”Dave should have set you up with a credit card chargeable to the CIA.”
“Yes, I have it.”
“Let me see it.” Rosemary took it, found a piece of note paper from a pad by the phone, and wrote down the card’s number and expiration date.
“Now, then, you know where the U.S. Embassy is?”
“On the Plaza Murillo.”
“Right. Tomorrow morning meet me there in the plaza at eleven-thirty. There will be people about; there always are on weekends in any open space Paceños can find. Sit on a bench. Try to be near a lamppost that has been made a national monument. Rebel Bolivians hung an oppressing ruler there.”
“I know it,” I commented.
“I’ll find you. I will have a new passport with a new name for you, and give this one back to you as well. Also a new credit card with a name to match the new passport. And I’ll return this one. The new one will also bill directly to the CIA in Washington with a copy to me here in La Paz. You’ll want your real passport and credit card when you re-enter the States. Don’t lose them. I don’t think I’ll be able to fix your Ohio driver’s license, so don’t get caught by a traffic cop, but I will give you an international driver’s license with your new name.
“Your name is going to be Phillip Masterson. It will be on the new passport and credit card I give you. Gonzalo is also going to have a new passport—an American one—and a new name, George Morrison. Both passports will be well used and a little worn and have Bolivian entry stamps and immigration forms included. You are to be two American men touring South America. Good friends on a junket your wives scorned. You’re headed to Machu Picchu, at least for starters. But you are to have no contact with Gonzalo until you meet and start your escape, your run to freedom, on Sunday.
“How much money do you have?” she continued.
“Well,” I replied, “Dave Swenson, my college friend who turned out to be a CIA person, gave me a thousand cash in U.S. currency, almost all of which I still have. And two thousand Bolivian bolivianos and an equal amount of Peruvian soles. Plus the credit card.”
“Okay. I’ll give you another couple of thousand soles when I see you tomorrow. You’ll be well-heeled. And use the credit card almost every day if you can. Tonight for dinner. Dave checks that account every day. So will I. A simple, easy, but effective way to track you and your progress.”
“Yeah, I guess I can do that.”
“Go out to dinner tonight. Soon after we finish here. Bolivians don’t eat dinner until nine thirty or ten, but Americans are expected to eat earlier. They always do. Talk to the concierge downstairs and get a couple of recommendations. In fact, I want you to be noticed here, so ask about places to eat, things to do on the weekend, whatever else comes to your mind. You are an American businessman, and you want to eat in a nice place and want to enjoy the weekend. You have appointments on Monday and Tuesday; be sure the concierge knows that.”
“But I guess I won’t be here on Monday and Tuesday.”
“Right, but we don’t want the hotel to know that.
“When you come back from dinner,” she continued, “fish around in your pocket and be unable to find your room key-card. Go to the reception desk and tell them you must have left your card in your room or lost it somewhere. Maybe at the restaurant. They’ll give you a second one. I want you to give me that second one when we meet tomorrow.”
“So, are we going to have secret trysts in my room?” I asked with what I hoped was humor.
“No, no, none of that. But after you leave, which you will do without checking out, I will come by every evening and rumple your bed to make it looked slept in, run the shower, dampen and discard the towels, things to make the room look used. The hotel folks should not know you have left.” More secret spy stuff, I thought.
“Okay,” I said. “I meet you tomorrow morning and you give me a new passport and more money. How do I connect with Gonzalo and how do we get out of here?”
“Well, this is the plan. But things may happen, and you will be on your own and should be ready to improvise.
“Tomorrow ask the concierge to have a picnic lunch for you for Sunday. For two. Let him know that you are meeting a chica, an amiga—a girlfriend—for a picnic up on the road to Zongo. Ask for a bottle of wine, Chilean, not Bolivian, to be included with the lunch. Ask for some flowers—cantutas, if they can get them. They’re the Bolivian national flower, you know.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Then, about eleven o’clock Sunday morning, take the lunch and head out and catch a bus down to Calacoto and all the way to the end of the line. Then walk up to the Valley of the Moon. It’s not very far.”
“I know it. We used to picnic there sometimes when we lived here in ’eighty-one.”
“Take your small day pack. You have one?”
“Yes.”
“Pack changes of underwear and toiletries. Wear casual clothes and a warm sweater. You’ll not be coming back, and you will be up on the Altiplano where it gets cool.” I was glad I had brought along my multi-pocketed outdoor pants.
“As you travel, shower, if you can, and shave every day. Keep up the American tourist act. Look like American businessmen on vacation, not like muchilleros,” she said, using the local Spanish word for backpackers.
“What about my things? My good suit?”
“Leave them. When you get home, charge replacements to the credit card Dave gave you.”
“So then, the hotel won’t know I’ve left.”
“Correct, and as I said, I’ll come by on Sunday—Monday too, if I can swing it, to mess up your room and make it look lived in,” Rosemary added. “Maybe on Tuesday I’ll pack up your clothes, take them out and drop your key-card at reception. They have your credit card imprint, so they’ll charge your account and not care that you really didn’t check out with them.”
“And I suppose I will meet Gonzalo at the Valley of the Moon.”
“Right.”
“But he is going to the States, we hope, and will wind up practicing medicine there,” I said. If all goes well, I thought to myself. “He’ll need to bring his medical school credentials and stuff. They won’t fit in a backpack.”
“I’m meeting him after I leave you this evening,” Rosemary continued. “I’ll get from him all of his important papers plus anything else he really values. It will go out to Dave Swenson in D.C. in the diplomatic pouch on Monday morning. Also, we will Xerox his diplomas and put the copies in the frames in his office so it won’t be immediately obvious that he has cleared out taking the originals. And tomorrow we’ll get his hair cut in an American style. Then passport photos and a new passport—an American one. Also a green card. When he enters the U.S., however, he should use his real Bolivian passport and name. The green card will let him stay and work until he applies for citizenship.
“I’m afraid Gonzalo will never be able to return to Bolivia,” Rosemary said, “unless there is a major change in government, which is not likely. I will also give Gonzalo some money—bolivianos and soles and some dollars. But you will have most of the cash. You two will be traveling light. I suspect, in fact I’m pretty sure, that there will be times when you will be glad that everything you have with you will fit in your small pack. Oh, and take a roll of toilet paper from the hotel.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve traveled in the campo before. Gonzalo has a small pack, I hope.”
“Yes, he does. I checked.”
“Does Gonzalo have family here? Won’t they worry about him?”
“His mother and a sister. I’ll fill them in after we know that he is safe in the U.S. His sister is married to General Suarez, whom you worked with. And Gonzalo has a girlfriend—fiancée, actually. They live together. They were planning to be married next month—have already planned a reception and sent out invitations. That’s good, in fact, because it implies he will be here. I’ll be sure she gets out and joins him in the States after we are sure he has made it. You know, I think I should call his s
ister and ask her what she knows about wedding reception details. I don’t know her well, but well enough to do that. She’ll probably report the call to her husband, which will further the idea that he does not think he is in danger here.”
“Okay,” I said. “You seem to have thought of almost everything.”
“That’s my job. And I really, really want Gonzalo—and you—to make it out safely.”
“All right,” I said. “I arrive at the Valley of the Moon with my small backpack and lunch. And there I will find Gonzalo waiting for me?” I queried.
“Or he will arrive shortly.”
“Then we eat lunch.”
“Yes. And be aware that Gonzalo is now being followed everywhere he goes. I told you that. That’s one of the reasons we need to get him out now. We believe the Bolivian security guys plan to arrest him soon, Monday, probably. Morales wants a big show trial. You know: ‘Bolivian traitor spying for the Americans.’ Big headlines. There will probably be a couple of security men dressed casually who will show up at your picnic and take up positions to enjoy the scenery and watch you.”
“Oh, good,” I commented.
“Relax. Enjoy your lunch and reunion with Gonzalo. Then walk up and along through the Valley of the Moon to where the road comes out on the Palca road about opposite the Mina San Francisco turn-off.”
“Okay. I know that road. In fact, Gonzalo took us up to the Inca trail there while we were living here.”
“The security ‘minders’ will follow you, of course. At a discreet distance, I hope. Just a bit up the Mina San Francisco road there is a now-unused maintenance building on the right. Not much more than a shed, actually. You will find a blue VW bug parked there. In fact, it’s already there. The key is under the driver’s side floor mat. Get in and drive back into town. Move out. Don’t waste time. In Obrajes. Turn into Calle Cuatro.”
“I know that street,” I interjected. “We lived there.”
“Yes, I know,” Rosemary continued. “There will be a green, beat-up-a-little-but-still-serviceable Datsun parked in front of your old house. Switch to it and head on up through El Alto and out of town to the lake. The Datsun will be yours to use as you need during your escape from Bolivia. In the glove box you will find papers identifying it as a Hertz rental car. If you take it into Peru, you’ll need to present them at immigration. In the end, just abandon it. When you do, take off and throw away the plates, remove all the papers from the glove box, and leave the key in the ignition. The VIN numbers have been filed off, so the car will be essentially untraceable. Whoever finds it will be glad to claim it, take possession of it, I think. As to the VW, leave it on the street in front of your old house, but toss its key someplace where it won’t be easy to find. I have a duplicate key, and someone will meet you there or perhaps retrieve it later—after dark—and then we’ll hide it until after all of this is forgotten.”
“Okay, I guess,” I commented.
“From there on, you are on your own. Your destination is Salaverry in Peru, on the coast, a major port, just south of Trujillo. You have ten days to get there. Check into a hotel there called Vista del Mar. Further instructions will get to you there. You must be in front of that hotel at four in the afternoon Tuesday of next week. That’s when your next contact will be made. You’ll get more instructions then, I believe.
“Salaverry isn’t much of a place. It wants to be a resort town, but it doesn’t make it. There’s a beach, but it’s not much. Salaverry is a port for cruise ships, and buses run tourists to the Chimu ruins at Chan Chan. Very impressive, pre-Inca site, I am told. If you have time, hire a taxi and go see it.”
“So is the plan to smuggle Gonzalo out on a cruise ship?” I asked.
“I don’t know. And that plan won’t be told to you until you are safely in Salaverry and out of reach of the Bolivian security agency.”
“Yeah, okay. And I meant to ask you. Will the Bolivian bad guys follow us into Peru? And could they arrest Gonzalo outside of Bolivia?”
“Not formally or legally. But they will be armed and ready to put a gun in Gonzalo’s back. And there will be at least two of them. They would expect him to be alone. In fact, that there will be two of you might confuse them. But you’ll have to judge as you go along whether you should be seen together or not. As I said, you’ll be on your own. Figure it out as you go along.”
“Any advice on getting to Salaverry on this wild dash?” I asked.
“Well, keep a low profile. Act like tourists, I guess. And importantly, travel by train or bus. Stay away from airports.”
“Can I ask a favor?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Call my wife, Susan, and tell her I’m okay.”
“First thing in the morning. Write down the phone number for me.” I gave her the number. She put it in her purse.
Rosemary got up, put on her shoes, and moved to the door. Then she turned. “Thanks,” she said, and she planted a kiss on my cheek and left.
My God, I thought, what have I gotten myself into? Then I put my suit jacket back on and headed down to ask the concierge about restaurants.
17
I found an empty bench, sat down, and surveyed the plaza. It was sunny; it always is every day for ten months of the year in the high Andean regions. A couple of boys were kicking a ball back and forth. Throwing a ball is North American; in much of the world, including Bolivia, balls are for soccer and must never be touched with the hands. That is a foul, “manos,” Eric had learned while we were living in Bolivia two decades earlier. Couples strolled, two pushing baby carriages. Three men in white were selling ice cream. They had coolers hanging in front of them on wide belts that went around their necks. “¡Helados!” they called.
Rosemary came striding across the plaza. She was wearing a poncho, different from the one she had worn the previous evening. As she passed my bench, she stumbled, fell almost to the ground, and managed to catch herself with a hand on the pavement. Without looking at me she said quietly, “Follow me.” Then she went on across the plaza and started up the street at the far corner. I stood, stretched my arms, and ambled across the plaza, reaching the corner in time to see her turn into a doorway. Following her, I found myself in the Casa de Murillo, a museum in one of the oldest houses in La Paz. I found her in a quiet corner standing in front of a portrait of a long-gone visage, one of several such paintings. A Murillo family member, I supposed.
“One of those ice cream guys is a Bolivian security person,” she said. “He works for ANSEB.”
“What’s ANSEB?” I asked.
“Agencia Nacional de la Seguridad Boliviana. Bolivian National Security Agency,” Rosemary explained. “All Bolivian presidents need some loyal strong men, willing to do dirty work, if necessary. For most of Bolivia’s history—at least recent history—that’s been the army. But Morales isn’t an army person. The army has not tried to throw him out, as they have some presidents, but they also have not gone out of the way to help him.”
“So Morales needs his own strong men,” I commented.
“Exactly. That one watches the embassy every day, checking on comings and goings, I guess. He knows that I work there. We don’t want him connecting you to me. So far, you are not known as other than as a visiting businessman. In fact, probably not known to them at all. You are not connected with us at the embassy. Nor with me. We want to keep it that way.”
“Suits me.”
“Okay,” Rosemary continued. “Here are all the documents I promised. Your two passports—old and new, real and phony—credit cards, everything. Go into the next room, find a quiet corner—nobody comes here much—and check it over. Then come back to me here.”
I did as I was told to do. All seemed in order, if any part of this adventure had an understandable order to it.
“All seems to be good,” I said, returning to Rosemary.
“Take these maps,” she said.
I looked at them. One was a road map of Bolivia. We might need that, I thought. The o
ther was a road map of Argentina. “Argentina?” I said to her. “We’re not going out through Argentina.”
“Yes, you know that and I know that, but I hope it might mislead others. Leave the map in your hotel room, easily findable, but as though it might have been forgotten. I have had it lying around on my desk in the embassy, easily seen. Actually, the drive to Argentina is an interesting one. Beautiful, if you like deserts. But from Tarija to Bermejo, the border town, the road is straight and open across the Chaco Desert. No hiding places. No way to duck pursuers. So it’s not really an option for you. Also, I have had out in view a timetable for the rail line through Cochabamba to Brazil.”
“Don’t you trust the embassy staff?” I asked.
“In this game, survivors trust nobody!”
“Shit! This is beginning to seem like a le Carré novel.”
“Yep. He writes pretty good spy stories.”
“And now Gonzalo and I are in the middle of a spy story!” I commented.
“Right, my friend.”
18
Still in the museum, I was standing beside Rosemary, seemingly examining a painting next to the one in which she feigned interest. The ANSEB ice cream vendor started to walk into the museum, but the woman at the desk stopped him. She stood and said firmly, “No food or drink in the museum. You can’t come in with your ice cream.”
“But.…” he started to say. Then, thinking better of it, he turned and stepped out into the street. He would wait there, it seemed.
“I think he’ll follow me,” Rosemary said softly. “I’ll go out and turn up, away from the plaza. Wait a few minutes—maybe ten or fifteen, if you can tolerate all these archaic portraits—and then go out and turn down.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll survive the Murillo family.”
“There’s a pizza place on Avenida Arce, down a bit from the university and across the street.”
“Yes, I know it. Or at least I know it if it is the same one that was there twenty-five years ago. Pretty good pizza, as I recall. We went there for dinner from time to time when we lived here.”
Escape Through the Andes Page 8