Where Are My Children? The True Story of a Mother Who Risked Her Life to Rescue Her Kidnapped Children

by Cassie Kimbrough

  "Do you think the kids will both be in the same school or in different schools?"

  "I don't know. I do know he'll put them in a private school." Only the poor went to public schools in Bolivia. "Most private schools in La Paz are either all-girl or all-boy. They might end up in different schools."

  "Do you have any idea which schools he might put them in?"

  I thought. Federico had once told me they'd attend the German school; it was coeducational. So was the American school. But I knew he didn't have the money for either of them. His next choice would probably be San Calixto, an all-boys Jesuit school downtown that Federico had attended. Maybe he'd put Michael there and put Jane on the other side of town in San Calixto's sister school. I told him this

  "How far apart are they?" Lloyd asked.

  "Probably a good ten or fifteen miles."

  Lloyd was silent a moment. "I know this is a difficult question," he began, "but if they're in different schools it might come down to this. If you could get out with only one child, which one would you choose?"

  My heart twisted. How could I choose? My funny, affectionate Michael—how could I leave him behind? And Jane—sweet, tenderhearted, intelligent. It was useless to consider it. I could never leave one behind. I blinked away the tears that were threatening to spill over.

  "I couldn't take just one. If it came to that, I'd leave them both there. Then at least they'd have each other."

  Lloyd nodded and moved briskly on to the next issue. "Where is your ex-husband during the day?"

  "I don't know. I don't think he has a regular job, but he won't tell me much."

  "Is he dangerous? Does he have a gun?"

  "No, I don't think he has a gun. At least, he never used to. But I know he wouldn't just stand by and watch if somebody tried to take the kids."

  The mention of guns made me uneasy. "If I decide to do this, I don't want any violence. I don't want anybody to get hurt."

  "We don't either. It's not smart to get yourself into any more trouble than you have to. In fact, you have to be the one who takes the kids. That way, if you get caught, you tell them you're the mother and you're simply taking your children home. It's more legal that way. If somebody else were to grab them, that’s kidnapping."

  It was the first time he'd actually used the word "kidnapping." And what did the term "more legal" mean? Something was either legal or it wasn't. We were entering gray territory now. And yet Lloyd had just answered my most pressing question.

  "That’s the only way I would consider it. I have to be the one who takes them."

  Lloyd leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him.

  "I like that answer." He studied my face for a moment.

  "If you decide to go through with this, first we'd have to do a feasibility study. I won't even attempt it if I don't think there's a good chance of success. It would probably take a month or so for that. And I would need $15,000 up front, maybe more. If it doesn't look good, then it ends there. No refunds. If it looks good, then we can go on with it."

  Fifteen thousand dollars! "How much would the whole thing cost?"

  "Ordinarily, I wouldn't take on an assignment like this for less than $100,000. But as a favor to this law firm, I would do it for expenses only. After the initial fifteen thousand, it would cost a minimum of fifteen thousand more. Plus you'd need to have ten thousand in reserve, just in case. And don't forget there are no guarantees."

  He was talking about a minimum of $40,000! "Have you done anything like this before?"

  "We've extricated people before," he answered carefully. "You can do anything if you have the right connections. But connections have to be paid for."

  He surveyed me coolly, then asked, "How much are you willing to sacrifice to get your children back?" He wasn't talking about money anymore.

  "I'll do whatever it takes."

  "There might be physical hardships—going without comforts, food, sleep. We might have to travel on foot for long distances, with two kids and luggage. And it will be dangerous."

  I nodded.

  "If we get caught, we could be thrown in prison. And you can bet the U.S. Embassy won't bail us out." His gravelly voice continued, "There won't be any room for error. You have to promise me your complete trust and obedience. You have to do exactly as I say, no questions asked."

  Complete obedience? To a total stranger? He was asking me to blindly place the lives of myself and my children in his hands, in a foreign country where I would have no one to turn to, no place to go. And yet, what choice did I have left? Somehow the interview had turned from being a discussion of possibilities into a commitment. I felt swept along. It was all being decided too fast.

  "Afterward, if we succeed, it means you'll have to go underground. You'll have to leave town, change your name, and start all over again somewhere else."

  I swallowed. I already knew that would have to be a part of it.

  "Can you do all that?" Lloyd asked. We studied each other across the carpet, his face almost glowering. I met his gaze and nodded slowly, "Yes, I can."

  His face relaxed, and for the first time I saw a hint of a smile on it. "You know what? I think you can too."

  I told him I'd talk with my father about it over the weekend and get in touch with him the following week.

  Afterward, as I drove home, I opened the window and took a deep breath. The warm afternoon air was lightly scented with spring flowers. The breeze coming in the window seemed to fan a dormant spark of hope in me. The very air outside seemed a little brighter and clearer, as if a hazy curtain had lifted.

  When I called Daddy and told him about my meeting with Lloyd, he said, "Let's do it." He would be in charge of getting the money together.

  I wondered where he would come up with it all. I ticked off the possibilities: there was Courtney, of course. But she couldn't be expected to foot the whole bill. Then there was my brother Tom. He was a surgeon in private practice in Odessa, and he'd offered his help from the beginning. My younger brother John would do what he could. But he'd just bought a house and might not have the resources now. Then there was my grandmother. My brothers and I had always called her "Littie," short for Elizabeth, which was my middle name, too.

  Littie owned mineral rights to a small piece of land in West Texas, and a few years ago it had struck oil. The royalties amounted to several thousand dollars a month, or at least it had been that much in the boom times. Boom times had since gone bust, but she still had most of the money, squirreled away in CD's. In spite of her windfall, Littie's modest life-style hadn't changed. She still lived with my Uncle Tom, Daddy's younger brother, in the small frame house she'd lived in as long as I could remember. Now frail and in her eighties, she barely had the strength to talk. But her keen eyes took in everything. I was sure I could count on her to help, too.

  The next day Daddy called and told me he'd send a cashier's check for the first $15,000 within the next few days.

  Things seemed to be gathering a momentum of their own. I had a few moments of panic during the next few days. I need more time to think. Am I being premature? Should I wait for the outcome of the legal process before taking this step?

  There were other fears, too. It bothered me to think that I would be in debt for the rest of my life, with no hope of ever paying it back.

  And what if, after all, we failed? All that money for nothing. And nothing to fall back on, not even the hope of the Bolivian courts. There would be no recourse at all if this venture failed. I'd simply have to resign myself to never seeing my children again.

  It was almost as frightening to think about the future if we succeeded—starting all over again, raising Jane and Michael alone, always looking over my shoulder in fear. I had barely been able to make ends meet with child support coming in. How would I ever manage without it? And what about Federico? Could I live with myself knowing I'd taken away all he had, even his children? I didn’t feel good about that, either.

  Daddy reasoned with me. "You shouldn't fee
l guilty. He's the one who started this. Besides, you're not depriving him of the kids. If he really wanted to see them, he could come back here and serve his time in jail. He could live here if he wanted to be with them."

  Still it bothered me. The burdens that went along with winning made it tempting to forfeit the game altogether.

  Meanwhile, only my immediate family and Mr. Rosenthal knew what was afoot—not only for the security of the operation but to preserve Lloyd's anonymity. Mr. Rosenthal's involvement was to remain a secret too. I couldn't even tell Susan or Kathy.

  My daily activities took on a temporary feel. I started seeing everything through different eyes. Friends were more dear, sunsets more beautiful. What I'd be leaving became all the more precious. If I succeeded, I wouldn't see them again, at least not in this place. And if I failed and didn't get my kids back? I didn't want to consider that possibility. I could barely contain my excitement and anticipation. After all the months of depending on others to do everything, I was finally going to do something myself.

  Chapter Nine

  As soon as Lloyd got the initial $15,000 he sent someone to Bolivia to do whatever mysterious things had to be done to set up the operation. He would call me twice a week with a report and we met twice in a local restaurant. But he told me very little. His own information was sketchy, he said; his phone calls to Bolivia were channeled through a hotel switchboard, and they had to be careful about what they said.

  At first, Lloyd thought it could be pulled off over the Easter holidays. His plan was to take the children across Lake Titicaca into Peru. Lake Titicaca was the highest lake in the world and one of the biggest. Somewhere in the middle of it an imaginary line divided Peru from Bolivia, but on certain jagged peninsulas the boundary was on the land itself. It was on one of these that the pretty little town of Copacabana nestled. It was a popular tourist attraction, mainly because it was the launching point for boats bound for the Island of the Sun and the Island of the Moon, historically important sites in the history of the ancient Incas.

  More important to Bolivians, however, was the fact that the town cathedral sheltered the Virgin of Copacabana, a diminutive, gem-encrusted statue of the Virgin Mary widely believed to possess miraculous powers. She serenely looked down on the worshippers in the old church from a little alcove high above the altar. Baroque decorations bathed in 18-carat gold surrounded her from floor to ceiling. Every Easter swarms of pilgrims arrived from all over Peru and Bolivia to pay homage to her and to ask for favors. Many of these pilgrims came on foot as a sort of reenactment of Christ's walk along the Via Dolorosa, traveling for days and camping at night on the frosty altiplano.

  What interested Lloyd, however, was not the Virgin, but the fact that at Easter time, border controls would be lax. Because of the sheer numbers of people crossing back and forth, it would be a perfect opportunity to slip the children into Peru undetected.

  But there were some hitches. Lloyd didn't count on the one thing you could count on in Bolivia, which was that you couldn't count on anything. As Easter neared, he learned from his man in Bolivia that the rainy season was in full swing. The only road from La Paz to Copacabana was washed out. On top of that, there was some sort of civil unrest going on—Lloyd didn't know exactly what—something about miners going on strike and marching in the streets of La Paz. A general strike was in effect, too. I'd lived in Bolivia long enough to know what that meant: everything would come to a grinding halt. There'd be no buses or taxis and no gasoline. What little food there was would be hoarded by shopkeepers. Schools and businesses would close, and airports would be empty. Lloyd said we'd just have to wait for conditions to be more favorable.

  I still didn't know exactly what my role would be. If Lloyd had a plan in mind, he was telling me very little about it. His responses to my questions were vague. But his preparation instructions were precise.

  "First, buy plane tickets from McAllen to La Paz for yourself and the children, round trip. That way it looks like you brought them into Bolivia with you. You might get by with taking them out again—you are simply tourists returning home. I want you to do this: make the reservations, buy the tickets and pick them up, then cancel the reservations."

  "Why?"

  "I don't want them to be on a computer. Your ex-husband might be having somebody monitor flight reservations for him."

  I nodded. If only I had thought of having his reservations monitored, I wouldn't be in this position now.

  "When it's time to leave, just show up at the airport. When they can't find your reservations, tell them they made a mistake. You'll have the tickets as proof that you were booked on the flight."

  I was dubious. "What if the flight is full and they won't let me on?"

  "Be insistent. Reservations get canceled. It happens all the time. They know that." He continued, "I want you to be packed and ready to go at a moment's notice. Get together all the legal papers and the Spanish translations and make about a dozen copies of each. Get extra photographs of the children, passport size. And buy a wig for yourself to wear down there."

  I was furiously taking notes. A wig?

  "Pack light. You don't want to be weighed down with anything unnecessary. We probably won't be there longer than forty-eight hours, anyway. Don't take anything you can't leave behind. Wear shoes you can run in."

  "Will I be flying down alone?"

  "I'll be going too, but not at the same time." I was glad to hear that. I figured that Lloyd would have more of a personal stake in my safety if he was there too.

  I started collecting the things I'd need for the trip. I dusted off my old blue suitcase and opened it on the floor. Each day a few more items went into it. First was the thick sheaf of legal documents and photos of the children, along with their birth certificates. I shopped for two lightweight duffle bags and folded them into a corner of the suitcase. I planned to stuff whatever I needed for the return trip into the duffle bags and leave the cumbersome suitcase behind in Bolivia. On the plane I decided to wear a comfortably baggy pair of jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt. I'd take an extra sweater and light jacket for La Paz. I packed a nice blouse and a pair of slacks in case there was a need to be more dressed up for, say, a visit to the consulate. My long johns could double as pajamas. A couple of changes of under things completed my travel wardrobe.

  For Jane and Michael I packed extra sweaters for the cold Bolivian highlands and new blue jeans a size larger than what they'd worn five months ago—better too big than too small. For Michael I packed a cap to pull down over his head, and for Jane a hooded windbreaker to hide her light hair. Into the suitcase went a couple of their old favorite toys, and a brightly wrapped new toy for each.

  Then I bought a wig. It was long, curly and almost black—completely different from my straight blonde hair. With the wig on, I'd blend in with the dark-haired masses, and from the side you could hardly see my face.

  Lloyd's last instruction was harder to comply with: passports for the children. When they were infants I'd gotten United States passports for them in La Paz. I had renewed Jane's only a year ago, after the five-year expiration period had passed, but her new passport had disappeared. I didn't know whether Federico had taken it or it had gotten lost in our last move. I still had Michael's, though. From its pages a sleepy six-week-old baby gazed into the camera. But his passport would expire in April, which was fast approaching.

  The problem now was getting new photographs for the passport applications. They had to be recent--less than a year old--and there had to be two of them, made from the same negative. And they had to be the right size for passports.

  All of these requirements posed problems. The only passport pictures I had of Jane and Michael were over a year old. I didn't have the negatives, either. In fact, only one photograph had been developed from a negative; the other two were Polaroid prints, which were no longer accepted by the passport agency.

  Back in December, I had tried to get new passport pictures by attempting to find the origina
l studio where Jane's photograph had been taken. I thought the studio might have kept the negative. One afternoon I drove up and down the shabby streets of downtown McAllen—which were more reminiscent of a Mexican town than an American one—and finally found the studio. But the studio owner shook his head. He had not kept the negative. Then I moved on to the studio where Michael's Polaroid photos had been taken the year before. The woman at the front desk glanced at the photographs I gave her.

  "We don't use negatives for passport photos." "I know," I said, "but I thought you might have kept extra copies or something."

  "No, but--." She examined the photos more carefully. "I remember these children." She looked up. "They were in here a few months ago, in September, I think. They were having visa photographs made, for somewhere in South America. Their father brought them in."

  Another piece in the puzzle had fallen into place, only it was a few months too late.

  Next, I called around to find a lab that could make duplicate prints from the photos I had. In the entire Rio Grande Valley there was only one with that capability. I had to choose the right photo of Jane for the lab to copy. I couldn't remember which one I'd sent in for her renewal passport the year before. Would the U.S. Passport Agency notice if I sent in the same one? I'd just have to take that chance.

  Making the duplicates was a process that took more time and effort than I had imagined. After three weeks the photographs came back fuzzy and too large. I took them back. After several trials and errors, the lab had produced copies that were the right size and reasonably clear. I hoped that the passport agency wouldn't spot the fact that they were copies. I took the applications and photographs to the local passport office. I knew it was against their policy to issue a passport to someone who wasn't present in person to apply for it. But if the passports were for children, a parent could apply without the children being physically present. The clerk accepted the applications and photos without comment.