Escape Through the Andes

by Thomas M. Daniel

  “Yes, same one, I guess. An Italian family owns it. The son of the original owner now runs it, I think. A family business. And yes, pretty good pizza, although there are now lots of other pizza places in La Paz.”

  “The only one when we lived here.”

  “So, treat me to pizza for supper. Six o’clock. Okay?”

  “My pleasure.”

  —————

  Francesco’s Pizzeria was much as I remembered it. I climbed the stairs to the balcony sitting area, passing by the ground-floor, wood-fired oven and pick-up counter for take-outs. Where do they get their wood, I wondered. There was a family of six enjoying pizza. Their supper, I supposed, as would be Rosemary’s and my pizza for us. No one else was present. Surprising for a Saturday night, I thought, but then it was very early for a Bolivian dinner time.

  Pointing to a placard on the wall, a young man with an apron around his waist asked what I would like to order. “My guest will be here shortly,” I replied. “Then we’ll decide. Now, do you have wine? A Chianti, perhaps.”

  “Yes, of course. Our Chianti comes from Argentina. We get it at the black market near the cathedral.”

  “Not Chilean?”

  “No. We used to get some Chilean wine, but no longer. It has gotten too costly for us. Our customers wouldn’t pay the price we would have to charge.”

  “Okay. Bring what you have and two wine glasses.”

  Rosemary—Rosa Maria—arrived in time to welcome the bottle of Chianti. As she sat down, I filled her glass.

  “I guess we should order. It will take a little time for the pizza to be prepared,” I said.

  “Right. How about pepperoni and mushrooms?”

  “And black olives,” I added.

  “Sure, good.”

  The waiter wrote down our order, walked over to the edge of the balcony, formed our order into a paper airplane and sent it down to the man at the oven on the ground floor.

  “Hah!” I said. “I remember that act.”

  “Oh yes, part of the ambience. In today’s world he could have a computer terminal and enter the order into it. But the paper airplane works, is never “down,” and is an important bit of theatrics.”

  We picked up our glasses. “To Gonzalo’s successful escape,” I said.

  “Yes, yes,” she said.

  “So now,” I said. “Tell me more about Gonzalo being a spy and how you have been involved in that. It’s okay to talk here?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s safe here. No one here will be able to follow an English conversation.”

  “So, fill me in. You told me the CIA recruited you. And I guess you recruited Gonzalo. But there must be more to it.”

  “Well, yeah. With my mixed heritage, dual nationalities, and divided loyalties I was an easy target for the CIA recruiters. And an obvious person to send to Bolivia once in the CIA. But there’s a lot more to it than just my nationality—or nationalities. I’m an idealist, I guess, and sometimes an optimist. I think things can get better in Bolivia. And I think, really think, that the U.S. can do a lot to help Bolivia. And much of the rest of the world, actually.

  “Except for the damn Bolivian politics and the stupid army generals who are power-hungry and mostly motivated by feathering their own nests.”

  Rosemary was clearly feeling relaxed and ready to unload. Perhaps the wine helped. But, I thought, she probably seldom if ever had a chance to let down her guard like this. “Sure,” she continued, “I stumbled into this gig. Or was recruited without realizing what I was getting into. But I was ready and even eager for this. I signed on and got trained. Of course, once it was decided I would go to Bolivia, I didn’t need a lot of country-related training. Nor language. You know,” she interjected, “the CIA and the State Department often send people off to various countries with little or no language fluency. Stupid!

  “Then I met Gonzalo. Just a girl-boy thing that happened casually in a park and led to dating. But he is General Suarez’s brother-in-law. Suarez is a biggie. If Morales stumbles, the army will move, and Suarez will be Bolivia’s president. How could I not take advantage of that connection? All my CIA training kicked in. I passed on information. I played it for all it was worth. I betrayed a good, fun friendship. Two people, Gonzalo and me, two friends betrayed by me.

  “You know,” she continued, repeating herself, her tongue loosened by the Chianti but also by what must be have been an almost unique opportunity to unburden herself, “people matter. You matter, I matter, Gonzalo matters. Friends matter, and I betrayed the friendship that Gonzalo gave me. All for what my CIA bosses would call the greater good of the country. Greater good? Maybe. Maybe not. And which country? Especially in my case, which country?

  “Now Gonzalo is in trouble, bad trouble, and it’s all my fault. You have to get him out!”

  “I don’t know how much you know about another aspect of this,” I said. Then I told her about lithium.

  “Well,” she said, “that makes it more important, I guess. But it doesn’t really change Gonzalo’s situation. He has to get out without being caught. You must get him out.”

  The Chianti bottle was empty. I caught the waiter’s attention and paid our bill. “Let me try to get you a taxi,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “I have an apartment on Plaza Abaroa, just around the corner. I can walk.” Not very steadily after the Chianti, I thought.

  “Well, then, I’ll walk you home.”

  We paused at the entrance to her apartment building. “Meet me here in the Plaza Abaroa tomorrow morning. Nine thirty. I want to be sure we are both on the same page—pages, I guess—for everything in this escape.” She turned and looked at me. “As of now, you are on your own.” She threw her arms around me. Then backed away and turned to enter the building. “Be careful. And take care of Gonzalo.” She had tears in her eyes.

  19

  The next morning I found an empty park bench in the plaza next to Rosemary’s apartment building. The plaza was full of families with children playing games I did not really understand. Rosemary soon came walking toward me. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans, loafers, and yet another alpaca poncho. A very attractive young woman, I once again thought to myself. She sat on the bench beside me. “Do you understand everything? Do you have questions?”

  “Yes, I think so. And yes, lots of questions.”

  “Well, I guess questions are appropriate. But I don’t have answers, I expect.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Bottom line is that Gonzalo has to be in Salaverry in ten days. How he gets there—how you get him there—is totally up to you. And whatever you now think you might do is probably wrong. You know Peru well enough to keep moving in the right direction.”

  “Yes,” I interjected. “I have traveled much of the route. But a long time ago.” I paused, then added, “I’m sure we can make it. Well, pretty sure.”

  “And I’m sure, and the CIA is sure. Most of all, Gonzalo is sure. Well yes, pretty sure for all of those, including Gonzalo and me. Pretty sure is all we can ask for, I guess.

  “You should know,” Rosemary added, “that our information is that ANSEB plans to arrest Gonzalo tonight. Things are unrolling quickly. It’s time to get Gonzalo out of here.

  “Now, then, go!” We stood. “God be with you. Go!” She strode away.

  I took the bus down to Valley of the Moon. Gonzalo was sitting on a rock ledge when I arrived. We greeted each other warmly, exchanged hugs. “Gonzalo, you look great. Especially for a man on the run!”

  “Well, I hope I stay that way—looking great—and on the run! But first, how’s Susan, and how are Alice and Eric?”

  “All well. They would have sent you greetings, but in fact, only Susan knows I am here, and she does, of course—send greetings, that is.”

  I set down the lunch basket. “Look at the cantutas,” Gonzalo said. “Bolivia’s national flower. I will miss them. In fact, there is much here in Bolivia that I will miss. I probably will never, ever be able
to return to my homeland—to here, to Bolivia.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sure it is sad for you.”

  “It is, but…”

  “Over there,” Gonzalo cocked his head toward two men. “They are the ANSEB men following me. These days a pair of them is never far away.” The two men indicated by Gonzalo were sitting on a ledge about seventy-five yards away and obviously watching us. They were dressed casually, wearing sweaters. Both had lluchus (knit hats with ear flaps typical of the Andean region) on their heads; one had a fedora on top of the lluchu.

  “Do you think they are armed?” I asked.

  “Probably. In fact, almost certainly. Even though they know I can’t run or go anywhere. But guns are very macho.”

  “Ah, but you can run—and are about to.”

  “So Rosa Maria told me, but you’ll have to fill me in on that.”

  “Well, we’ll be winging it much of the time. But let’s start by eating lunch. Should we offer to share with them?”

  “¡Nunca! You must be kidding.”

  I opened the lunch basket. “Look at this. Fried chicken and potato chips. I remember potato chips as essentially nonexistent when we lived here.”

  “Progress. The world of fast food has reached Bolivia.”

  “And, thanks to the Hotel Europa, a bottle of Chilean wine. Sauvignon blanc—just right for chicken.”

  We opened the wine and ate our lunch, chatting amiably. Gonzalo asked about my family. “Susan is busy. She has been recognized as an artist, and there’s a lot that goes with that. Alice,” I said, “is married to a lawyer and has two children, a boy and a girl. Good kids. Bright.”

  “Nietos,” commented Gonzalo. “Grandchildren! That’s wonderful. They should be smart. They have inherited some good genes.”

  “Right. Thanks. Alice has kept up her Spanish and is teaching English as a second language over in the near west side, the Tremont area, in Cleveland. She loves it, and she really has a talent for teaching. And Eric is a computer scientist out in California. I have no real idea of what he does. It’s far beyond me, although he does try to explain it. He’s also married, but no children yet. His wife is a real sweetheart. She also works with computers. Programming—or something like that. They have a lovely house; with both of them working in the computer world, they are well off.”

  I brought Gonzalo up to date on my research. He told me about his current studies of high altitude adaptations. Then Gonzalo asked about Jennifer. “Well,” I said, “she’s still working with me. She’s really first rate. I couldn’t function—couldn’t keep the lab going—without her.

  “I loved her—at least I thought I did,” Gonzalo said. “And I treated her badly, very badly.”

  “She told me about it.”

  “It was really bad. But I guess it’s all past, now.

  “Anyway, tell me about our escape plans. I have not been told anything much,” Gonzalo continued. “If we didn’t get away and I were arrested, then I shouldn’t know anything. At least that’s how Rosa Maria explained it to me.”

  I thought about that. I understood that Rosemary was trying to shelter me in case Gonzalo had been picked up before our meeting, but at this point we were on our way together. “Well,” I said, “now you need to know. There’s a car waiting for us at the other end of the valley, where it comes out on the road to Palca. The key is under the driver’s floor mat. We drive out, hopefully leaving your security friends behind. We change cars on Calle Cuatro in Obrajes. In front of where we used to live. Then out of town. We have ten days to reach Salaverry, on the coast south of Trujillo in Peru. We must be there next week on Tuesday afternoon. Four o’clock, Rosa Maria said. How we get there is up to us. We will certainly be followed by your Bolivian security friends. If they catch us before we get out of the country, they’ll arrest us. If we make it into Peru and they get to us there, they’ll try whatever they can to get us back into Bolivia.

  “The ANSEB agents following us are going to be surprised to find that there are two of us. You are known to them; I am not. I’ve never been on their radar screen. Hopefully, that will confuse them. Already has, perhaps. And it will make it more difficult for them once we are in Peru. As of now you are George Morrison, an American tourist. I’m Phillip Masterson. We’re friends on a trip. Our wives didn’t want to join us in this ‘out-back’ part of the world.”

  “Rosa Maria explained that to me when she gave me the phony passport and stuff.”

  “Okay. Something important to understand. If we get separated—and that is not in the plan—the destination is the Vista del Mar Hotel in Salaverry. You’ll be contacted there at four in the afternoon on Tuesday next week. What happens after that? I have no clue. Somehow you get to the States. I guess I go home in a normal tourist way. Fly home, I suppose.

  “In traveling, we use buses and trains. We stay away from airports. We abandon the car at some early point, I guess. Hopefully in someplace where it won’t be found for a while and traced. I guess we should take off the plates and ditch them. We play tourist along the way if convenient—even if not, if awkward. That’s what we are supposed to be—tourists. Now you know as much as I do.”

  “Okay, Phil,” Gonzalo said, “let’s do it.”

  We stuffed the remnants of our picnic back in the basket provided by the Hotel Europa and set it on a ledge. We’d be back for it, it seemed. We put our small packs on our backs. That would surprise no one. Nobody with any sense would leave an untended pack anywhere in Bolivia. Then we strolled along the path, talking about American politics as we passed our two watchers. Presently the path descended to an unused road. Easier walking, but no longer suitable for vehicles. We paused from time to time to look at the interestingly sculptured stone walls lining the increasingly narrow valley. The ANSEB men followed us at a reasonable distance, keeping us in view but not interfering with our progress. The path-road turned to the left and climbed uphill. We emerged at the Palca road, the ANSEB agents still at the bottom of the hill behind us. The VW was waiting as promised.

  “Go!” I shouted to Gonzalo.

  We took off running. At the car, Gonzalo found the keys and jumped into the driver’s seat. I climbed into the passenger side. Gonzalo turned the ignition key, put the car in gear, and we roared off toward La Paz. Panting, the two security men reached the road to watch us leave. I turned and saw one of them pull out a hand gun. A shot went high over our heads. The other pulled out a cell phone. “They’re armed,” said Gonzalo, not looking back as he drove. “That’s no surprise. And it probably means that any of them who pursue will also be armed, which may be bad news.”

  “Yes, but they really want you alive for a very public trial. And that will be true as they try to follow us. And who knows what they are going to do with me!”

  “Your being here must really confuse them.”

  “I suppose. Actually, I hope so.”

  “They’re calling for back-up,” I reported to Gonzalo, “and they know what this car looks like. But we’ll be dumping this car.”

  We reached Calle Cuatro uneventfully. There we found the Datsun as promised. Taking the VW keys with us, we changed cars. I got into the driver’s seat. “Gonzalo,” I said, “get in back and lie down on the floor. They’ll be looking for a car with two men in it.” A young man came around the corner of the house, jumped into the VW, and drove away.

  Without speeding and carefully observing every stop sign and traffic signal, I drove through La Paz and up the road to El Alto. We stopped and Gonzalo moved to the front passenger seat; we would have to stop to pay a toll, and we did not want to attract attention by having him hiding.

  Driving up to El Alto and our route to Peru, we could see the crest of the hill-climbing road when we encountered a blockade. Bolivian men and boys were piling old tires across the road. “Damn,” said Gonzalo, and he got out of the car and approached a man wearing a lluchu who seemed to be the local organizer and the man in charge, if anyone was. They chatted, while I stayed behind the
wheel in the Datsun. Gonzalo was earnest, the man with whom he was speaking gestured from time to time. Ultimately, the man called to two teenage boys, and they moved three tires from one end of the blockade, creating a space just large enough for us to pass through. Gonzalo handed the man some money, and climbed back into the car.

  “Well,” I said, “how did you accomplish that?”

  “That man’s father is a patient of mine. And it helped that I gave him two hundred bolivianos. I hope you have plenty of money. Rosa Maria gave me some, but not much. We’re certainly going to need more than I have.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m rich! I’ll give you more when we stop and are not being watched.”

  Then out onto the two-lane gravel road euphemistically named the Pan American Highway heading to Lake Titicaca. I fell in with traffic, hoping not to be conspicuous.

  “Hooray,” I said to Gonzalo. “We made it. We’re out of La Paz and on our way.”

  “It seems to me,” Gonzalo said thoughtfully, “that we should hole up somewhere near the lake. Trying to get to Peru tonight would be tough. Fortunately, this is Sunday. It will take them some time to mobilize more agents.”

  “Rosa Maria planned it that way, I believe.”

  “But they will come after us and search thoroughly as soon as they can,” Gonzalo added. “You know, I think we should go to Huatahata where my friend and patient, Luis Quispe, lives. He’ll help us.”

  That is what we did, arriving late in the afternoon. Señor Quispe greeted us warmly, politely saying that of course he remembered me. He and Gonzalo walked away from the car talking animatedly, gesturing, and clearly hatching plans. They returned to the car. “Follow me,” Quispe said as he strode out down the road. I put the car in gear and followed for about two hundred yards and pulled into a barnyard. Quispe talked with his neighbor, who then opened his barn door, drove a tractor out into the yard, and made a place to hide the Datsun.

  “We Aymaras protect one another,” Quispe said as we walked back to his house. “My señora will have a supper for us shortly. You can spend the night here. I can give you blankets, but we have only a two-room house. You can sleep on the straw in my barn. You should be comfortable. And if the policia show up, you can hide there.”