“All right,” Dave said. “Time to switch subjects. What do you know about lithium?”
“Lithium?”
“Yes, lithium.”
“Well,” I said, “I remember from high-school chemistry that it is a light metal. First in the periodic table column that includes sodium and potassium, I believe. Well, after hydrogen, I guess. Very reactive. I think I remember a chemistry teacher throwing a piece into water, and it caught fire. Or may be I’m making that up. It was a long time ago. And I believe it is used in incendiary bombs. But this is not a part of chemistry that I know much about.”
“Do you have a cell phone?” Dave asked.
“Yes.” I reached into my jacket pocket.
“No, I don’t need to see it. And a laptop computer?”
“Yeah.”
“Those gadgets, plus lots of others, plus satellites and high-tech weapon systems depend on light-weight batteries. Those batteries are made with lithium. Without lithium, our modern world would grind to a halt. Without lithium, this country would stumble. Without lithium, our place at the table of international powers would be lost. Without lithium, America could not defend itself. And, of course, without lithium, you could not call your wife in Chicago to ask how the art affair is going.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering where this conversation was going.
“Lithium is a widespread element in the earth,” Dave said. “However, lithium ore in lodes worth mining occurs in only three countries in the world.”
“Let me guess,” I interjected. “Bolivia is one of them.”
“Right. And the others are China and North Korea.” Dave shifted his weight in his chair and then continued, “These days my colleagues at the CIA think that China is the most important of all our potential adversaries, more so than North Korea. China is an emerging global power. We have frequent encounters with China that push the edge, sometimes with military aircraft, sometimes with computers and internet stuff, sometimes face-to-face with diplomats. We don’t expect a war with China, but we surely want to be prepared for one. Even without war, if lithium could not be obtained from Bolivia, we would be beholden to China. Not a scenario those of us at the CIA look upon favorably.”
“Wow! So Bolivia is important.”
“Yes. Very much so.”
Dave continued, “Evo Morales is Bolivia’s new president.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Morales is a bit of an unknown for us. He’s an indigenous, Aymara-speaking man with enormous popular support. He was elected after a series of rather ineffective presidents who came from the Bolivian military.”
“Yes,” I interjected. “The army is Bolivia’s major political party.”
“True. We in Washington assess Morales as a potential and lurking threat. Maybe that’s unnecessarily pessimistic, but he is being bank-rolled by Chavez in Venezuela with his oil money, and he has allied himself with Castro in Cuba. So far, however, he has not been overtly anti-American. We pour lots of USAID money into Bolivia, and Morales does not want to lose that. You know,” Dave continued, “Bolivia threw the Peace Corps out in 1971. That was under President Torres. That was dramatic and a great boost for Torres among Bolivia’s leftists, but it didn’t dampen the flow of American dollars into Bolivia and his pocket.”
“I think I understand that,” I said, “but I also think that Morales is less hostile to us than either Chavez or Castro. Or Torres, for that matter. Morales was elected, and the army stayed in its barracks rather than ousting him. In Bolivia that means something—a lot, actually—although I’m not quite sure what.”
“You’re right,” Dave commented, “and we probably have little to fear at the moment. Morales depends on our dollars. But Bolivia has lots of natural gas, and if it can get pipelines completed to export natural gas to Argentina and Brazil, then the ball game may change. But let’s put that aside, and get back to lithium.”
“Okay.” I picked up a piece of pita bread. We were eating slowly, as we were both focused on this conversation. The restaurant was not crowded, and it seemed to me that we might continue talking for some time. I flagged a waiter and ordered another round of drinks.
Dave continued, “Let’s suppose we find ourselves in hostilities or merely in some sort of stand-off with China. Maybe over Korea. Maybe over the South China Sea. Whatever. The circumstances don’t really matter. Then, Bolivia’s lithium becomes critical to us. Bolivia would have us over the proverbial barrel. What might Evo Morales do then? This is an unwanted scenario that we at the CIA have struggled with.”
“I can see that,” I commented.
“And, I hope, you also see that we need every bit of inside information about Bolivia we can get,” Dave commented. “Stuff that may not even seem to be important at the time, but that might turn out to be critical at some point.”
“Yeah, I guess. I get that.”
“So, we have spies in Bolivia. Most of them are based in our embassy in sham positions—titles such as ‘cultural attaché.’ The Bolivians know about them, of course. It’s sort of a game. They have similar people in Washington, although not so many. However, we also have other spies, not out in the open, hopefully not known to Morales and his government.”
“Real spy stuff,” I interjected.
“Right. And one of them, perhaps the most important of them, is your Bolivian friend, Gonzalo Mamani.”
I was surprised by this news, and uncertain how to respond. “Oh! Ah, okay, I guess.”
“We believe,” said Dave, “and Gonzalo believes, that his clandestine activities for us have become known to the Bolivian security folks. That is, in spy story-speak, ‘his cover has been blown.’ We must get him out of Bolivia, and soon. Like within a few days or maybe a week or two from now.”
“Wow,” was all I could say.
“Gonzalo agrees, and is ready to leave. However, and not surprisingly, he is scared. This is a big deal for him. It means leaving his homeland—forever. He’s not married, so that’s a little easier. But he is Bolivian, and his only experience out of South America is the year he spent with you in your laboratory. It won’t be easy for him.
“Gonzalo doesn’t think he would be allowed to board a flight to the U.S. He’s right. He would certainly be arrested at the airport and wind up in a Bolivian jail. So he has to get out overland. Tough, but doable, we think, at least we hope. Gonzalo is ready to go, but he wants someone from our side to help. And the someone he wants is you!”
4
“Here’s the deal,” Dave said as we started on the crême brulée we had each ordered. “Today is Monday. You fly to Bolivia Wednesday. Early morning flight to Miami, and then on to La Paz Wednesday night.”
“Stop! Stop right now! I can’t do that. My grant deadline is next week. If I miss that date, my lab is down the tubes. Two technician salaries, lab supplies and some minor equipment, sixty percent of my salary, and three years of research work depend on that NIH R01 and the 398 form I was working on when you walked into my office. This is my life. This is what I do for a living. This is me. My grant renewal is the most important thing in my life right now.”
“Yes, we at the CIA know that,” countered Dave. “And we are prepared to deal with your grant support in a way we think you will like. The CIA views successful extracting of Gonzalo as a national security issue, and for such matters all sorts of resources become available. Isn’t your grant proposal pretty much finished?”
“Well, yes, but it needs polishing. The NIH funds only about one in ten proposals. I have a pretty good track record, but I cannot get complacent.”
“What about animal and human rights protection assurances? Have those things been taken care of?” Dave asked. I was surprised that Dave knew this much about the grant submission process. I supposed he or someone had done a bit of homework.
“Yeah, they’re all done. In fact, the proposal is pretty much ready to go. It and some forms need signatures, which I can get quickly. In fact, I suppose, Jennifer could
walk it all through tomorrow.” Somehow, part of my brain had begun to think that flying to La Paz on Wednesday night was unavoidable.
“This is really a pretty good restaurant,” Dave commented. Why this digression? I had millions of thoughts and questions racing around inside my head. But Dave came back to the Bolivia junket. “We at the CIA are prepared to handle your grant renewal problem. Which institute funds your research?
“NIAID. Naional Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases.”
“Okay. Send it to NIAID, as planned. Don’t delay. It needs to get there this week, so FedEx it. Tomorrow.”
“Sure, I could do that. I suppose, but it needs to be polished, checked, and rechecked. It must be as near to perfect as I can make it.”
“Listen to me,” Dave said. “Your proposal will be funded. It will be forwarded from NIAID to the Fogarty Center at the NIH. Fogarty does whatever it does for international research using whatever money it can find in the federal bureaucracy.”
“Yes, I know,” I commented. “I’ve been on a couple of their panels.”
“Fogarty doesn’t usually fund research, but they are ready to fund you using money given to them by the State Department specifically for that purpose. I’m not sure just how that will work, but there seems to be a way, and they will make it work—whoever ‘they’ are. Money will be shuffled around. Your award will not come from Fogarty but from NIAID, at least on paper, as a regular grant. And they will fund you for five years.”
“Five years! But I have only proposed work for three. That’s all the NIH does now.”
“Five years. Provided, of course, that you agree to go to Bolivia and help rescue Gonzalo.” Dave waved a credit card at the waiter.
I nodded and then shrugged my shoulders. “You’ve made it impossible for me to refuse.”
“Not really, but you should know that Uncle Sam appreciates what you are about to undertake and is willing to reward you. Now, take me back to the Glidden House. Meet me there for breakfast at eight tomorrow morning. And bring your passport.”
5
Glidden House is a historic mansion located on the campus of Case Western Reserve University. It was built in 1909 by Francis Glidden, known as Frank, the scion of the founder of the Glidden Paint Company; and Glidden family members occupied it until 1953. At that time Western Reserve University (Case Institute of Technology would not join the university and add its name to it until years later) purchased it. Initially it housed the Department of Psychology. In 1989 an addition enlarged it, and it became a B&B catering to university visitors.
I found Dave enjoying his breakfast. I picked up a cup of coffee and joined him. “Okay,” I said. “There’s lots you need to tell me about this proposed caper.”
Dave pulled his briefcase up onto the table, opened it, and pulled out a manila envelope. “Here is your ticket to La Paz. American Airlines, business class. It’s a long flight, and we want you to arrive relaxed and ready to take on the world. Well, at least Bolivia. And here’s a membership pass to American airport lounges. You will have to wait all day in Miami for the night flight to Bolivia. Membership lounges are often pretty crowded these days, but the seats are better than in the terminal concourses. Get a snack. Have a drink, if you want. Hang onto the pass. Maybe you’ll come home that way, I’m not sure.
“Next,” Dave continued, “here is a MasterCard credit card. Limit is thirty thousand dollars, but you shouldn’t need anything like that. You will need money, however. So here is a thousand dollars, all in fifties. That makes a wad, but bigger bills are hard to change. Next, I have for you two thousand Bolivian bolivianos and two thousand Peruvian soles, each worth about three hundred dollars. I hope you have a big money belt.”
“I have a wallet that hangs down inside my pant leg. And I usually travel wearing a pair of those outdoor-type pants with lots of zippered pockets. I’m pretty savvy about hanging onto my money in places like Bolivia.”
“Now,” Dave said, “let me see your passport.” I handed it to him, and he paged through it, examining each entry stamp. “You’re okay,” he said. “We don’t want you caught with entry stamps that might raise eyebrows. Especially, no entry into Colombia, where the drug traffic is centered.”
“No, I’ve never been to Colombia.”
I took a look at my ticket to La Paz. “A one-way ticket,” I commented. “How do I get home? And why the soles?”
“I don’t know the answer to all of that. You’ll find out in La Paz. And, of course, you have to get Gonzalo out, which will affect your return. I guess that if nothing else is offered, you can buy an airline ticket with that credit card. Once you are in Bolivia, you will be under the wing of the CIA folks there, not me.”
I took the ticket and money, stuffing them into my jacket pockets. I hadn’t really expected all of this, and had not brought my briefcase.
“You’ll be getting a new passport with a new name,” Dave said. “You should take passport photos with you. It’ll make things easier. You should be able to find a kiosk in the Miami airport and get photos of yourself.”
“Actually, the audio-visual guys at the med school will take passport photos. I can get them made this morning.”
“Okay. Good.”
“And some thoughts about what you should take,” Dave added. “We want you to be viewed on arrival as a traveling businessman—and an important one. Do you have a dark blue suit?”
“Yes.”
“Wear it flying down. But take along the multi-pocketed pants. You may need them as you make your way out with Gonzalo. Also, take along a small backpack as your carry-on.”
“Okay. I have one. I can do that, although it seems to me not to fit with the suit.”
“Well, just do it. And do not, do not, do not take a laptop or cell phone or any other electronic wizardry. You would probably have to abandon them, and we don’t want the Bolivians to find them. Take your passport. Take a wallet—the MasterCard card I gave you, your driver’s license, and the American airport lounge pass. Nothing else but money in it. No picture of Susan.”
“Hey, this is beginning to sound like serious spy stuff,” I said.
“Well, it is.
“As you know,” Dave continued, “modern times have come to La Paz in recent years. You are booked into the Europa, a fairly new and modern hotel. You will need a couple of days to rest and adapt to the altitude.”
“Yes, I know,” I interjected. “I’ve been through soroche (acute altitude sickness) many times. I have Diamox at home and will take it, but it only ameliorates altitude adjustment somewhat. I don’t usually get to do my altitude adaptation in such posh quarters, however.”
“Good,” added Dave. “You will arrive in La Paz early Thursday morning. By the time you clear immigration and customs, it will be about six a.m., I guess. Take a taxi down from the El Alto airport. Stay in your hotel. On Friday, be in the Bistro Bar there at six-thirty in the evening and order a pisco sour. Find a seat. Alone, in a corner. One of our people will find you.
“Good luck, and many thanks. I know this is sudden, but we have to move fast to get Gonzalo to safety. We mustn’t let him wind up in a Bolivian carcel. I think that’s the word for jail! And if we delay, he might. Now then, I have to get to the airport for a six-thirty flight to Washington National. How long will it take me in a taxi?”
“I’m picking up Susan at four-twenty-something. If you don’t mind being a bit early, I’ll collect you here at three-thirty and drive you out.”
“Great. I’ll be ready then.”
“Meanwhile, if you have time on your hands. The Cleveland Museum of Art is just across the way. It’s a good museum. There’s a Warhol of Marilyn Monroe there that I really like. And some good impressionists, including one of Monet’s water lilies. Good Asian art, but very little pre-Columbian Latin American.”
On the way to the airport I had more questions for Dave. “What will happen to Gonzalo when… after… if… we get him out of Bolivia and safely to the U.
S.?”
“Well, I guess he’ll practice medicine. Maybe get a job in a hospital. Or open an office. What do MDs do to start out their lives in medicine?”
“Ahhh! You and your CIA friends haven’t thought that through, I guess.”
“Don’t get testy. You’re one of us now.”
“Yeah, I guess. But if Gonzalo is going to continue in medicine, he’ll need to get a license in whatever state he settles in. That means he’ll have to pass parts I and II of the National Board of Medical Examiners exam. Then he’ll have to have one or, in most states, two years of supervised clinical training—internship, residency. And finally pass part III of the board exam.”
“Won’t his Chilean and Bolivian licenses count for anything?”
“Nope, not at all. But his degree from Chile will be accepted after he completes the required clinical training in an accredited U.S. hospital. I suggest you get him enrolled in a Kaplan cram course to study for the board exams as soon as he gets settled. Yes, he knows medicine, but those exams are tough and they include a lot of basic stuff that he hasn’t dealt with since medical school. Maybe he could get an advanced medical clerkship or a clinical rotation in pulmonary disease while he is studying for the board exams. And of course, he’ll need financial help, at least until he gets into an internship.”
“Money will be no problem for him. We’ll be sure of that.”
“I guess you will. At least you should,” I said.
“Suppose we settle him in Cleveland. Then you could help steer him through all of this.”
I should have seen this coming, but somehow I had not. I really had no choice. “Okay, that makes some sense,” I said. Provided, I thought to myself, that the escape from Bolivia comes off—for both of us.
“Another question,” I continued. “How likely are the Bolivians to come after him? Here in the U.S., in Cleveland?”
“Not at all. Yes, they’ll try—try hard—to catch him before he gets away, and they’ll keep after him while he is on the run. And you too, of course. Then they could put him on trial as a spy. It would make Morales look like a patriotic hero. If they catch you, we can probably get you back here—you’re an American citizen—although you’ll probably have a few unpleasant months while we are negotiating. They’ll have you all over the news. You know, ‘Bolivia captures a spy from Los Estados.’ However, as I said, Morales wants and needs our USAID money. Once Gonzalo is safely in the U.S., they’ll give up, I think. To keep after him would mean admitting to weakness, and Morales depends too much on his machismo image to do that. And perhaps jeopardizing his USAID money.” No part of this conversation was reassuring to me.
Escape Through the Andes Page 2