up.
“If any of you cause mischief, I will lock you in there.” He pointed to a shed standing some distance from the camp. It appeared
so rotten and dilapidated that it might collapse at any moment. “It is filled with hornets and rats. Stay out of my way,”
he added. With a dark look, he turned and stamped into the building they’d just evacuated to enjoy his electricity and, presumably,
to rest.
The UN team members looked at one another.
“What shall we do?” the Italian asked.
“Let us have a look at our accommodations,” Fournier suggested, leading S¸ukruye by the arm. Bellini followed them, but the
three Spaniards—Carlos, Luna, and Gustavo—remained outside, braving the drizzle to confer out of range of anyone’s hearing.
“Where do you think we are?” Carlos murmured.
“The eastern side of La Montaña,” Gus replied, “at an altitude of maybe ten thousand feet?” He lifted his gaze to peer through
the thinned trees. The mountain’s twin peaks were just discernable in the drifting mist. Somewhere up there was the radio
station broadcasting the Voice of the Resistance.
“I agree,” said Carlos.
“Why don’t we ask the kids?” Lucy suggested, nodding to the handful of youth wandering toward a small field, passing a soccer
ball between them. While the female rebels stayed busy cleaning utensils and toting firewood, the boys had broken away to
play Latin American
fútbol.
Carlos sent them each a measuring look. “How are your soccer skills?” he asked.
Gus gestured to Lucy. “She can play. I have two left feet.”
“Let’s suggest a game,” said the Spaniard with a twinkle in his eyes. “Two against five. You think they’ll go for those odds?”
“You’d better be good,” Lucy countered, gesturing for him to lead the way.
“I’m not bad,” he said with a modest shrug.
G
US WATCHED
C
ARLOS AND
L
UCY
walk toward the field. The ball rolled to a stop as the four teens noted their approach. As Carlos issued the invitation
to a match, they glanced in unison at Buitre’s brick hooch.
The deputy was evidently resting. Regarding one another, they shrugged. Sure, why not?
“Come on, Gustavo. We need another player,” Carlos called, waving him over.
Gesturing that he couldn’t see to play, Gus put his back to the trunk of an orange tree and waited to see what a soccer game
could accomplish in the way of recruiting young informants.
The goals were marked by Russian-made AK-47s placed on either end of the flattest terrain. Lucy opted to defend the backfield
and play goalie. Carlos played forward. With a nod, the game began.
Gus frowned in bemusement as the Spaniard let the ball slip away from him. It was up to Lucy to defend against three fleet-footed
youths.
Then he couldn’t help but smile a little. PTSD or no PTSD, she was proving an uncomplaining and resourceful partner. With
her long legs and quick feet, she held her own against the practiced youths, stealing the ball out from beneath a young man’s
feet and passing it up to Carlos, who immediately let it go again.
Gus chuckled at her look of pure annoyance. Her temper, as daunting as it had been eight years ago, intrigued him as much
as her cutting awareness. Regardless of his extensive training, no matter how hard he paid attention to what was going on
around him, he tended to overlook the details, to lose himself in abstractions. Lucy, on the other hand, was a pro. He may
have thought he could handle this op alone, but he couldn’t. He was glad she’d insisted on accompanying him, despite the risk
to his heart.
Stealing the ball away a second time, she yelled at Carlos to hang on to it. In that same moment, the door of Buitre’s quarters
creaked open, and there stood the disagreeable deputy, glaring at them from his porch stoop.
Damn,
thought Gus, wondering if the man would interfere.
Back in the game, three rebels swarmed the Spaniard. All at once, Carlos went into high gear, dribbling past all three astonished
defenders as he worked his way up field. He then sent the ball straight between the goalie’s planted feet.
From the corner of his eye, Gus saw Buitre hang his keys on a nail, hitch his trousers, and step off his stoop. Was he going
to break up the game? Gus wondered as he strode onto the field. But then he saw the players take their places. No, he was
going to join it.
Suddenly, Gus didn’t want Lucy playing anymore.
With Carlos outnumbered by four defenders, the rebels took possession. Buitre kept the ball for himself, dribbling toward
Lucy, who attacked him warily.
Wedging a foot between his, she managed to steal the ball, kicking it back to Carlos, who once more weaved through his opponents
to storm the goal.
The score was Spaniards two, Colombians zero.
Carlos sent Lucy a surreptitious signal to let their opponents score. No need to make the rebels unhappy.
Once more, Buitre brought the ball up field, circumventing Carlos. Even with two men open, he kept it for himself, bearing
down on Lucy, who put up a half-hearted defense as Buitre deliberately teased her, showing off his dribbling skills.
Suddenly, and without any forewarning, he slipped in the mud. Lucy watched in surprise as he landed hard on his back. His
four teammates guffawed. Marshaling her own smile, Lucy nudged Gus’s respect to a whole new level by offering Buitre a hand.