“A long time, I suppose. But maybe your father planted some ideas in her head about Lindsey separating herself from the family.”
“That’s possible, I suppose.”
“More than possible. For heaven’s sake, your father has been missing for almost two weeks and we still haven’t even talked to Lindsey. We don’t even know where she is.”
“That was the weirdest part with Grandma this morning. She totally blew a gasket when I asked her where this missing daughter was. She lashed out at me-at Dad, in her mind-for even asking the question.”
Mom poured herself more water. “She’s a very confused woman right now.”
“Yeah,” I said, almost speaking to myself. “I’m pretty confused, too.”
The telephone rang. Mom and I exchanged glances, and then I rose to answer. It was Alex.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Did something happen to my father?”
“No, not that. Not directly anyway.”
Mom was ashen. She’d heard my question. I covered the mouthpiece and told her Dad was fine, then continued with Alex. “What is it, then?”
“I’m afraid I won’t be going to Bogota.”
“Have you spoken to the kidnappers? Did they reschedule?”
“No. The meeting’s still on, as scheduled.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying you want me to go alone?”
“It’s- The insurance company pulled me off the case.”
“Why?”
“I can’t get into that with you. I’m just calling to let you know I won’t be accompanying you on your trip.”
“So who’s the replacement?”
She paused, seeming to struggle. “There is none.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, Nick. The insurance company is denying coverage on your claim.”
I gripped the phone, not quite comprehending. “We have no negotiator?”
“No.”
“And the ransom will be paid by. .?”
“By you. This is what I’m telling you. There is no coverage. No negotiator, no ransom. All of it-denied.”
“How can this be?”
“I can’t elaborate. I wasn’t even supposed to call you. The insurance company is sending you official notice in accordance with the terms of the policy.”
“Well, isn’t that big of them? In less than forty-eight hours I’m supposed to talk to my father’s kidnappers by shortwave radio from the top of some hill in Bogota that I’ve never even heard of. Where the hell does this leave me?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Someone needs to answer it. This has to be a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake.”
“Who can I talk to?”
“I would suggest the company’s general counsel. The lawyers made the final call.”
My heart sank. I was hoping that this was some kind of administrative screw-up. Not likely if the lawyers had already approved the decision.
“Come on, Alex. There has to be something we can do.”
“Believe me, I’ve done everything in my power. I truly hope you have better luck than I did.”
“So that’s it? You’re bowing out?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What about my father?”
“Good-bye, Nick.”
I couldn’t even speak. The line clicked, and the dial tone hummed in my ear. Finally I turned at the sound of my mother’s panicky voice.
“What just happened?”
I looked at her, stunned. “I wish I knew,” was all I could say.
PART TWO
21
I reached Miami International Airport at 6:00 A.M., two hours before my flight.
Even if I’d known how to contact the kidnappers, I wouldn’t have dared to reschedule our first meeting. I’d done my homework, I was prepared psychologically, and logistically everything was set. With or without insurance, I was going to Bogota. End of story.
I’d represented enough insurance companies to know that I wasn’t about to resolve a coverage dispute overnight, so I didn’t even try. I did call Duncan Fitz, however, and told him exactly what Alex had said. He seemed like the right person to get things moving in my absence. Since Quality Insurance was a major client of Cool Cash, he couldn’t be adversarial and browbeat them into reversing their position. But Duncan felt confident that he could at least make an inquiry and elicit a more detailed explanation of their about-face. We agreed to powwow when I got back and figure out where I stood.
I checked in at the crowded international terminal, then found a seat and killed some time reading a Spanish-language magazine called Semana. One of the things Alex had told me was to blend into the Colombian culture while traveling. I left my Sports Illustrated and John Grisham novels at home. Another piece of advice was never to let go of my travel bag. I kept it right at my side. Interestingly, the baggage tag was still on it from the last time I’d checked it on a flight home from La Guardia to Miami International. “MIA” the airport abbreviation read, which in this context struck me as ironic. I wondered if I would end up MIA-missing in action.
The bag was filled with maps and travel books, things I didn’t dare pull out in public and effectively announce to the world that I was a naive American tourist traveling alone to Colombia. I’d already read all of them several times anyway. The travel hype made Bogota sound vaguely like Miami, sophisticated in some segments, crude and violent in others. It boasted futuristic architecture and old colonial churches, world-class museums that showcased everything from pre-Columbian to contemporary art. It was a vibrant mix of all things Colombian-culturally diverse, an intellectual center, its busy streets a forum for the daily clash between rich and poor, pack mules and Porsches. There was no shortage of great restaurants either. It seemed like a city I might have actually liked to visit under different circumstances, save for one glaring statistic: Every hour someone got killed. Some deaths were accidents, but as many as eight a day were homicides-more, if you counted at least a portion of the twenty-five hundred annual deaths from “unknown causes.” The confirmed homicides alone added up to an annual murder rate higher than that in Miami, New York, Atlanta, and Los Angeles combined.
I turned my thoughts back to restaurants.
Forty minutes before the flight, the airline made the first boarding call. First class only. The entire waiting area started toward the gate. That was another tidbit Alex had shared.
“Don’t expect South Americans to queue up like a bunch of Brits,” she’d said. “Wherever you are-airport, movie theater, bus station-act like you’re on the Titanic and they’re loading the last lifeboat.”
When in Rome, I figured. I joined the mob at least twenty minutes before my row would officially be called for boarding.
Through the crowd, an attractive Latina woman caught my eye. She was standing at the check-in counter, her travel bag draped over her shoulder. She wore a stylish, short-waisted leather jacket and jeans that fit extremely well. Her face was partially hidden beneath the broad rim of a felt hat, but what little I caught of her profile was promising. She finished with the airline attendant, then turned and shot me a discreet sideways glance. I definitely wasn’t looking for it, but even my travel book had mentioned that there was more to Colombia’s beauty than just countryside.
She started walking toward me, pushing through the semblance of a line, and then it registered. The long hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, and I hadn’t recognized her.
“Alex?” I said.
“Surprise.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m going with you.”
Wow, I thought. Duncan works fast. “What happened?”
Clearly she didn’t want to talk in the crowd. Neither did I. We gave up our places in line and moved to an open space near the finger-smudged window that looked out on our Boeing 767.