Authors: Gary Ponzo
Fisk rubbed the side of his face. “That’s it? That’s what you’ll be doing, bringing a trail of reporters to uncover the story? Find out what happened?”
“Of course, Sam,” Merrick slapped the side of Fisk’s shoulder. “What, you thought I was going to personally lead a search party through the Amazon?”
“No,” Fisk said. “I thought you were going to arrange a meeting with Pablo Moreno. Maybe do some negotiating face to face?”
If Merrick had those thoughts he gave nothing away, but Fisk had known him too long. Merrick wouldn’t let this go without a fight.
“I offered fifty million dollars to keep him alive until I get there,” Merrick said, bluntly and without apology.
There it was, Fisk thought. The can of worms had officially been opened.
“Daddy!” came an urgent scream from the sitting room.
Merrick flung open the door and ran to Emily, who was standing in front of the couch and pointing to the muted TV.
“It’s Uncle Trent!” Emily shouted. “He’s missing, Daddy.”
There stood a CNN reporter in front of the capital building in Bogota. The words, “President’s Brother Missing,” highlighted in bold at the bottom of the screen.
Merrick draped his arms around his daughter and pulled her close. “It’s okay, sweetie. Daddy’s going to find him and bring him home.”
Great, Fisk thought. Among all the other crap he had to negotiate as secretary of state, he’d become advisor to the Indiana Jones of presidents as well.
* * *
President Santoro examined the man sitting in his office with a sense of admiration. Dr. Mark Grennan was a slim man with a trim mustache and a medical degree from Yale School of Medicine. He also received a PhD in Psychology there as well.
Santoro sat behind his large desk and smiled affably as the psychologist scribbled notes in a legal pad placed in his lap. They’d been talking for over an hour and the man must’ve written enough pages to fill a book.
“So, Dr. Grennan,” Santoro raised his eyebrows. “Do you think I am disturbed?”
Dr. Grennan looked up at Santoro suspiciously, as if his answer was being measured somehow. “Of course not, Mr. President,” Dr. Grennan said, suddenly losing interest in his book full of notes. “You are simply operating under extreme pressure and you use the dolls as a form of transference.”
“Transference?”
“Yes. You must understand, Mr. President, the main characteristic these dolls have in common is that they can’t speak. Therefore they can’t disagree with you. They are simply inanimate objects so they can’t criticize your actions. Deep down you crave acceptance. This experience you had in the Amazon with this young businessman, you were simply looking for him to approve of you. You see, every day you make decisions which half the people agree with. No matter how hard you try, the other half are going to disagree with you. This is a hard principle for any leader to have to face. These dolls simply help you cope with the barrage of noise aimed at your position in the country.”
Santoro sat there, hands clasped, index fingers tapping together under his chin. Dr. Grennan seemed concerned about his comments, maybe not knowing how far to go.
Finally, Santoro smiled, accepting the value of his session. “So do you believe I should take medicine for my . . . um, condition?”
Dr. Grennan seemed prepared for this one. “No, absolutely not. You are a mentally healthy person.”
Ultimately, this was what Santoro wanted to hear. He wasn’t crazy, just stressed and needing an outlet for the pressure he endures on a daily basis. He pointed to the notepad in Dr. Grennan’s lap.
“What are in those pages?” Santoro asked.
Dr. Grennan looked down at the pad and shrugged. “They are simply notes I use for my patients. It helps me keep track of our progress.”
“And do you believe I have made progress? Even in this one visit?”
“Yes, Mr. President. You certainly have.”
Santoro stood up and walked over to a massive wooden hutch against the wall to his right. The structure stood over ten feet high with a sparkling marble shelf and a mirror inset between two adjacent cabinets.
Santoro pulled up on a semicircle scalloped door which exposed a countertop full of bottles of gin and whiskey and different wines. He held out a hand presenting the assortment of beverages to the doctor. “Can I please offer you a complimentary drink before you leave today?”
The way Santoro said it, the good doctor would’ve been foolish to decline the offer. It could be taken as offensive.
“Yes,” Dr. Grennan nodded nervously. “Thank you.”
Santoro stood before the collection of beverages and said, “Your choice.”
“Um,” Dr. Grennan searched the bar for something he might enjoy. “I’ll have a glass of Merlot, if you have it.”
Santoro smiled, then pulled a hand-tightened cork from the bottle of Merlot and poured it into a wine glass. He walked over to his guest and handed him the glass of wine.
Dr. Grennan wisely accepted and said, “Thank you. You are not drinking?”
Santoro leaned back against his desk while facing the doctor. “No, I am afraid I have an important meeting this afternoon and I need to have a clear mind.”
“Of course,” Dr. Grennan replied, taking a sip of the Merlot and leaning back in his chair. “This is quite good.”
“Thank you,” Santoro said, congenially. Then he folded his arms across his chest. “You are from America, yes?”
“Yes.” Dr. Grennan sat with his notepad on his lap. He placed the wine glass on top of the notepad for balance. “My wife is from Colombia, so we decided to move down here to raise the children.”
“This is quite nice to hear. Your wife is very loyal, eh?”
“Yes, she is.” Dr. Grennan seemed pleased the way the conversation was going.
“Colombian woman are sensual animals,” Santoro said with a wicked grin.
This caught the doctor a little off guard and he gave a terse nod to the comment.
“I mean, look at Shakira, she is quite the woman,” Santoro said, pulling the starched cuffs out from his suit jacket. “I knew her back when she was just a child. Back when she was a brunette.” Santoro lifted his eyebrows and ran a hand up and down his torso. “And I mean, she was brunette all over.”
Dr. Grennan seemed to be drinking quicker now. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, Mr. President, you have been very gracious with your time. I must leave now and get back to my other patients.”
As Dr. Grennan leaned forward in his chair, Santoro held up a palm and said, “Please, just another minute.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Santoro examined his guest and recognized the dull expression come over him now. His eyes began to droop just a bit and his shoulders slumped considerably.
Dr. Grennan must’ve become aware of his sudden grogginess because he looked down at the glass of wine as if it were a grenade in his lap. “Mr. President?”
Santoro was now comfortable enough to bend over and remove the glass from Dr. Grennan’s hand before it spilled all over his nice floor.
“There is an old Colombian tradition,” Santoro stated, “which I have always respected. Whenever a man is about to be killed, a true Colombian will always offer the dying man a last drink.”
Dr. Grennan had enough strength to show surprise, but not enough to actually come to his feet. He slumped back in his chair while staring at Santoro with a mixture of shock and dread.
Santoro lifted the notepad from the doctor’s lap without any resistance. “I am sorry, but I cannot afford to have my personal issues leave this room. Either on paper,” the president pointed to Dr. Grennan’s head, “or in someone’s brain.”
Saliva welled up over the doctor’s lower lip as he began to lose command of his body fluids. A urine stain grew in the crotch of his pants. He was fighting the fatigue and losing.
“But . . . ,” Dr. Grennan steered his eyes to the hutch and the myriad of choices he had. He seemed to question how he could’ve made such a bad choice of beverage.
Santoro followed his astonished gaze.
“Oh,” Santoro said, replacing the cork in the wine bottle, then setting it back down on the marble bar. “I am afraid the entire collection is poisoned. It made no difference which drink you chose.”
Dr. Grennan’s vitals began to wither as his head sagged back into the cushion of his leather chair. Finally, his arms dropped over the armrests and dangled lifelessly until gravity took hold and slowed the inertia to a halt.
Santoro bent over the dead man and said, “I do have my regrets, Doctor Grennan. I finally discover a professional who insists I do not need medicine . . .” he waved a hand over Dr. Grennan’s corpse, “and this is how I reward him.”
The president stood and reached across his desk to push a button on his phone. A moment later, two armed guards entered the room with their machine guns drawn.
“It is all right,” Santoro assured them. “He is gone.”
The guards lowered their guns and grabbed Dr. Grennan’s lifeless form with a practiced skill. One on each side, grabbing under the armpit and throwing the corpse’s arms around their shoulders. They lifted the doctor’s frame and dragged him toward the door.
“Please,” Santoro said with a mildly disgusted expression, “make sure the body cannot be found.”
Chapter 11
Trent Merrick didn’t know how long he’d dozed off, but when he opened his eyes, the temperature had spiked along with the jungle humidity. Even in mid-morning, however, the thick Amazon foliage had kept the sunlight from reaching the jungle floor. Candles had provided most of the light inside the tent. His leg throbbed under the makeshift splint and he was certain an infection had taken hold. He felt something trickle down the side of his face and when he brushed it off he came back with a handful of sweat.
Trent’s vision had deteriorated as well. He blinked a couple of times and realized he wasn’t alone. Carlos, Manny Padilla’s goon, sat in the corner of the tent wearing green fatigues and thigh-high boots. His assault rifle casually lay across his lap as he met Trent’s gaze with an apathetic grimace. He had nothing to be concerned about since his prisoner’s left leg was completely nonfunctioning.
Trent’s stomach growled as he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the cot. The chain would only allow him to sit, standing was not an option.
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to remain as casual as possible.
“So, Carlos, what time is breakfast served?”
The soldier sat there with an exaggerated scowl he must’ve learned at guerilla boot camp. “There is no breakfast.”
Trent’s head pounded. Not only did he have an infection, he most certainly was dehydrated as well.
“Listen, could I at least have some water?”
Carlos gripped his rifle in mock anger, but said nothing.
Trent nodded to himself. He considered how much this goon could even know. He knew it was useless to guess, so he tried to find out.
“Carlos,” Trent said. “You do realize this kidnapping will never work, don’t you?”
The soldier couldn’t help but give him a mischievous grin. “Oh, but you are wrong about that.”
“Oh?” Trent scratched the back of his head, pretending to be half asleep while asking random questions. “What makes you think this could work when every other presidential kidnapping attempt has failed?”
“Because,” Carlos happily replied, “your brother, the president, is coming to Colombia personally with the fifty million dollars ransom.”
“Really? When is he doing that?”
“Tomorrow,” the soldier said with a smug expression.
This told Trent much more than he ever imagined. His brother would never pay fifty million dollars ransom to a cartel. Not even for his kid brother. That meant that John was sending people after him. He was buying time to allow the help to get here. But that was a long shot at best. They were deep inside the Amazon with no satellite images and no covert contacts to point them in the right direction. However, for the first time since he’d been captured, he allowed himself to think about his wife, Jaqui, and their unborn child. Just thinking about her almost brought on tears. He’d purposely kept her from his mind because he knew it would only bring more agony. He needed to stay alive long enough to give them a chance.
“So,” Trent said, casually, “I get to go home tomorrow?”
Carlos was too stupid to know when to lie. He simply sat there with a third-grade smile.
“You know, Carlos, your boss is quite annoyed with you. I doubt you’ll be able to survive much longer than I do.”
Confusion entered the soldier’s tiny mind, showing up on his face as a deadpan stare.
“You know nothing about my boss,” Carlos shot back.
Just then, the mosquito netting flung open allowing a glimpse of morning sun to peek in as Manny Padilla barged through carrying an empty glass jar. He looked at Carlos with disdain.
“Why are you talking with the prisoner?”
“Because . . . he . . .” Carlos stopped himself. By the severe expression on Padilla’s face, he knew better than to have a rational explanation. It could only make things worse and even Carlos seemed to understand that.
Padilla now set his focus on Trent. He eyed Trent’s leg. Blood seeped down the side of the splint and began to drip onto the dirt floor. “You are not so clever with your mouth this morning, eh?”
“I could use some medical attention,” Trent said, just trying out the phrase to evaluate the reaction.
Padilla pointed the empty jar at him. “You think you are so important because you are the president’s brother, but here in Colombia you are just another piece of meat.”
Trent knew he was losing his mind along with his body. The image of Jaqui suddenly popped into his head. She was on their couch crying, mourning over the loss of her husband. Sitting on the floor next to her was a little girl. Trent realized he was becoming delusional and wondered if he’d been drugged or this was what happened when you avoided water in jungle. The girl looked up and said, “Daddy!”
“Shit,” Trent murmured.
“What is it?” Padilla barked.
Trent tried to hold it together, but his vision was beginning to wane as well. “I need water.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Padilla motion for Carlos to leave, then turn the cap off the top of the glass jar.