Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (6 page)

    
She frowns briefly and then shrugs her shoulders. "Professor Visconti
is the expert. He should know."

    
"You believe every word he says when he theorizes about archaeology? If humanity had taken experts by their word, we would still believe
that the earth is flat and that the sun turns around the earth, as the Church
insisted well into the middle ages, and as thousand of people in Texas
still do to this day. No, it is exactly by critically challenging the theories
of experts that new knowledge is gained. Only religious fundamentalists
and the Pope believe they are infallible. And why did you have to
introduce the professor into this serene setting?"

    
"Stop it right there," she interrupts, "before your mouth runs away
with some nasty remark. He is my fiancé."

    
He grins. "Yes, I’m fully aware of this fact, and can’t help regretting
it."

    
"He has many good qualities, even if dancing isn’t one of them, and
he comes from a distinguished family. His grandfather was a count. They
own a castle on the shores of Lago di Bolsena’

    
"The exact opposite of me then. I have few good qualities. I can say
without boasting that I dance well, and I claim no distinction in my
ancestry. My grandfather was a simple tenant farmer. I think he owned
two cows … Oh what a cruel world we live in when a nice guy like me
is doomed from the outset. But I console myself that I’ll still be able to
relish your delightful company for another four hours at least."

    
"You’re impossible," she cuts in.

    
"And I can always hope to snatch another few dances with you
tonight."

    
"I doubt that. Our tour bus leaves for Ipiales tomorrow morning at
seven. I’m afraid that means packing and an early night."

    
"What a pity! But tell me which room you’re in and I’ll serenade you
from the courtyard at ten tonight with my harmonica."

    
"You really are incorrigible," she laughs. "It’s room 211, and to make
it worth your while I’ll invite several class mates to join me at ten."

* * *

It is getting on to noon by the time they finish viewing and photographing
the statues at the
Alto de Lavapatas
. The temperature has risen to a balmy
24 degrees. André holds his jacket over one shoulder. The two male
students and their guide ride into the clearing and tether their horses.
Bianca meets them and they exchange impressions. Once more, he feels
left out. He goes to a vantage point that offers good views. Undulating
hills and valleys extend to the south and east, the lush scenery dotted by
palms, poinsettia trees, and dense clusters of bamboo. Rectangular fields
of crops add color patterns. The clouds are breaking over the mountains
to the west and north, leaving only patches fog hugging some of the
forested slopes. He catches glimpses of the deep gorge the Magdalena
has carved into the terrain, separating the hills around San Agustin from
the slopes gradually rising toward the volcanoes on the true left of the
Magdalena River. He scans the vast landscape for signs of towns or
villages, but can only spot a few farmhouses. San José de Isnos is some
ten kilometers up that slope, he reckons. Is that really the place the squat
fellow in the Alcazar named? He sure wishes he knew.

    
He sees Bianca wave and returns to where the Jeep is parked. A
sudden cold sweeps through his mind. Didn’t ‘
le trapu
’ say that they
would intercept the Jeep before that town? There in the parking lot is a
Jeep. One of its occupants is a young woman from a wealthy Italian
family. On the other side of the river is San José de Isnos. He is suddenly
sure that this is the name he only partially overheard. All the parts are
there and fit, or is it only a specious coincidence?

* * *

Bianca watches André approach. He seems preoccupied, even agitated,
and his face has the same somber expression as when he asked her to
repeat the name of the town on the other side of the river. She again asks
hrself what that was all about.

    
"What happened? I didn’t think that you could ever look serious," she
questions mockingly.

    
"Nothing happened, and yes, I can be serious under the right circumstances."

    
"And such right circumstances have just occurred?" she teases him,
for once sensing of having the upper hand.

    
"Maybe. Do you really want to cross to the other side? Couldn’t we
just explore this side more thoroughly? There are still dozens of
sculptures to see, as well as the museum."

    
"Oh, no. I want to see the biggest of the statues on the other side.
Franco, um, Professor Visconti stressed that I have to see that one and if
time permits also the ones beyond San José de Isnos."

    
He eyes her intently, squinting, remaining silent, as if some crucial
thought has suddenly occurred to him. It feels disturbing.

    
"Why are you looking at me like that?"

    
He waits several seconds before answering. "Don’t you find it strange
that there so few visitors here, as if people deliberately avoided this area?
Isn’t it one of the major tourist sites in southern Columbia?"

    
"Yes, to all three questions. But this isn’t strange at all. Didn’t you get
warned by the
Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad
that there is
renewed guerrilla activity in the mountains around here?"

    
"No, I usually stay well clear of the security police."

    
"Professor Visconti checked with them and in view of their advice
thought it unwise to take our entire group here by road. That’s why a few
of us chartered a plane."

    
"And why did the professor not join you to be your expert guide?"

    
"He couldn’t leave the other twenty students alone in Popayàn."

    
"You mean a bunch of twenty-year olds need baby-sitting?"

    
There he goes again, crosses her mind. "Why do you always have to
be so cynical whenever Professor Visconti’s name comes up?"

    
"You ask me? … after having spent three hours in my company? Isn’t
that obvious?"

    
She is getting annoyed by these oblique and not-so-oblique hints that
he is wooing her. She cannot take them seriously, nor does she want any
distraction of that sort, now that she promised herself to do whatever is
in her power to bring her relationship with Franco back to what it was
prior to the trip. So she spits out: "Oh, knock it off. This doesn’t even
deserve an answer."

    
"Maybe not. You’re right. But I still would like you not to dismiss out-of-hand my suggestion of remaining here in the safety of the park."

    
"I see no good reason for doing that. Why?"

    
Again he hesitates. "If you really must know, because I have this
ominous feeling that something bad is going to happen on the other side."

    
She almost laughs out loud, but suppresses it at the last moment.
Instead she mocks: "You have powers of premonition?" When he does
not rise to her irony, she adds: "You are ridiculous. I’m definitely going,
and if you’re afraid, stay here and meet us again at three at the park
entrance for the ride back to Pitalito."

    
"Is there no way I can convince you not to go to San José de Isnos?"

    
"What is your obsession with that town? And no, I will go."

    
He sighs. "So be it. I’ll come along."

    
She shakes her head in disbelief. What was that all about?

3

They have an early lunch in the Donde Richard Restaurant, eating in
silence the tasteful house-made sausages so recommended by their driver.
Bianca welcomes the respite of not having to spar with André. Although
she found it often amusing in spite of herself, his less than oblique
attacks on Franco have soured things. She tries to study the brochure they
picked up at the park office, but soon drifts back to their discussion about
the interpretation of the shape of the female faces. She was surprised by
his knowledge of early archaeology. His arguments were beguilingly
convincing, and she has to admit that he is right at least in one respect.
A serious scholar should always critically examine any theory. She is
tempted to renew that discussion, but he seemed to have turned inward,
engrossed in the local map.

    
By twelve thirty their guide picks them up and retraces the way back
to the bridge over Rio Magdalena where the road to San José de Isnos
turns off the highway to Pitalito. Theirs is the only vehicle on the road.
They cross the bridge and begin the steep ascent toward the plateau high
above the river. The dirt road winds in sharp turns and switchbacks
through tall evergreen trees, offering the occasional eye-catching glimpse
down to the river.

    
They catch up with a mud-splattered, gray Toyota Landcruiser. Its
yellow license plate is covered in dirt and unreadable. There is no way
for their Jeep to pass. In fact, Bianca has the distinct impression that the
Toyota is deliberately going slowly. At a tight turn, the vehicle comes to
an abrupt halt, blocking the road. Their guide brakes sharply, propelling
her almost into the windshield. She hears André’s alarmed exclamation
of ‘
merde
’ and sees him jump from the Jeep.

    
"What are you doing," she shouts.

    
The next thing she sees is the muzzle of a gun pointed into her face.
At the same time, a burst of machine gun fire shatters the silence. Her
heart jumps into her throat, cold sweat breaking out. She feels paralyzed,
her eyes glued to the black hole of the muzzle. For a moment her mind
goes blank, and then she cries in Italian: "Please, don’t shoot."

    
The man holding the gun rips the door open and pulls her roughly
from the vehicle. She almost falls over, but his iron grip on her arm holds
her upright. He shoves her roughly into the side of the Toyota, shouting
in Spanish: "Stand still."

    
For the first time she consciously looks at him. He wears military
fatigues. Only dark brown eyes and a cruel mouth menace through the
holes in the balaclava. He is just a fraction taller than her, but makes up
his relative shortness by the raw strength of his solid body. The beating
of her heart feels painful. Her whole body is shaking.

    
Another guy is pushing his machine gun into André’s back, marching
him up the road. André has his hands raised above his head. He too is
shoved against the Toyota. The driver of their Jeep is still at the wheel,
kept in check by a third disguised man.

    
While one man has his gun trained on them, the squat fellow expertly
pats down André. She only sees it in her peripheral vision, not daring to
turn her head.

    
"Remove your coat."

    
André does and the man searches through the pockets. From one
outside pocket he retrieves a camera, from the other a gadget she
recognizes as a IPhone.

    
"What’s this?" he asks, inspecting its front and back. "A cell phone?"

    
"No, an French/Spanish dictionary," André answers.

    
Why does he lie?
she wonders.

    
The man slips it into his ample pant pockets. One inside pocket
contains a passport. It is red and has the white Swiss cross in the upper
right-hand corner. So André didn’t lie about that, crosses her mind
fleetingly. His captor’s eyes light up. He briefly leafs through the thin
notebook he finds in the other inside pocket. It is about half-full of tiny
writing. A small silver pen is stuck in its spine. He throws the empty
jacket into the backseat of the Toyota. Next he reaches for the back
pocket of André’s pants. From one side he pulls out a wallet, which he
rifles through, from the other a Swiss army knife. He briefly searches the
front pockets of the pants. There seems to be nothing of interest in them.