excellent news, excellent,’ said Mr Rawle, rubbing his hands until I wondered if they might catch fire. ‘Might I ask what amount of funds?’
I said, as carelessly as I could, that I had moved fifty thousand across for the time being.
‘Are there any other pressing liabilities just at present?’ asked Mr Rawle.
A small tax bill. How much? I couldn’t exactly remember. I managed to detach my eyes from the ceiling and speak directly to Mr Rawle, rather than to one of his ceiling lights. Would it be all right if the bank cashed my cheque now, as I had an appointment?
Mr Rawle stood up, and almost bowed, and said, ‘A cheque for how much, Mr Wilberforce?’
‘Just the usual five thousand pounds,’ I said, trying to recapture the old insouciance with which I had asked for such sums of money in the past.
But Mr Rawle shook his head sadly. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but until the cheque you spoke of has been cleared and the funds are in your account, I don’t have the authority. I can let you have a thousand, I suppose.’
‘It’s very inconvenient,’ I told him.
He bowed again but would not give in. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wilberforce. I’m so sorry, but there it is.’
It ended with me writing another cheque for one thousand pounds, and then Mr Rawle took it personally to the cashier and stood there while they counted out the fifties - in case they gave me one too many, I suppose. Then he ushered me to the door, and I went back out into the street feeling rather unsettled. There was a humming, like bees in my head again.
I had just arrived in Bogotá on the Avianca flight from Medellín. I had been there for several weeks in unsatisfactory discussions with representatives of FARC, the narco-terrorist group that had recently been taking European hostages in Colombia. The current list included three French tourists, two Brit backpackers, and two employees of BP Colombia. The latter were insured at Lloyd’s of London, which is why I was there. The idea was to do a deal on ransom, but for the last few days I had been feeling increasingly uneasy about the negotiations. I had no proof of life. The FARC representative wanted me to trust him. He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, offer any evidence that any of these people were still alive. That meant either that they had been killed, which I thought was unlikely because that would be a very uncommercial thing for FARC to do; or it might mean the little weasel-faced man who called himself an FARC representative had nothing to do with them at all. He might be from the cartels, or some other group wanting to make money from the situation.
I know that when he proposed a change of venue for our daily conversations, somewhere just outside of the city, I decided that it was likely he and his friends had decided I mightn’t be a bad bargaining counter myself. I thought they would probably set up a kidnap attempt of some sort the next day, so I rang London on the satellite phone to explain the position, and we agreed I should head back to Bogotá for a few days and get away from the front line.
There was something else that happened in Medellín, though - something very unsettling; but I couldn’t remember what it was. There was a smell, and there was a sense of something or someone always on the edge of my vision.
In the taxi from the airport we stopped at traffic lights; there was a rapping at the taxi window and I almost had heart failure. It was only one of the street children selling cartons of Pall Mall cigarettes, either fake or contraband. We drove up the hill away from the city centre towards the Bogotá Plaza Hotel: the pavements were slick with rain and the headlights of passing traffic made gleaming reflections in them.
Some instinct made me stop the taxi a few hundred metres before we got to the hotel. I wanted to walk; I wanted to see if any other taxi or car behind me stopped, or whether anyone would follow me. It was not far to the hotel; it was a relatively
I said, as carelessly as I could, that I had moved fifty thousand across for the time being.
‘Are there any other pressing liabilities just at present?’ asked Mr Rawle.
A small tax bill. How much? I couldn’t exactly remember. I managed to detach my eyes from the ceiling and speak directly to Mr Rawle, rather than to one of his ceiling lights. Would it be all right if the bank cashed my cheque now, as I had an appointment?
Mr Rawle stood up, and almost bowed, and said, ‘A cheque for how much, Mr Wilberforce?’
‘Just the usual five thousand pounds,’ I said, trying to recapture the old insouciance with which I had asked for such sums of money in the past.
But Mr Rawle shook his head sadly. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but until the cheque you spoke of has been cleared and the funds are in your account, I don’t have the authority. I can let you have a thousand, I suppose.’
‘It’s very inconvenient,’ I told him.
He bowed again but would not give in. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wilberforce. I’m so sorry, but there it is.’
It ended with me writing another cheque for one thousand pounds, and then Mr Rawle took it personally to the cashier and stood there while they counted out the fifties - in case they gave me one too many, I suppose. Then he ushered me to the door, and I went back out into the street feeling rather unsettled. There was a humming, like bees in my head again.
I had just arrived in Bogotá on the Avianca flight from Medellín. I had been there for several weeks in unsatisfactory discussions with representatives of FARC, the narco-terrorist group that had recently been taking European hostages in Colombia. The current list included three French tourists, two Brit backpackers, and two employees of BP Colombia. The latter were insured at Lloyd’s of London, which is why I was there. The idea was to do a deal on ransom, but for the last few days I had been feeling increasingly uneasy about the negotiations. I had no proof of life. The FARC representative wanted me to trust him. He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, offer any evidence that any of these people were still alive. That meant either that they had been killed, which I thought was unlikely because that would be a very uncommercial thing for FARC to do; or it might mean the little weasel-faced man who called himself an FARC representative had nothing to do with them at all. He might be from the cartels, or some other group wanting to make money from the situation.
I know that when he proposed a change of venue for our daily conversations, somewhere just outside of the city, I decided that it was likely he and his friends had decided I mightn’t be a bad bargaining counter myself. I thought they would probably set up a kidnap attempt of some sort the next day, so I rang London on the satellite phone to explain the position, and we agreed I should head back to Bogotá for a few days and get away from the front line.
There was something else that happened in Medellín, though - something very unsettling; but I couldn’t remember what it was. There was a smell, and there was a sense of something or someone always on the edge of my vision.
In the taxi from the airport we stopped at traffic lights; there was a rapping at the taxi window and I almost had heart failure. It was only one of the street children selling cartons of Pall Mall cigarettes, either fake or contraband. We drove up the hill away from the city centre towards the Bogotá Plaza Hotel: the pavements were slick with rain and the headlights of passing traffic made gleaming reflections in them.
Some instinct made me stop the taxi a few hundred metres before we got to the hotel. I wanted to walk; I wanted to see if any other taxi or car behind me stopped, or whether anyone would follow me. It was not far to the hotel; it was a relatively
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