I shook my head and conjured up one of the few words I remembered from tenth-grade Spanish, which I should point out I got a C− in because I couldn’t roll my r’s. “¿Dónde?”

“Aeropuerto,” he responded.

“Yes, we are leaving the aeropuerto, but where are we going?”

“Sí, sí, sí.”

For the next few minutes, I watched as the sprawling city of La Paz grew larger. Then the taxi took an off-ramp and headed back away from the city.

I leaned forward, wondering where this guy was taking me and in what fashion he and his pals were going to kill me, when I noticed a chain-link fence in the distance enclosing a bunch of small planes.

He was taking me to the airport—just a different airport.

We pulled through an open gate and drove over gravel toward a faded yellow prop plane.

There was a man sitting on a beach chair next to the plane. He was older, well into his late fifties, with a thick gray mustache, and a ruddy complexion. The last third of a cigar was tucked into his cheek and he was wearing a faded maroon hat and a bright yellow, blue, and green Hawaiian shirt, which I have no doubt is where his nickname came from.

Papagayo.

Parrot.

9

9

la paz, bolivia
august 13, 5:32 p.m.
days since abduction: 8

The taxi driver sped away before I could even think about tipping him—I assume he’d been paid enough already—the wheels on the old Honda kicking up dust as he left.

“Open the duffel,” Papagayo said, pushing himself up from the collapsible beach chair with a grunt. “And count the money.”

I unzipped the bag and counted the stacks. There were thirty-four.

“One hundred and seventy thousand,” I said.

“Good, good.”

The way he said it, I got the impression that in the past he’d had trouble with people taking a bit more than the agreed upon bribe. But evidently, everything that occurred at the airport had gone exactly as intended. This meant MM had been paid $30,000 for his interference. Not a bad day’s work.

“Give it here.”

I handed him the duffel, and he pulled out two stacks and handed them to me. He had heavily tanned and thick forearms, the kind I’ve seen on many farmers in Missouri. The kind that have never seen a weight room but can rip a phonebook in three. “Keep these on you,” he said. “In case of emergency.”

I shoved the ten grand in the front pocket of my pants and waited for him to elaborate. He did not. He did, however, toss his cigar to the loose gravel, then open a compartment near the back of the plane and push the duffel inside. He waved for my pack. I handed it to him, and he added it to the duffel and another large pack before slamming the compartment shut.