Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (11 page)

    
And then an insidious suspicion worms itself into her mind. Could he
have been in on the plot? Did he just play a part? Was that why he
managed to remain so calm when they were captured? But then killing
himself doesn’t make any sense. But maybe he didn’t kill himself. Maybe
that scream and the disappearance of the two men was just another part
of the plot, to remove any suspicion on her part that he was one of them.
He may already be on his way back to Pitalito, having a laugh at her
expense, rubbing his hands in expectation of touching part of the ransom.
Suddenly, she is more and more convinced that this is what must have
happened, that he is one of them. It fits with his behavior. She never took
his wooing seriously. It was all an act. Even his plea not to go across the
river was an act, just another thing to remove any suspicion from him.
She let herself be completely fooled by him, but no more.

    
He won’t win, he won’t gain at my expense, she vows, wiping the
tears on her shirt sleeves. I will get out of this alive, and Franco will trace
him and bring him to justice. He may already have initiated it. He may
have hired a detective to help the police. But it doesn’t ease her distress.
How can she survive this ordeal? Didn’t the scoundrel say that it might
take weeks, even months before she will be freed? He knew all these
details. Another proof that he was part of the plot. It stokes her hatred for
the Swiss.

    
As a thin strip of moonlight sneaks through the window and gradually
expands, chasing away the worst of the dark, she finds a measure of
calm. Standing under the window, her face in the light, she closes her
eyes, letting the inside of her eyelids turn a reddish hue. Then she strides
diagonally back and forth from corner to corner, counting. When she
reaches one thousand, she stops and lies down again.

    
Whenever despair threatens to take over, she forces herself to think of
pleasant things, of Franco, of her father, of Gabriela, her younger sister,
always ready for fun and mischief — how she misses her — of her
grandparents on Elba, of her room in her parents’ villa in the hills south
of Rome, the view down to the round lake, its color a deep green. She
wishes she had faith in prayers. But in spite of her strict catholic
upbringing, she has no trust that praying to the Madonna or a saint will
do any good. She is not even sure that she believes there is a God who
cares.

    
She daydreams about her future married life with Franco. Not only
will his aristocratic ancestry confer a special status to her, but his
position as a university professor and as an internationally eminent
authority in archaeology will enhance her standing in society both in Italy
and abroad. She is going to accompany him to international conferences
in many parts of the world, sit into his erudite lectures and rejoice in the
applause and recognition he deserves. She will meet other famous experts
in the field. Some might even come and visit them in Rome, and she will
be the perfect hostess that will make Franco proud. He might even allow
her to undertake research for him, to look up things, find relevant
references, even quotes by other experts, and then to word-process his
drafts of research papers and make suggestions for more elegant ways of
expressing his findings. He would be pleased with her and praise her and
this will strengthen their love for each other. Three or four years down
the track, they will have their first child. She wants at least two, a boy
and a girl. She is convinced that he will dote over them, that they will be
his pride and joy. He will agree with her that his current house isn’t
suitable anymore, once they have children, and will allow her father to
buy or build something more appropriate to his standing and the growing
family’s needs.

* * *

André wakes to the dawn chorus of birds. Images of the night’s dreams
still lie heavy on his mind. Twice, he woke to the scream of a man falling
to his death, except that the second time it was he himself. He cannot
shake off the sense of the rocks rushing toward him at ever increasing
speed.

    
"Get up," he admonishes himself. The sun does not yet reach into the
narrow valley. He washes thoroughly in the cold waters of the river. It
feels invigorating, chasing away the ghosts of the dream. He uses the
soap sparingly. It may have to last for quite a while and sooner or later
for two people. The pain on the right side of his chest reminds him that
he may have a broken rib. The spot has turned a dark hue of blue.

    
Later, he eats the leftover of the corn mash from last night’s dinner
and then brushes his teeth with the airline-issue kit ‘
la bête
’ so disdainfully shoved back into the pocket of his rain jacket. By the time the sun
warms the air, he is packed and ready to pick up the trail. He has just
come out of the short canyon into the other valley, when voices and
laughter float across from the direction of the track where it crosses the
river. Quickly, he retreats two steps into the shade under the trees and
freezes. His green rain gear and brown pants blend into his immediate
surroundings, but even the slightest movement could give him away. All
he hopes is that the men — he is sure that the voices are male — will
continue crossing the valley without stopping or looking back. When
they come into view, he recognizes one of them as ‘
le premier
’ who
always walked between Bianca and him. They are striding out at a fast
pace, engrossed in their apparently humorous exchange.

    
After they disappear in the trees, he hides behind boulders in the
canyon and waits, just in case one or two more might follow. He guesses
the two are going back to either bury their dead comrade or bring him
back up the mountain. In the latter case, they may be joined by two others
to help carry the body. He reckons that they will not be back before late
afternoon.

    
However, their fortuitous appearance reveals much more. Their
permanent or temporary camp cannot be far from here, unless they
changed crew again and took Bianca over the mountain range into the
upper reaches of the Caqueta River. But this is highly unlikely given her
expected state of exhaustion. So she must be less than an hour away from
where he is. He doubts that the two men left their camp before sunrise.
It is more likely that they only started out after a healthy breakfast.

    
While he waits, he debates what to do next. To work out a feasible
rescue plan, he needs to learn the layout of the camp and the routine of
its inhabitants without being discovered. Doing this with the heavy pack
is not practical. It is better to hide it not too far away from the camp. For
scouting out the area, all he needs is the hunting knife, the rope, and
AK47, hoping that it is functioning properly. He must also make sure
none of its metal parts will ever reflect the sun. A flash of reflected sun
could easily be spotted from far away and would without fail alert
people’s attention. Wrapping it into a garment is no option. He needs to
have instant access to the weapon. Caked-on dirt would do the trick
provided it does not interfere with any of its mechanisms, he figures.

    
The little clearing where he spent the night seems just ideal for hiding
the pack, and he remembers seeing clay along the riverbank there. He
retraces his steps and drops the pack. Using the little pot, he makes a
thick slurry of clay and carefully smears a thin coat on all metal surfaces.
While he lets it dry in the sun, he finds a suitable hiding place up a tree
for the pack. Half an hour later, he checks the weapon for reflections by
walking back and forth at various distances from where he has it leaning
against a rock in the sun.

    
He sticks the shielded knife under his belt, wraps the rope several
times around his waist, making sure it does not restrict his breathing or
movement, and shoulders the AK47, ready to be off. What about food?
He needs some, should the scouting trip take longer than a few hours.
Should he try chewing coca leaves to suppress hunger, he ponders? But
might this not lower his alertness? Not knowing the right quantities, he
decides against it and instead opts for the chocolate bar and dried figs,
the only food he has that does not need cooking. He stuffs them into a
pocket.

    
He has little choice but to use the track, at least initially until he can
see the camp. Hacking and pushing his way through the forest undercover
is impractical, too noisy and prone to unpleasant surprises. He doesn’t
want to get lost or stuck in a canyon or ravine, having to backtrack and
lose precious time. The route of the track was chosen to avoid such
obstacles.

    
If yesterday he exercised caution, it is nothing compared to what he is
doing now. He proceeds slowly, keeping low, watching carefully where
he places each step to avoid loosening any stones, to prevent any scraping
noise or breaking of twigs or leave visible imprints of his soles on soft
earth. At the same time he pricks his ears for any foreign sound that
announces the approach of people. If this should happen, he would
noiselessly find a good hiding place in the undergrowth near the track. So
he is also regularly scouting the forest for suitable hiding places. At a
little creek, he drinks from the clear water. He may not have access to
water again for quite a while.

    
It takes him more than an hour for what he is certain is no more than
a twenty minutes walk before he reaches the end of fairly steep incline
and a vista into the distance opens. About a quarter mile further on is a
cluster of half a dozen small wooden houses tucked into a sloping terrace
nature cut into the mountain. After a quick glance at the surrounding
terrain he withdraws a short stretch to where he earlier spotted a small
ravine above the track. He scrambles up along it making sure not to
disturb the edge of the track. When he is confident to be no longer visible
from the track, he begins to traverse the slope in the direction of the
houses, doubly careful to avoid any noise or dislodge stones. The going
is even slower than before. Judging by the sun, it is late morning by the
time he is about fifty meters above the hamlet. After scouting around a
bit, he finds a flat rock under a low bush slightly beyond the houses,
which offers a good view down, while hiding him.

    
Lying on the rock and only showing his hair and eyes, he takes in the
scene. The gently sloping terrace is about 60 yards wide. Six houses, a
row of three one on each side of the track, are hugging its back. Their
walls are wood planks, rough-sawn from local trees most likely right on
site. Stone and mortar walls form their foundations. Several steps lead up
to a door for those above the track, while those below must have an open
space underneath each house, space that may once have been used as
shelter for domestic animals. It becomes quickly obvious that the three
situated below the path are unoccupied. Their windowpanes are either
broken or missing and so are the shutters. One house has its front door
smashed open. Two mongrel dogs are sunning themselves in front of the
one farthest away. That is not good news.

    
He hears a faint bleating. Having grown up in a small village, he
immediately recognizes it is the bleating of a goat that is grazing out of
sight below the houses.

    
There seem to be no guards anywhere. These people must feel fairly
safe in their hideout and rely on the dogs to warn them of unknown
intruders, he figures.

    
Bluish smoke rises from the nearest and most substantial house. Its
size indicates that it has several rooms. He wonders whether Bianca is
locked into one of them. It has two chimneys, one built of stone toward
the front entrance, the other one of copper at the very back of the house,
probably a later addition. That is the one emitting smoke. The kitchen, he
assumes. It has a door leading into a small yard, fenced in by wire mesh.
Several chicken are pecking the ground, occasionally running away from
a rooster. A shirt, a pair of socks and some underwear are drying on a
clothesline. The murmur of running water reaches him. Near the front of
the house and partially hidden behind a bush stands a wooden water
trough. He can’t see a spout. The overflow leaves a wet patch across the
path.

    
The other two houses that seem occupied have at most two rooms
judging by their size and number of windows. The farthest away also has
washing hanging out to dry. A rusty metal bucket sits at the bottom of the
steps up to the middle house. The settlement gives the impression of
being a permanent camp, most likely the place they intend to keep Bianca
prisoner.

    
A young man, still in his teens, comes out of the kitchen door,
carrying a pail, which he fills in the trough. It is the first human activity
André observes. He labels him ‘
la bonne
’ — the servant. For some
reason he prefers female nicknames. Both dogs lift their head when ‘
la
bonne
’ appears and then let them sink down again.