The Titicaca Effect

by Richard N. Tooker

  As he waited, he revisited the events of the day in his mind. He was worried that Thad had been right. Tonight’s dinner party at the palace was so incredibly well-timed that it seemed unlikely that it was mere coincidence. He hated to think that Alicia might be involved in some kind of plan to manipulate him, but what other explanation made sense? To his knowledge, she had never met the president before tonight; certainly she had never mentioned it. Why, all of a sudden, would Maldonado decide he would invite a teacher at the American embassy to a dinner party at the presidential palace?

  On the other hand, he didn’t see how the president would have even known that Alicia was seeing him, so maybe he was worried about nothing. He hoped so. He liked Alicia, and it seemed likely that he was going to be in Bolivia for a long time. She was good company, attractive, smart, affectionate and fun, and most important, she wasn’t part of his team. Just the ticket for an extended stay in a strange country.

  That thought brought a smile to his lips. Strange, he thought, is certainly the right word to describe this place. He agreed with Thad. The people in La Paz did look like they were straight out of the 1950s. In fact, the whole country seemed to be trapped in some kind of time warp. Except for the ubiquitous cell phones, everything about the place seemed old-fashioned, but in some ways it was refreshing. Bolivians weren’t obsessed with the shallow values of contemporary Americans, and they certainly didn’t rush from one life event to another, breathlessly trying to accumulate more things. It was a relatively simple, ordered society where it was easy to learn and understand the rules. There was something to be said for that, even if you didn’t agree with all the rules.

  He was so engrossed in his thoughts that Alicia Montoya had to honk at him to get his attention when she pulled up to the curb in a dusty, six-year-old Mitsubishi sedan. She was dressed in a low-cut royal blue cocktail dress and a hand-knit alpaca shawl to ward off the night chill. She looked gorgeous.

  He immediately began steeling himself for the ride to the presidential palace. Alicia, like everyone else in the city, seemed to regard traffic signs and signals as mere suggestions. That made every night ride in La Paz somewhat harrowing.

  When he got in the car, Alicia smiled, then leaned over and kissed him before she said anything. Like I said, he thought, affectionate. This is good.

  “So how did you get an invitation to dinner with President Maldonado?” he asked casually. “Have you met him before?”

  “Oh, no,” she responded. “This is a dinner for some of the people at the embassy, including the ambassador. Apparently, they invited me because the president has been very impressed with the Americans’ new skill at Spanish, and he wanted to meet the teacher who made it happen so quickly. They told me I could bring along anyone I wanted to.” She smiled. “My sister, by the way, is a little upset with me for asking you.” She seemed genuinely pleased and excited.

  Freeman relaxed his guard. Apparently, tonight’s dinner was a coincidence, after all. “I’m impressed,” he offered, “and I thank you. It’s an honor for me to be invited.” He laughed, “I hope your sister isn’t too mad. I barely know her, and already she doesn’t like me.”

  Less than 10 minutes later, they pulled up in front of the presidential palace at Plaza Murillo, a square near the center of the city dominated by the palace and surrounded on all sides by other government buildings and, of course, the obligatory cathedral.

  From the outside, the palace didn’t appear to be as large as he would have expected, but the two-story mustard-yellow Spanish colonial building with elaborate white columns and trim, a spectacularly large Bolivian flag, and palace guards dressed in bright red was beautiful.

  Alicia produced her embassy identification and one of the soldiers nodded that all was in order. She gave her car keys to a teenage boy who was valet parking cars and they entered the palace through ornately carved, heavy wooden doors. After they passed through a metal detector and a security station armed by more Bolivian soldiers they were met by another guard who escorted them into a large, chandeliered drawing room filled with the noise of people talking and laughing. In the center of the room, there was a large buffet tabled covered with a huge selection of hors d’oeuvres. The guests, perhaps 15 of them, hovered over the table, making small talk. Several maids were working the room, taking drink orders.

  At the opposite end of the room, Freeman could see some familiar faces, people he had met during his meetings at the embassy, including Barbara Fontaine, who was standing next to the American ambassador looking bored. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that Fontaine would be at the party.

  Fontaine spotted him and waved them over. “Tyler! I heard you were coming. Look at you! I didn’t think you owned a suit,” she laughed. “Alicia, how are you? How nice of you to bring Tyler. He needs to get out more often.”

  She caught the ambassador’s attention. “Tyler, I don’t think you’ve met the ambassador. Ambassador Previn, say hello to Tyler Freeman. Tyler is the gentlemen I’ve briefed you about, the lead FAA investigator of the airline crash at Lake Titicaca.”

  The American ambassador, short, pudgy, and balding, did not look like a person representing the most powerful nation on earth. He looked more like a professional partygoer whose primary function was to graze buffet tables and schmooze with other partygoers, and it was obvious that he was already well on his way to having too much to drink. Because his eyes seemed to be set slightly too close together on his face, he didn’t appear to be particularly intelligent. The fact that he was standing next to Barbara Fontaine diminished him even further, and the overall effect was not at all comforting. It was easy to see why people at the embassy naturally gravitated to Fontaine.

  The ambassador shook Freeman’s hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Freeman. Barbara has told me a lot about you. How is your investigation going?”

  “Actually, we’re having some difficulties at the lake, Mr. Ambassador,” he replied.

  “Yes, Barbara told me about the troops,” Previn interjected. “She says she’s hoping to clear that up tonight when President Maldonado gets here. But aside from that, what have you learned so far?”

  Fontaine interrupted. “It might not be appropriate to have that discussion in the presidential palace, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite right. Well, Mr. Freeman, perhaps we can catch up the next time you’re at the embassy. In the meantime, I’m sure my chief of staff will keep me informed.” The ambassador’s attention had already wandered to another part of the room. “Excuse me, Mr. Freeman, I need to talk to the minister of finance.” He shook Freeman’s hand, nodded to Fontaine and Alicia and left the three of them alone.

  Fontaine smiled mischievously. “And what did you think of the ambassador, Tyler?”

  “I think,” Freeman answered sardonically, “he’s a political appointee.” They both laughed.

  For the next twenty minutes, Freeman and Alicia worked the room with Barbara Fontaine. She introduced him to most of the embassy employees, then introduced both of them to some of the Bolivian government officials in attendance. Freeman already knew many of the Bolivians, of course, including the minister of the interior, Ernesto Suarez. After Suarez had been introduced to Alicia, Freeman decided to find out what the minister knew about the day’s events.

  “Minister Suarez,” Freeman asked, “what can you tell me about the troops on the Island of the Moon?”

  The interior minister’s reaction was one of genuine surprise. “I beg your pardon? What troops?”

  “Apparently, this morning a platoon of Bolivian soldiers landed on the island, and I’ve been unable to raise my team by phone all day,” Freeman replied. “I was hoping you could tell me what was going on. I understood that we were to be allowed to conduct the investigation without interference.”

  The interior minister looked confused. “I don’t know anything about this, and I’ll certainly look into it. When did you say they arrived? This morning?”

  Before F
reeman could reply, a butler announced the arrival of the president. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “The President of the Republic of Bolivia!” The seated guests stood, and all eyes turned to the arched doorway that led to the president’s suite of offices as Alberto Maldonado strode regally into the room, stopping to shake hands with various guests as he did so.

  Freeman was struck by the sight of the president. Until this moment, he had only seen pictures of the man, and seeing him in person made it much easier to understand why he was so beloved by the people of Bolivia. He simply looked like a President. He was youthful, handsome, completely at ease, and he greeted everyone he met as if they were the center of his universe for that instant in time. “Bolivia’s answer to John Kennedy,” Freeman whispered to Alicia. “It’s no wonder this guy is so popular.” He glanced at her to gauge her reaction. She looked like a teenager in the presence of a rock star.

  Freeman was about to ask Barbara Fontaine if she could introduce him to the president when Maldonado caught sight of the three of them. He smiled at Fontaine, excused himself from the conversation he was having with a member of his cabinet, then walked purposefully across the room toward them.

  “Barbara, how nice to see you again,” he said graciously, shaking her hand. “I was hoping you would be able to make it.” He turned to Alicia. “And you are?”

  “Alicia Montoya, Mr. President,” she replied, playing along with the minor deception. “I teach Spanish to the embassy employees.”

  The president feigned surprise. “Of course, Miss Montoya. My people have told me about you. You’re doing an excellent job. Thank you so much for coming.”

  He turned his attention to Freeman. “Of course I know who you are, Mr. Freeman. How are you enjoying your stay in our beautiful country?”

  Freeman, momentarily surprised by the fact that the president knew who he was without being introduced, responded, “Uh, once you get used to the altitude, it’s quite enjoyable, Mr. President. And you’re quite right. It’s beautiful.”

  “I expect you want to talk to me, Mr. Freeman,” Maldonado said without preamble. “Please follow me. Miss Montoya, I promise I’ll return him to you in just a few moments.” The president headed back to the archway that led to his office.

  Startled, Freeman followed him down a softly lit hallway guarded by more soldiers and into what must have been the president’s private office. Maldonado motioned for him to take a seat, then took a seat opposite from him in front of the desk.

  “You’re not one for small talk, are you, Mr. President?” Freeman asked. “I was hoping to get a few minutes alone with you. I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

  “Time is precious, Mr. Freeman. May I call you Tyler?” Maldonado smiled disarmingly.

  “Of course, Sir,” Freeman replied. “Can you tell me why there is a platoon of Bolivian soldiers on the Island of the Moon?”

  “Certainly,” the president answered. “I sent them to the island. They are there to maintain security and to monitor your investigation.” He paused. “It’s hardly a platoon, Tyler. Just a few soldiers to keep the peace. I can give you my personal guarantee that they will not interfere with your work.”

  Freeman frowned. “They have already interfered, Mr. President. I have been unable to raise my people by phone all day, and we must communicate if we are to advance the investigation.”

  “Ah, yes. Most unfortunate. You know how the military is. I spoke with General Linares just a few minutes ago, and told him to return the cell phones to your foreman. You should be able to get through to him now. Please accept my apologies.”

  “Why do we need monitoring, Mr. President?” Freeman asked. “We’re investigating a plane crash. Is that worthy of this much attention from the president of Bolivia?”

  Maldonado leaned back in his chair, the tips of his fingers forming a pyramid in front of his chest. He stared at Freeman without responding until the silence began to weigh heavily in the room. Finally, he spoke. “Tyler, I am as appalled as you are about the loss of life in that airline accident. But we both know there is much more to this than a plane crash. You’re investigating the waterspout, and I want to know what you know about it. Since neither you nor any of your people will talk about it, I simply decided that I needed my own set of eyes on the island. If you will just involve us in your investigation, this will all go much more smoothly.”

  “And why are you so interested in this waterspout?”

  “Aside from the fact that it’s my waterspout and not yours? Given the fact that it returns every day, I think it might represent a renewable energy source of some kind. If that’s the case, I want to control it. Bolivia has a long history of being robbed of its natural resources, and if there’s anything of value there, I mean to make certain that doesn’t happen again.”

  Freeman’s mind raced. His superiors in Washington had ordered him not to talk to anyone about the waterspout they had already labeled “the Titicaca Effect,” but this was the president of Bolivia, the phenomenon was occurring in his country, and he was right. It was his waterspout. Freeman had acted against orders before when the situation justified doing so, and his judgment had always been upheld. Still, orders were orders and he had a natural mistrust of politicians. He decided to take the middle ground. For the moment, would tell the president as much as he needed to in order to satisfy him, and no more.

  “We honestly don’t know what it is, Mr. President. We know for sure that it’s a naturally occurring event, and that it’s not weather-related. You’re right about one thing - whatever it is, it’s generating incredible amounts of power. We’re estimating that it’s lifting at least a half-million tons of water out of the lake with each eruption, and we’re guessing that the water is being thrown at least a mile high, perhaps higher. That takes energy, and lots of it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, not much. We know that it occurs at exactly the same time every day, in exactly the same place, and that appears to have the same duration each day. It’s about 200 yards across, but that’s kind of hard to measure because it doesn’t seem to have a definite edge to it. It also has some weird magnetic properties. Beyond that, we haven’t got a clue what it is or what’s causing it. It just appears, sucks vast amounts of water out of the lake, and then disappears. It’s a good thing the column of water breaks up and returns to the lake as rain - otherwise, it would probably empty the lake in a few months.

  “We’re pretty sure that the phenomenon caused the airliner to crash,” he added. “The La Paz control tower has verified that the plane disappeared off their radar at coordinates that are directly over the location where it occurs, and the plane went down right after it started. There are no signs of anything incendiary or an explosion of any kind. The metal just looks like it was ripped apart.”

  “How much of the plane have you recovered?” the president asked.

  “Nowhere near half of it. We’ve used portable detection gear to locate what appears to be maybe 20 percent of it on the bottom of the lake near the island, some of it as deep as 400 feet. We’re going to need some advanced technology to find the rest, which we can get from the U.S. navy.” He paused, then said, “With your permission, of course, Mr. President.”

  Maldonado stood, then walked around to the back of his desk. “That will not be a problem,” he replied as he opened one of the desk drawers. “You may bring in any help you need to get to the bottom of this. I just don’t want you calling any press conferences. Not until I give the OK. Can we agree on that?” He produced a large bolt, still affixed to an eight-inch piece of aluminum with a ragged edge and handed it to Freeman.

  “Certainly, Mr. President,” Freeman agreed as turned the bolt in his hand, studying it. “This is part of an aileron,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

  “Is it part of the aircraft that crashed?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Well then, Tyler, I’m afraid you might not find the rest of your airplane. Th
at piece was found in a field near Cochabamba yesterday. That’s about 330 kilometers from Lake Titicaca.”

  Freeman was incredulous. “330 Kilometers? Are you sure? How in God’s name could it wind up 200 miles away?”

  “How, indeed? I’m quite sure God had nothing to do with it. Perhaps it is the work of the devil. We shall see. For now, I think we should return to the party. The guests are no doubt wondering where their host has gone.” He headed for the office door, motioning for Freeman to follow him. “Thank you, Tyler. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  Freeman nodded. “Do I coordinate with you through Minister Suarez?”

  “No. Just tell General Linares what you need,” Maldonado said as they headed back down the hallway that had brought them to the president’s office. “I think you will find him to be most helpful. But communicate only with me when you can explain the phenomenon.”