For now, said Nettles, we're assuming an abduction.
Who is this we' you keep referring to? Is the FBI doing an investigation?
No. The only information the FBI has so far is through intelligence bulletins from the State Department.
That's not too reassuring. I just called the U. S. embassy in Colombia on my way over here, and they weren't very forthcoming. I'm not sure what to make of that.
Nettles glanced at my mother, then at me. You didn't hear this from me, okay? But the primary interest of the State Department is foreign policy. Most American families who go through this ordeal are surprised to find that the one government agency that puts the interests of the victim first is the FBI.
Well, then, thank God you're here, said Mom.
Nettles seemed to enjoy the praise, but if we were going to get all kissy-face, I decided to push for extra information - like the things the embassy had told me were for the government's eyes only. At least now we have someone who can tell us what's in the State Department's intelligence bulletins.
What do you want to know? he asked cautiously.
For starters, who took my father?
That's not clear yet. One of the attackers was killed in the skirmish. According to the local police, he was dressed as one of the guerrilla groups that operate in Colombia. Combat fatigues, the whole getup. But it could also be someone who was trying to make it look like the work of guerrillas. We can't rule out common criminals or even one of the paramilitary organizations.
Excuse me, Mom interrupted. Are you saying my husband may have been kidnapped by the Colombian military?
Quite the opposite. The Colombian Army has been at war with both right-wing and left-wing groups for years. The Marxists are the guerrillas. The right wing is paramilitary.
Why would they want my dad?
They don't. They want your money. You should expect a ransom demand to come by mail or international courier service very soon.
I stepped toward the window, not quite believing this. You're saying that some Marxist group over a thousand miles away killed half my dad's crew, kidnapped my dad, went to all this trouble, just to squeeze a little money out of the Rey family from Coral Gables?
First of all, it won't be a little money. They usually have inflated ideas about the wealth of American families.
How inflated?
It's best not to speculate about these things. Whatever the demand is, it's negotiable.
Negotiable? I said, almost scoffing. We're talking about my dad, not a used car.
Trust me, if you decide you have no choice but to pay a ransom, you still negotiate. It's sad, but kidnapping has turned into a big business worldwide, and in Colombia it's literally out of control. Two hundred a month, at least.
My God, it's like some kind of a mill.
A money mill, to be exact. Hundreds of millions of dollars in ransom every year. These groups would like the world to think that they're politically motivated, but they're mostly thugs looking for money to bankroll drug labs and other criminal activity.
That last remark struck me, especially coming from an FBI agent. So if we pay a ransom, we're dumping cash into some criminal's war chest.
In a broad sense, yes.
And the FBI doesn't have a problem with that?
We're not thrilled about it. For years we had a no-concessions policy in dealing with international kidnappers. But the more progressive view in the bureau these days is that if the family wants to pay a ransom, we don't stand in their way.
What if we just can't come up with the money?
If you're asking whether the U. S. government will pay the ransom or even lend you the money, the answer is no.
So then what happens?
With the subtle arching of an eyebrow he seemed to be signaling that it was best not to answer that question in front of my mother.
Stupid question, I said, backtracking. Of course we'll get the money.
Mom asked, What happens next, Mr. Nettles?
There's a lot involved in an international kidnapping, said Nettles. Not the least of which are jurisdictional issues between Colombia and the U. S., between the FBI and other U. S. agencies, between the Colombian police and the Colombian Army.
I think my mother and I are in agreement that we don't want to leave this up to anyone but the FBI.
That's right, said Mom.
I hate to inject a dirty word like politics' into the equation, but certain matters of diplomacy must be resolved before the FBI can officially get involved.
What does that mean?
The bottom line is that the FBI's negotiators can't assist in a case outside the United States until the State Department invites us. As yet, we haven't been formally invited.
This isn't a wedding. What kind of invitation do you need?
It's not just a formality. The State Department has to respect local autonomy, and they have relationships with the host country that have to be maintained long after the resolution of this kidnapping. They don't just send in the FBI every time an American gets into trouble.
Is there something we can do? Mom asked.
Yes, he said. Make a list of who you know and call them. I hate to say it, but connections matter. The higher up, the better.
I don't have any connections, said Mom.
I'll work on that, I said.
Good, said Nettles.
I thought for a second, then backtracked. Except, how am I going to be plying for contacts? Shouldn't I go to Colombia?
My advice is no. You'll find yourself much more effective here, trying to get your own government moving. You should send someone down to represent the family. Your lawyer, a friend of the family.
Guillermo, my mother said.
My father's business partner, I explained.
Mom said, He's going to be in Cartagena tonight. He has to check on the surviving crew members and make arrangements for the ones who passed away. And he's Nicaraguan. His Spanish is a lot better than yours, Nick.
That's perfect, said Nettles.
I was a little reluctant. I didn't really know Guillermo, though it was true that he'd been my father's partner for over a decade. I glanced at Mom, however, and it was obvious that she didn't want me to leave her here to deal with the FBI and State Department by herself.
Okay, I said. We'll let Guillermo handle things in Colombia.
Nettles seemed to approve of the decision. He glanced toward the door, as if it were time to leave. He'd dumped a ton of information on us, and he seemed experienced enough to know that the family needed time to digest it, time alone to grieve. Mom shook his hand and thanked him profusely. I saw him to the door and followed him outside.
Level with me, I said as we reached his car in the driveway. If this is a kidnapping, and the kidnappers are some kind of guerrilla group, what're the chances of my father coming back alive?
Too early to say. There's so many variables.
You must have statistics of some sort.
Reliable numbers are hard to come by. The police, the army, the politicians - just about everybody in Colombia has a stake in making the situation seem better than it is.
All I want is a general idea, not an answer written in stone.
He hesitated, then answered. The most reliable numbers I have are from our legal attachE in BogotA. One hundred four kidnap victims murdered from January to June of this year. But the violence can go in spurts, depending on how the war is going between the rebels and the Colombian Army. If the guerrillas are trying to make a statement, you may see more kidnapping victims murdered.
How many more?
I don't know.
Come on. The family deserves to know the truth.
He seemed to be searching for a positive spin. The truth is, worldwide only about nine or ten percent of kidnapping victims are killed or die in captivity.
Only? I said.
The flip side is that there's a ninety percent chance of survival. Pretty good odds.
Oh, really? Think of the last ten people you said hello to. Now imagine one of them dead. How good do those odds sound to you now?
His expression fell, as if he'd never thought of it quite that way.
We need the FBI on this case, I said. Let's get that State Department invitation.
He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. I needed to get to work on my list of connections. It was time for me to call on friends in high places.
Now I just had to figure out who the hell they were.
Chapter 4
Faster than you can say Who do you know? I was back in my office - or, more precisely, Duncan Fitz's office.
Working as an associate in one of the largest law firms on earth certainly had its disadvantages. The lawyers who set my salary and measured my progress toward partnership knew me only from written annual review forms completed by the handful of partners in the Miami office. Ninety-eight percent of my colleagues were virtual strangers, whom I would never meet, never even talk to on the telephone. They worked in different states, different countries, different time zones. Many spoke English as a second or even third language. When one of them was fired - or sometimes even when an entire office closed - I usually found out about it weeks after the fact, usually by happenstance, and then only by inference from the fact that an e-mail I'd sent was returned as undeliverable. Cool Cash could be an overwhelming, impersonal workplace.
At the same time, it had a way of making the world seem very small.
Duncan was in an exceptionally good mood, having just returned from a long celebration lunch at the City Club with his client from Med-Fam Pharmaceuticals. From the looks of his red nose, it appeared as though a few glasses had been raised to the health of the not-so-healthy Gilbert Jones.
Sorry you didn't join us, said Duncan, seated behind his antique desk. Where did you run off to?
Emergency. I got some distressing news.
His grin completely vanished. Those bastards didn't call the judge, did they?
No. It's not about the Med-Fam case.
Good.
It's about my father.
As a rule, Duncan didn't shift easily from work to personal issues, but he listened with concern as I told him everything I knew so far - the phone call from Mom, the meeting with the FBI agent. I didn't come right out and ask for any favors. That wasn't the way to operate with Duncan. I just made it clear that the FBI wouldn't get involved in the case without an invitation from the State Department and that political connections might expedite the process.
Consider it done, said Duncan.
You can help?
Can camels spit?
I had to think about that one.
We have a former undersecretary of state working in our Washington office. I'll call him right now.
That's fantastic. I can't believe it.
Believe it, he said proudly. He leaned back in his leather chair and rested his hand atop the globe on his credenza. It was another antique, a distinctive but ugly piece with the oceans in black. He gave it a spin and asked, What do you see here?
The world? I said tentatively, sensing a trick question.
Look closer. It's Coolidge, Harding and Cash. We're everywhere. Which is very good news for your father. This phone call I'm about to make is only the beginning.
Thank you.
He opened his desk drawer, removed a three-ring notebook, and handed it to me. Open it.
I thumbed through the first few pages. The book was filled with pictures and bios of influential people - members of Congress, the U. S. attorney general, even the president of Costa Rica. It went on for pages, at least two inches thick. What is this?
It doesn't have an official name, but call it our A-list alumni registry. Everyone in that book has worked at this law firm in one of our offices around the world. If you think any of them might be able to help your father, you just let me know. All I ask is that you let me make the phone calls for you. Nobody is going to jump for a young associate in the Miami office, even if your father is kidnapped.
Damn, Duncan. Maybe you aren't the heartless son of a bitch everybody says you are.
Don't be so sure. It doesn't hurt to have the most promising young lawyer in Miami beholden to me for life.
He was half smiling, but I knew Duncan well enough to know he was at least half serious. Sure, I'd owe him big time if he could pull this off, and that was fine by me. Dad would have sold off his fleet to save me. At least I liked to think so.
I moved to the edge of my seat as Duncan picked up the phone and dialed our Washington office.
An hour later I was at my mother's house, trying to cheer her with a little good news. The wheels were in motion, I assured her, and I tried to put on my best face. I was fooling her no more than she was fooling me, the way she emerged from her bedroom every forty-five minutes, trying to hide her red and puffy eyes, assuring me it was allergies.