last of the mountain had been hauled away, the rebels released their hostage. Out from the jungle walked an eighty-six-year-old man who was not my father. Frantic, I chased after the guerrillas and shouted at the top of my lungs that they'd made a terrible mistake. One of them finally stopped and turned, almost laughing as he answered in the exact voice of the Colombian police officer I'd spoken to on the phone last evening.
You are SeA+-or Alvarez, no?
Some people find meaning in dreams. I usually dismissed the good ones as wishful thinking and the power of suggestion; the bad ones I chalked up to stress, anxiety, and the power of indigestion. This time I wasn't taking any chances. The next morning I drove to the Miami field office for a personal visit with the FBI.
I arrived at half past nine, took the elevator to the second floor, and checked in with the receptionist who sat on the other side of the bulletproof glass. I told her my name and why I was there.
You want Agent Nettles, our legal liaison for international kidnappings.
I've seen him already. I'd like to see his supervisor, please.
Do you have an appointment?
No. But it's no exaggeration to say that this is a matter of life and death. Please, I really need to see someone with authority.
She gave me a quick once-over, as if trying to determine whether I was a nutcase. I'll see who's available, she said.
Thank you.
I sat in the Naugahyde chair and waited. Rising from the table beside me was a three-foot-tall trophy from a regional softball league. On the wall were two plaques that bore the names of FBI agents who'd lost their lives in the line of duty. It was in chronological order. There seemed to be more in recent years, like everything else. More guns. More criminals. More dead FBI agents. More Americans kidnapped abroad.
Finally the door opened and the receptionist called for me. Come with me, please.
She clipped a visitor's badge to my shirt, and I followed her down the brightly lit hall. We made several turns, then came to a larger room that was partitioned into smaller workstations by chest-high dividers. Dozens of agents and other personnel were busy in their pods, reviewing files, working at computer terminals, or talking on the telephone. Work here was done without the noise and confusion of police stations, where people always seemed to be shouting at each other or dodging some drunk who was about to vomit on their shoes. An FBI field office had an air of dignity, practically a church, compared to the zoo-in-blue downtown.
We stopped at a conference room. Three walls were windowless; the fourth was completely glass and faced the interior workstations. Inside were two agents who rose from the table to greet me. The older one was Agent Sam Huitt, a man about my dad's age. He had the same lines around his eyes as Dad did, too, not from years of squinting in the sun, I surmised, but from habitually narrowing his gaze with suspicion. The younger agent was Angela Pintero, a tall woman with olive skin and short brown hair styled into tight, efficient curls. We exchanged pleasantries and then took our seats, me across the table from the two of them.
Are you Agent Nettles's supervisor? I asked Huitt.
Not directly, but I am a supervisory special agent. And I'm aware of the impasse between the bureau and the State Department.
Good. Because I'm making it my business to break the impasse. Agent Nettles tried to help, but his hands were clearly tied. If you can't do better, I'd like to speak to your supervisor.
I'm confident we can help.
That's encouraging. Do you have anything specific in mind?
First, I propose to listen. You came to us. I presume you have some thoughts of your own as to how we can solve the problem.
Huitt sat back with hands clasped behind his head. Pintero was poised to take notes. They seemed to operate the way Duncan and I did, the senior guy running the show, the other playing backup.
Here's the way I see it, I said. The State
You are SeA+-or Alvarez, no?
Some people find meaning in dreams. I usually dismissed the good ones as wishful thinking and the power of suggestion; the bad ones I chalked up to stress, anxiety, and the power of indigestion. This time I wasn't taking any chances. The next morning I drove to the Miami field office for a personal visit with the FBI.
I arrived at half past nine, took the elevator to the second floor, and checked in with the receptionist who sat on the other side of the bulletproof glass. I told her my name and why I was there.
You want Agent Nettles, our legal liaison for international kidnappings.
I've seen him already. I'd like to see his supervisor, please.
Do you have an appointment?
No. But it's no exaggeration to say that this is a matter of life and death. Please, I really need to see someone with authority.
She gave me a quick once-over, as if trying to determine whether I was a nutcase. I'll see who's available, she said.
Thank you.
I sat in the Naugahyde chair and waited. Rising from the table beside me was a three-foot-tall trophy from a regional softball league. On the wall were two plaques that bore the names of FBI agents who'd lost their lives in the line of duty. It was in chronological order. There seemed to be more in recent years, like everything else. More guns. More criminals. More dead FBI agents. More Americans kidnapped abroad.
Finally the door opened and the receptionist called for me. Come with me, please.
She clipped a visitor's badge to my shirt, and I followed her down the brightly lit hall. We made several turns, then came to a larger room that was partitioned into smaller workstations by chest-high dividers. Dozens of agents and other personnel were busy in their pods, reviewing files, working at computer terminals, or talking on the telephone. Work here was done without the noise and confusion of police stations, where people always seemed to be shouting at each other or dodging some drunk who was about to vomit on their shoes. An FBI field office had an air of dignity, practically a church, compared to the zoo-in-blue downtown.
We stopped at a conference room. Three walls were windowless; the fourth was completely glass and faced the interior workstations. Inside were two agents who rose from the table to greet me. The older one was Agent Sam Huitt, a man about my dad's age. He had the same lines around his eyes as Dad did, too, not from years of squinting in the sun, I surmised, but from habitually narrowing his gaze with suspicion. The younger agent was Angela Pintero, a tall woman with olive skin and short brown hair styled into tight, efficient curls. We exchanged pleasantries and then took our seats, me across the table from the two of them.
Are you Agent Nettles's supervisor? I asked Huitt.
Not directly, but I am a supervisory special agent. And I'm aware of the impasse between the bureau and the State Department.
Good. Because I'm making it my business to break the impasse. Agent Nettles tried to help, but his hands were clearly tied. If you can't do better, I'd like to speak to your supervisor.
I'm confident we can help.
That's encouraging. Do you have anything specific in mind?
First, I propose to listen. You came to us. I presume you have some thoughts of your own as to how we can solve the problem.
Huitt sat back with hands clasped behind his head. Pintero was poised to take notes. They seemed to operate the way Duncan and I did, the senior guy running the show, the other playing backup.
Here's the way I see it, I said. The State
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