“That all works, Gonzalo,” I said, “except I think we should simply disappear from this hotel without checking out.”
“Do you really think ANSEB can reach us here?”
“No, but remember that I was hired to escort you safely to the U.S. So we’ll leave unannounced.”
“Okay, Boss Man,” Gonzalo replied.
We strolled the pedestrian walkway to the Plaza de Armas, stopping at a café for a late lunch and wandering into side streets to admire the balconies and architecture of colonial-era houses. There were many people, local Peruvians out for a stroll on a Monday afternoon. Also shoppers; the main pedestrian way seemed to have been taken over by shops, many of them with luxury items. Sad, I thought, for an interesting colonial era district to have been thus modernized. We detoured through a less affluent, crowded neighborhood to visit the Museum of the Inquisition. Architecturally an interesting building with a sordid history.
Returning to the Plaza Mayor and the hotel, Gonzalo led me around the corner and along Avenida Nicolás de Piérola to find ceviche at a sidewalk café. We clicked our beer glasses. “Ceviche is an absolutely mandatory part of Lima,” Gonzalo declared.
Back in the Gran Hotel Bolivar, we found seats in the bar located behind and up a short stairway from the reception desk and lobby. We could watch the comings and goings in the lobby—of which there were not many. We both ordered pisco sours. “It pains me to say this,” Gonzalo commented, “but Peruvian pisco is much better than that of Bolivia.”
“This may be your last,” I said. “You’ll have trouble finding pisco in America.”
We were just starting to eat the bar meals we had ordered, when we saw a uniformed man—a police officer—enter the hotel and approach the reception desk. “Buenas tardes,” he said to the man at the reception desk. “I am looking for a pair of Bolivian men who are wanted by the Bolivian National Security Agency. It is thought they might be in Lima.” He presented his credentials. “This is a faxed picture of one of them.” It was the same picture that agents had had at the road block near Puno, I presumed.
“That’s an old picture. It really does not look like me,” Gonzalo whispered. “Especially since Rosa Maria got me an American haircut.”
“We’ve had two men check in today—Americans—but neither of them looks like that photo you have.”
“You are sure they are Americans?”
“Oh, yes. I saw their passports. I have their passport numbers, if you want them.”
“No, not necessary. I really don’t know why we are checking hotels for the Bolivians. They wouldn’t bother to do such a thing for us. Except, I guess, that one of them is a dangerous criminal.”
“Well, if we get anyone suspicious here, I’ll certainly call you,” the reception clerk added. “The two men who came here today are definitely American, and they seem to be ordinary tourists, not criminals.” And with that, the police officer turned and started toward the door. Then he stopped and turned back.
“I think I should take down the passport numbers of the two men who checked in here—Americans, you said. It seems silly, but my boss will give me grief if I don’t.”
“Fine.” He pulled out his register, and the officer wrote down our passport numbers. “They’re sitting up there in the bar eating an early meal, if you want to talk with them.”
“No. I don’t think that’s necessary.” The officer left, and the desk clerk recovered from under the counter a magazine he had been reading.
We finished and paid for our meal, collected our packs, left the hotel, and found a taxi to take us to the bus terminal.
35
Our bus arrived in Trujillo about fifteen minutes ahead of its 6:00 a.m. scheduled time. As bus rides go, I thought as I left the bus, this one was quite comfortable. I even slept—some. In fact, I mused, the overnight ride from Cuzco to Lima had also been comfortable. I had not ridden on many long-distance buses in the States, but those I had sampled had much to gain before matching the two Peruvian buses on which we had ridden.
After coffee and rolls for breakfast, we found a taxi and began negotiations with the driver. “We need to go Salaverry,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I know it. I often go there to meet American cruise ships. I take the tourists to the ruins at Chan Chan. But there is no cruise ship today. Tomorrow there will be one, I think.”
“Well then,” Gonzalo said, “you can take us to Salaverry.”
“Claro.”
“Now then,” I said, “it’s early. How long a drive to Salaverry?”
“Not so long. It depends on traffic. And with no cruise ship, there should not be much traffic in Salaverry today. Maybe one hour, maybe less.”
“So, could you take us first to Chan Chan and wait for us while we see the ruins? Then continue on with us to Salaverry?”
“No problem.”
“We must be in Salaverry to meet someone at four this afternoon. Can we see the ruins at Chan Chan and still get to Salaverry on time?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, you will have lots of time. It is early now. You should see Chan Chan and be in Salaverry for lunch, I think.”
We settled on a fare. I paid the driver half of the agreed amount. “The rest when we reach Salaverry,” I said and I offered him a tip if he served us well. “Más una propina.”
And serve us well he did. His vehicle was comfortable, and we soon arrived at the Chimu culture ruins of Chan Chan. We spent an hour there. The ruins were impressive. Different from Tiahuanacu but equally awesome and outshining anything else I had seen in Bolivia. Made of clay, the structures with their elaborate bas relief sculpturing had survived for more than one thousand years because it almost never rains in this dry, dry desert area. Even the original painting was well-preserved in many places. Gonzalo and I were awed.
It was midday when our taxi arrived in Salaverry. Entering Salaverry we passed many cargo containers and structures that I thought might be warehouses. “This is more than a port for cruise ships,” I said to the taxi driver.
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “This is the major port for Trujillo. It is one of Peru’s busiest ports. Much freight comes into the country here.”
We arrived at the waterfront where a low malecon (sea wall) separated the paved road from the beach about eight feet below the roadway. The beachfront road was no more than about two blocks long. Hotels, restaurants, and shops offering beach and surfing items dominated the roadway facing across the pavement toward the sea. At the end of the beach there was a wooden pier. It looked old. In fact, it looked like it might collapse at any moment. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of pelicans were roosting on it. Surely not the cruise ship pier.
Along the beach there were more than a dozen reed boats. They were unlike the reed boats on Lake Titicaca. Made of reeds, but squared off at the stern end. It seemed to me that one of them might be half of a Titicaca reed boat. A few were in the water and apparently being used by fishermen who were casting nets from them. Most were stacked against the malecon, resting on their sterns with prows upwards. At the far end of the beach were three open aluminum boats—bass boats, they are sometimes called in Ohio, I thought. They seemed both out of place and more practical for fishing than the truncated reed boats.
Our driver pulled to a stop at the Vista del Mar Hotel. I paid him the agreed fare, adding a tip of about five percent. “That’s too much,” said Gonzalo. “You don’t tip taxi drivers here.”
“Well,” I said. “He was good for us, and we have lots of money.”
“Loco,” commented Gonzalo.
Entering the hotel, we greeted the woman in charge and presented our passports. “Oh, yes,” she said, “Señores Morrison and Masterson. We are expecting you. We have two rooms reserved, small rooms, I’m afraid. We are a small hotel. The rooms are upstairs and in the rear of the building. They will be quiet. Of course,” she added, “every place in Salaverry is quiet. Except when a cruise ship docks on the other side of the town. Salaverry would like to b
e a center for surfing, but that has never happened. We have the waves, I guess, but nobody comes to ride them.”
“The men with the reed boats?” I asked.
“They fish,” she said. “And they will offer to take you for a ride. But you should be in a wet suit if you do that. It would be very wet, and the water here is cold.”
“We need to find lunch,” I said.
“The restaurant next door is not bad. It’s the best that Salaverry has to offer.”
After lunch we walked up and down the short street looking at shop windows. Then we climbed up on the malecon and sat side by side, looking out at the sea.
“I guess we have to wait a couple of hours,” Gonzalo said. “Our contact is supposed to meet us here at four.”
“Well, it’s not yet four,” a woman said behind us, “but I’m here.”
We spun around. “Rosa Maria,” Gonzalo exclaimed. “What? I mean how? How did you get here? Oh, it’s good to see you!” Gonzalo jumped to the ground. He gathered Rosemary into his arms, embracing her. Then kissed her. Turning to me, he said, “Did she tell you we are engaged? We had planned to be married next month.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! I knew…. But I didn’t know that you two—”
“And I didn’t tell you,” Rosemary said. “There were—still are, I guess—so many uncertainties in this escape plan, that I thought it best to say nothing. You didn’t need the complication of worrying about our engagement.”
“Well, will you stay here tonight? Let’s get you checked into the hotel. There don’t seem too be many people here. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a room for you.”
“I’ve already checked in,” Rosemary said. “As Mrs. Morrison. Why do you think I reserved separate rooms for you guys?”
“Good. Okay, of course,” I said. “Do you now tell us what to do? What will happen? Do you have our instructions?”
From her purse, Rosemary produced a sealed envelope with Gonzalo’s name on it. “This came in this week via the diplomatic pouch. I have not opened it. As I told you, Paul, secrets are not always secret at the embassy. So it was sealed when it arrived, and it is still sealed.”
She gave the envelope to Gonzalo. He tore it open. “Beach. ten a.m. Wednesday.”
36
Rosemary and I stood on the road beside the malecon. Gonzalo was with us, his backpack slung over one shoulder. A helicopter appeared out over the ocean, its noise building as it raced toward us. It swept low, the air wash from its blades scattering sand and trash. We looked up. People appeared around us, the local shopkeepers and other citizens, curious about this unusual event. A young boy near where we stood called out “Wow!” Wow it was, I thought, for the residents of Salaverry had certainly never seen anything like this—never anything this dramatic.
The helicopter had United States Navy painted on its sides. It made three passes over us, and then moved out to sea. Not far, perhaps a hundred yards, it seemed to me. As it flew over us, Gonzalo jumped down from the malecon and engaged in an earnest conversation with one of the boatmen. Gonzalo passed over some soles to him. Then, hurriedly, they ran to one of the beached aluminum boats. Pushed off and in the water, the Peruvian boatman started the boat’s outboard motor and slowly headed out away from the beach. Once well away from the shore, the boatman cut the motor. Gonzalo stood up in the boat. The helicopter approached and hovered in place. A ladder dropped down, and a woman in military fatigues climbed down to the boat. An American Navy SEAL, I thought. With her help, Gonzalo climbed up and into the helicopter. She followed him, and the helicopter was soon out of sight.
“You did it!” Rosemary exclaimed and embraced me. “Now let’s see if we can get a taxi to take us back to the airport at Trujillo. We don’t need to stay around here.”
In the taxi I asked, “What is next for you?”
“I return to Washington next week,” she said. “I plan to resign from the CIA and join Gonzalo.”
“Where will he be?
“In Cleveland, I believe. He has to study to take the examinations and then do an internship and residency before he can practice in the US. We’ll get married soon, and you must be the best man.”
“Okay,” I said. “I look forward to that happy occasion.”
“And so do I!” she responded.
“You should find a place to live in the Tremont neighborhood in what we call ‘the near west side.’ That’s where most of the city’s Hispanic population lives. Gonzalo should be able to get good internship training at Cleveland’s Metropolitan General Hospital near there. They’ll be glad to have him, and his Spanish will be a welcome asset. Of course, most of the Cleveland Hispanics are from Puerto Rico. And we would welcome Gonzalo into our pulmonary fellowship at University Hospitals for his second required year.”
“He will need two years?”
“Yep. I’m afraid so. The internship will be demanding—long hours. But the second year as one of our fellows should be easy for him. He knows it all already.”
At the airport we managed to get seats on a flight to Lima. In Lima, Rosemary booked a connecting flight back to La Paz; I secured a ticket to Miami on the American Airlines night flight. I checked into the Westin Hotel at the airport; I wanted a room in which to rest before flying to Miami.
With some time to spare, Rosemary and I found seats in the Westin’s ground floor bar. I ordered a martini; she, white wine. We talked further about Cleveland and opportunities for Gonzalo. Rosemary was obviously and genuinely excited about their future. Pensively, obviously reflecting and seemingly unsure about what she should be saying, she said, “Gonzalo has told me about his relationship with Jennifer.”
“All of it?” I asked.
“Well, I think so. Including the pregnancy, anyway. I’m not sure how that may play out when we show up as a couple and get married. Do you know how Jennifer feels about Gonzalo?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. She opened up to me just before I left to come here.”
“And?”
“And, she does not want to see Gonzalo. She told me that if he comes to the lab, she will hide. But, if he becomes established at MetroHealth Center and you find a place to live in that area, there really will not be much of a reason for him to visit my lab at University Hospitals. There’s the whole city of Cleveland between Metro and UH. And, importantly, you must not let that relationship between Gonzalo and Jennifer interfere with or color in any way your relationship with Gonzalo—and your start of a new life together with him.”
Presently she rose, collected her things, and prepared to walk across the drive to the airport terminal. She turned to me. I embraced her warmly. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.” Then she strode out of the bar toward the terminal.
It was early morning when I arrived in Miami. I found a phone and called Susan.
37
My life in Cleveland resumed quickly. I told Susan all about my adventures with Gonzalo. “We’ll have to make him feel welcome here,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “And I will call the folks at Metro Health Center to get him set up there. They’ll be glad to have him.”
“Okay. And I will take him and Rosemary shopping. He’ll need clothes for sure. Maybe she will as well.”
In the lab, Jennifer had kept things moving. It had only been a bit more than a week, I reflected to myself, and I had often been away at scientific meetings for times longer than this absence. The mail brought a five-year grant award notice. Dave Swenson had been true to his word.
Gonzalo and Rosemary found a second-story duplex apartment in Tremont not far from Metropolitan General Hospital. The Department of Medicine welcomed him there, moving him into the second-year residency rotations while calling it an internship. Rosemary found a position as an interpreter at the hospital and joined Alice in teaching English as a Second Language at Pilgrim Congregational Church near the hospital.
I talked to the CWRU protestant chaplain, and he agreed to marry the couple
in Harkness Chapel on the university campus. It was a simple but meaningful and poignant service, with Susan and me as their attendants. A few of his new hospital colleagues attended. Standing beside him, I noticed Jennifer sitting in the back row of the chapel sanctuary.
V. Culebra, Puerto Rico, 2011
38
The six-passenger Vieques Airlink plane carried us over Flamenco Beach and between two hills before making an S curve down onto the runway at the Benjamín Rivera Noriega Airport on Puerto Rico’s Culebra Island. The plane taxied to the small terminal building, and the propellers slowed to a stop as the pilot shut down the twin engines. While Susan waited for our luggage, I went to the Carlos Jeep Rental counter and rented a new and shiny Jeep. We drove out of the airport, turned right, and followed the highway for about a mile until we met a tree in the middle of the road, the pavement dividing into a lane on each side of the tree. We turned left, climbed uphill on the pot-hole-ridden road and descended again to Tamarindo Beach. Passing the beach, we reached Tamarindo Estates, where we had rented one of the twelve one-bedroom units for the next two weeks. We had vacationed on Culebra many times, and we looked forward to this up-coming escape from another Cleveland snowy winter.
At breakfast the following Friday morning Susan suggested, “Let’s snorkel at Melones Beach this morning. There is almost no wind today. It should be good there, and we really should take advantage of a calm day. If we put it off to another day and the wind comes up, then Melones is not good for snorkeling.”
“Sounds great to me,” I said. “I’ll make the bed, if you’ll do the dishes. Then we can be off.”
We drove into Dewey, the small town on Culebra, and turned right toward the dock. Just past the Catholic church we turned right and climbed up the hill past the medical clinic. Then down the steep hill to Melones Beach and the small town park there.
Escape Through the Andes Page 16