expressions of hope and skepticism.
Fournier scraped spindly fingers over his silver bristles. “It is possible,” he conceded, leading to a chorused sigh from the others. “Given the devaluation of the peso, the sum is not so large.”
“It’s about twenty-five thousand American dollars,” Gus supplied. Everyone looked at him in surprise. “I’m good with math,” he added.
Lucy digested the latest news with mixed feelings. Not once had she envisioned the UN team and the FARC coming to an agreement. Still, why not? The FARC were getting ten men in exchange for one man and a body. Twenty-five thousand dollars on top of that was icing on the cake.
It was looking like the SEALs at the JIC wouldn’t be needed to extract the hostages, after all.
“However, it would be unethical to agree to such a ransom,” Fournier added, causing several faces at the table to fall.
“I agree,” said Carlos with a contemptuous glimmer in his eye. “To pay them is to encourage more abductions.”
S¸ ukruye and Bellini averted their gazes, keeping quiet. It was clear they’d be happy to hand over the money.
“But, as it happens,” Fournier continued, sending an enigmatic glance at the Argentine, “Jay Barnes has an insurance policy that pays up to twenty-five thousand dollars in the event of his kidnapping. All that is needed to secure that sum is for Mr. Barnes to write a letter in longhand requesting it be paid and designating a carrier.”
Lucy shot a cynical look at Gus. Insurance policy, my ass. More likely Christians in Action, aka the CIA, had informed Fournier at some point that they were willing to contribute a tidy sum to help secure their employees’ release. Fournier had kept that card hidden up his sleeve, waiting for just the right moment to whip it out.
Stunned silence descended over the table.
“So…” Bellini inclined his head with cautious optimism. “We are agreeing to the FARC’s counteroffer?”
The Argentine held a hand up. “One more thing,” he added belatedly. “All this must be done in forty-eight hours.”
Surprised, the members of the UN team turned wide eyes on Fournier. At the mention of a time limitation, he seemed to age a decade.
“What’s the hurry?” Lucy demanded. “They’ve held the hostages for over six months. What difference does two days make?”
Álvarez shrugged. “I only repeat what I am told to say.”
“They must be desperate for midlevel leadership,” S¸ ukruye surmised, “and for money.”
“They have been in steady decline,” Bellini agreed. “We have seen firsthand how hungry they are, how poor their weapons.”
Until recently, Lucy thought, biting her tongue. They would have food and weapons aplenty, thanks to their alliance with the Venezuelans.
“The time constraint is problematic,” Fournier confessed. “I would need to communicate with the outside world, of course. I would have to place calls to the proper authorities, to enjoin their cooperation. Freeing ten captives at once, securing the funds, there is always red tape involved.” He rubbed his closed eyelids, looking overwhelmed and agitated.
S¸ ukruye and Bellini seemed to wilt in the face of his pessimism.
Lucy herself was caught in a flux of emotions. She glanced at Gus, reading watchful optimism.
Carlos threw his hands into the air. “When does this time constraint begin? And what happens if the money isn’t here in two days, eh? Are the FARC going to kill us?”
The Argentine blanched at the suggestion. “It is not Commander Rojas’s intent to kill you,” he assured them. “I will tell him you are willing to cooperate but that you require a satellite phone, and more time.”
“Exactly,” replied Fournier. “We must have more time.”
Álvarez nodded, seeming to resign himself to the fact that his services would be needed for a while longer. “Is that your final offer?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Fournier. “Tell Commander Rojas that we need three days, at least, plus a reliable means of communication. I cannot gather money or men without a phone of some sort.”
“Very well.” With a murmured farewell, the Argentine scraped back his chair and stood. They watched him exit through the screen door and cross to Marquez, who sat by the fire eating, to explain that yet another trek to Rojas’s camp was in order.
Lucy’s gaze slid past Marquez to Buitre, who glared at her as he ate. Even with several yards between them, she could sense the venom he radiated. Her nape prickled in response to it. What had happened to exacerbate Buitre’s dislike of her, transforming it into loathing? Had David said something to arouse his suspicions?
“If they give us more time,” Fournier