If I'd Never Known Your Love (3 page)

Of course, hearing all this, I could hardly wait to see you and to win you over with
my charm and wit. I was absolutely sure that there was no way you'd be able to resist
my cheerleader personality and smile.

But you could. And you did. Oh, boy, did you resist me.

I spotted you across the quad, sitting on the grass with your back against a tree. You
were reading a book, something with a library tag on the spine, and didn't even glance
up as I rolled my squeaky wheelchair across the asphalt toward you.

"Hi," I said with a calculated, perky enthusiasm as I parked at the edge of the grass.

You ignored me.

"Hey, you with the book," I tried again.

That got through and you looked up, directly into my eyes. I know you meant to shut
me up and send me on my way, but for an instant I saw something you never intended
for me to see—a longing so deep and sad it stole my breath.

That day I learned that love at first sight isn't a lightning bolt. It's like trying to
control the drips on a triple-scoop ice-cream cone on a blistering August day. You can
lick like crazy, and you just might succeed for an instant or two, but anything beyond
that— well, forget it.

"You want something?" you asked, still staring at me.

I think it was the wheelchair that breeched your defenses, because I'd turned into
what had to be a fairly unattractive puddle of swirling vanilla, chocolate and
strawberry. Stupidly, I stuck out my hand. "I'm Julia Warren."

You glanced at my hand. "You're kidding, right?"

"What? People don't shake hands where you come from?"

"Not any of the people I know."

Even then I realized it was a pretty dumb thing to do. But it was all I could come up
with. After all, I'd just fallen in love with the one boy in the entire school my parents
would not be happy to find standing at their front door.

Thankfully, I was saved by the bell announcing the start of first period. I waited for
you to leave, but you were waiting for me. Another awkward moment. I gave in and
backed up my wheelchair, hanging on to the right wheel and pushing the left the way
I'd been taught to do to get it to turn around. Great in theory, terrible in execution. I
don't know if you felt sorry for me or were impatient, but you grabbed the handles and
said, "Which way?"

I pointed toward the main building. "Thanks."

We squeaked into the building and down the worn wooden floor toward Mr. Brolin's biology class. It was funny
how all the kids peeked around their lockers to stare at us and how hard they looked to pretend they hadn't when they
got caught.

I saw Barbara headed toward me and tried to wave her off, but as usual, she was
oblivious to anything more subtle than a rock hitting her on the backside. She told you
she would take over, that it was her job to get me to class. You told her to be your
guest. I watched you walk away, and told Barbara that if she ever chased you off again,
I would poison her oatmeal.

C H A P T E R 2

" I ' m sure it's been explained to you that the official policy of the United States will not let me help you negotiate your husband's release, nor can I officially allow you to pay a ransom, Mrs. McDonald. We can, however, provide a list of lawyers and translators without, of course, recommending one over the other."

The man speaking was in his mid-forties, sitting tall in his leather executive chair, commanding, and wearing a navy blazer with traces of pet hair on the left sleeve. While they were only a few hairs, that made him seem human somehow, someone she could reach out to. A removable piece of brass tucked into a wooden sleeve said Paul E.

Erickson. She mentally repeated the name several times. After a day filled with dealing with the Colombian authorities who handled kidnap cases and being shuffled from one department to another here at the American Embassy, people's names and faces were blurring. She'd even lost track whether Paul E. Erickson was with American Citizen Services or the ambassador's office. Tomorrow, she would bring paper and take notes.

Eventually, Harold would be well enough to make the rounds with her and hopefully pick up what she missed, but not for another week at least, if then.

In varying degrees of helpfulness, everyone she'd talked to that day had told her the same thing. There was nothing she could do until she heard from the kidnappers, and that wouldn't happen for days if not weeks, possibly even months.

She realized that there was no way for any of them to feel the urgency she felt, the panic, the fear that ran so deep it colored every thought with a warning that if she didn't do something right now—regardless of all the learned advice to be patient—it would be too late. All it would take was one more bureaucrat giving her one more verbal pat on the head and she would turn into a screaming lunatic.

"Thank you," Julia said with effort. She stood. "I appreciate your rime and will certainly let you know when I hear something." If she'd learned nothing else that day, it was how eager everyone was to be kept informed of the process and progress even while claiming there was nothing any of them could personally do to help. "Do you have a card?"

Her abrupt move to depart took him by surprise, plainly interrupting his oft-repeated speech subtly modified to fit individual crises. He motioned for her to sit back down. "I know that right now it seems we're the enemy, too, and you had expected more from your country, Mrs. McDonald, but there is only so much we can do when it comes to kidnapping. The official policy is rigid—negotiating with kidnappers only encourages more kidnappings—and, frankly, although few will admit it, there isn't one person working here who doesn't feel that policy is foolishly out-of-date.

"Sacrificing a half-dozen American citizens is not going stop these people," he went on. "Kidnapping has become a way of life in Colombia. Go down streets in some of the wealthier areas of the city and you can see men holding machine guns, sitting on top of eight-foot walls lined with barbed wire."

Finally, she'd found someone willing to throw away the script. Julia sat down again, responding to his incredible candor with a pent-up sigh. "Thank you, Mr. Erickson. I may not like what you're saying, but it's something I need to hear."

"There are eight million people living in this city.

Almost all of the country's major corporations have their headquarters here. There is great wealth and abject poverty and compelling opportunity for potential redistribution through ransom. Americans aren't the primary target, however. In total, we don't account for even one percent of the three thousand people who are kidnapped in this country every year. That doesn't give us much leverage. What possible difference can we make by refusing to negotiate, when everyone else does? It's not only shortsighted—

it's stupid. And dangerous."

"I'm confused. First you tell me the United States won't let me negotiate, and now you're telling me it's the only way to get Evan back."

He leaned forward, clasping the edge of his desk. "I can't
officially
help you but there are other things that I can and will do. I've already called the FBI, and they're sending someone who has worked on several kidnapping cases in Colombia. He should be here in a couple days."

"How can the FBI become involved when you can't?"

"They've been allowed to operate in foreign countries since the eighties. And because they're independent of the State Department, they don't work under the same restrictions that we do."

"Those other cases...? How did they turn out?"

He reached for a folder with George Black written on the tab and looked inside."Of the most recent and ongoing cases, one was resolved in a little over six months, another just short of a year. One captive escaped. And one case is ongoing."

None of the victims had died. This was the first time she'd been given something real to cling to; the first clear promise of hope. While the Colombian authorities had been sympathetic and encouraging, they were also strangely wary, telling her that they were convinced Evan's kidnapping was a mistake, that the real target had been a Colombian oil executive on the same plane who'd left the airport in the same kind of car and with a driver wearing a similar uniform.

"The ongoing case—how long has he been held?"

"Actually, it's a woman. She was taken in the middle of the night from an ecotourism.

group camping in the jungle in the Choco province."

"How long?"Julia repeated.

For the first time he appeared uncomfortable. "Three years."

"Oh, my God," she said softly."All that time."And then, past a sudden lump in her throat, she asked, "How do they know she's still alive?"

"A couple of months ago, the family insisted the kidnappers give them proof-of-life evidence or they would cut off the negotiations. It cost them twenty thousand dollars, but they feel it was worth every dime."

"Those poor people. I can't imagine what it must be like for them." But she was beginning to. They undoubtedly lived every day with the same sick fear that lay in the pit of her stomach.

"There isn't anything easy about this, Mrs. McDonald."

"So, are you saying I should just sit and wait for the FBI agent to get here?"

He gave her an understanding smile. "Basically, yes. But I don't think it's advice you will follow. In the meantime, there are some things you need to hear that are critical for your husband's safe return. One, don't draw attention to yourself or to Evan by going to the media. Make sure your friends and family understand this, too. I know it goes against an instinctive belief—that attention will put pressure on our government and the Colombian government, which will result in quicker action. But all you'll succeed in doing is convincing the kidnappers that Evan is more important than I'm sure he's telling them that he is.

"You'll also give them the idea that the company he works for is in a position to pay a lot of money to get him back."

"They are. His boss has assured me that he will pay whatever it takes." Harold had told her this so many times that she'd come to believe he would sell the company, if necessary, to raise the money.

"But once the idea is planted, it's almost impossible to remove. They will make impossible demands and think you're lying to them when you claim you can't fulfill them." He took a map out and spread it across his desk. "Are you familiar with the factions dividing this country?"

She shook her head. Everything she knew about Colombia she'd learned in the past week, and none of it involved politics.

He pointed to different-colored circles covering the map. "These represent various militant groups that are battling the current government and the territories they control."

Very little land was left unclaimed. Julia looked at him to see if he could possibly be serious. If this was true, Colombia was involved in a massive civil war. "And they all finance themselves through kidnappings?"

"Among other things. Illegal drugs also play a huge financial role. Your husband could be with a group that feels no need to hurry the negotiation, one that's willing and able to hold out forever to get what they want. You have to remember that they aren't on a deadline and don't have the emotional stake in this that you do. They've been at this a long time, Mrs. McDonald. As sick as it sounds, they're professionals. They know what they're doing.

She found the news oddly comforting. Although, how did professionals make such a stupid mistake and kidnap the wrong man?

"Another thing you must accept is that time is something you're going to have to learn to deal with. If you don't, it could destroy you. I know all you can think of right now is obtaining your husband's freedom as quickly as possible. That's simply not going to happen. At least not on your timeline. There is a process with these things. The kidnappers have to get your husband to a place where they feel safe before they begin negotiating. And even then they may not make contact for weeks. It's a psychological game. They are aware that the longer they make you wait, the more desperate you will feel and the more willing you will be to give them what they want."

She couldn't imagine feeling any more desperate or scared than she did at that moment. She was hanging on by her fingertips and would do anything, pay anything, asked. What kind of men wanted her to suffer weeks, maybe months longer for a few more dollars? And if they would do this to her, what would they do to Evan?

She'd come to Paul Erickson's office with an unfocused, wildly escalating fear. He had grounded her, supplying her answers and hope and direction. "But if Evan isn't the person they thought he was, why don't they just release him?"

"He's American. He works for a large company.

Even if he's not the man they were after, they have to figure he's worth something."

At last someone was giving her information she could deal with. Her strongest coping mechanisms involved knowledge and planning. If she could just focus on these, she would make it. "Who are these people in these circles?"

"The largest are FARC, which is the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, and ELN, which is the National Liberation Army. Many of the groups operating without set boundaries are small bands of out-of-work drug traffickers who were caught in police crackdowns. They're criminals by nature and unqualified or unwilling to seek legitimate work. Kidnapping becomes their source of income until they can get back into drugs again.

"There are even men who specialize in snatching people off the street to sell to one of the larger, more organized groups like FARC," he added. "They're paid a finder's fee and never have to get involved with the ransom process."