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

by Cassie Kimbrough

  I didn't hear anything until March 8, when I got a phone call from the regional passport agency in Houston. The voice on the phone wanted to know why Jane's photograph was the same one I'd sent in for her renewal passport eighteen months earlier. I had chosen wrong.

  "She's not in town right now so I couldn't have a new picture taken." I tried to sound smooth and confident. "She's visiting her grandmother," I added.

  She wanted to know why I couldn't have her picture taken wherever her grandmother was. I mumbled something about having plans to travel soon and not having time to have new pictures made.

  "Well," she said crisply. "We can't issue a passport with this picture. If you can send in a recent photograph of her, we'll reconsider."

  I took the other photograph of Jane to the lab. By then I was a familiar and not very welcome face around there. Three more weeks passed before the picture was ready. I was running out of time. At the post office I tried to hide my unease as I produced the photos. The agent glanced at them, then at me. Nervously, she told me that she could not accept my applications for either child unless I brought them in with me. They were on to me. I argued with her briefly, but she shook her head.

  "I'm sorry, but those are orders from Houston. If you want to talk to the director there, I'll give you his phone number."

  I called Houston from her desk. The director was adamant: no children, no passports. In desperation I told him the truth: I couldn't bring the children with me because they had been kidnapped by their father and taken to South America. I was working on getting legal custody of them through the Bolivian courts.

  "In that case, after you have custody, you can get the passports there in Bolivia at the U.S. Consulate."

  I didn't want to do it in Bolivia, I argued. I wanted to be able to fly down, gather them up, and leave without dilly-dallying. The director was unmoved. With tears of frustration I hung up. Several pairs of curious eyes watched as I gathered the rejected applications and marched out of the room.

  Why wouldn't my own government help me? I could understand that rules were there to prevent abuses of the system. Yet when it had proof that a crime against one of its own citizens had been committed, that a foreigner had flagrantly violated its laws, my country still refused to bend the rules for me. What bureaucratic pettiness!

  That same day Mr. Rosenthal called up a lawyer at the passport office in Washington, D.C., to explain that the children had been kidnapped and that I needed to have their passports before I went to Bolivia.

  There was a slight pause, and the attorney said dryly, "What she's planning to do is to kidnap them."

  "No," Mr. Rosenthal said. "He kidnapped them. She's going down to reclaim what's rightfully hers."

  But it was no use. They wouldn't budge, not even when Mr. Rosenthal got the local Congressman to intervene. I would have to get the passports in Bolivia somehow.

  By early April I had everything ready. There was nothing to do but wait for the go-ahead from Lloyd. Every time the phone rang I leaped out of my skin. If it was Lloyd he'd ask for David. I was supposed to say he had the wrong number, then go to a designated pay phone nearby and wait for him to call back. It seemed silly to go through such elaborate precautions. But he was the one calling the shots.

  Meanwhile, Jane's birthday on April 12 was fast approaching. Michael's had already come and gone, on January 17. He was five years old. I had mailed him a pair of Superman house slippers and wondered what kind of party he'd had, who had come, what they'd eaten, what games they'd played. Probably no games at all. Bolivians had very traditional ways of doing things, and birthdays were no exception. Parents would invite their own adult friends and relatives and serve a formal afternoon tea. For the children there would sometimes be a piñata.

  I had my own sentimental little traditions, like the annual birthday letter. By the time April 11 arrived, my hopes of being with Jane on her birthday seemed as remote as ever. I wrote her a birthday letter, not to mail but to tuck away, to help me remember how she was when I saw her last:

  Dear Jane,

  Tomorrow is your birthday, and I won't be there to see your eyes shining in the glow of the seven candles. I worry about how you are taking it all. You are so tenderhearted. Even as a toddler, you couldn't stand to see any creature hurt. I finally gave up trying to get you to watch "Charlotte's Web." The minute you saw the pig and the ax being carried off to the barn you'd cover your eyes and demand that I turn it off. You'd offer your cookie to any mangy dog on the street. In your nursery school you were always the one to befriend the little girl that nobody else liked.

  Your own feelings are easily hurt. Slights roll off Michael like water off a duck, but you take them to heart. With you I wanted to be a mother hen hovering over her baby chick, but I forced myself to stand a few feet away. I wanted you to learn to fend for yourself. Now more than ever how I wish I could cover you with my wings and protect you from all the little hailstones that will sting you as you grow!

  I wonder how tall you have grown, what your favorite toys are, who you play with. Do you say your prayers at night, do you have enough warm clothes and a pretty dress or two, do you miss me? It's hard to set aside my longing and be objective about what's best for you. But I keep coming to the conclusion that you and Michael are better off here with me. You both are precious to me and I will never give up.

  Love,Mommy

  Lloyd's voice was terse. "Be in Bolivia by Monday. It's time." My stomach fluttered. The moment had finally arrived. My mind was flooded with questions. Was Lloyd flying down with me? What was I supposed to do once I got there? Was someone going to meet me? But I knew by then not to ask questions. Now, as always, he told me only what he wanted me to know.

  Federico and I met and began dating in the summer of 1975 when we were both students at the University of Texas at Austin. This photo was taken in 1977 when we made a road trip to California.

  We took a day trip to Lake Titicaca with Jane, where we had our photo taken with two llamas.

  La Paz, 1984 – Jane and Michael playing together at our house in La Paz.

  Arequipa airport, May 1, 1988 – Clockwise, Jane, me, Bob, Lloyd, and Michael before flying to Lima.

  "Go to the El Dorado Hotel when you get there. And remember, once you're in Bolivia, no phone calls to the States."

  After Lloyd left, I knocked on Mr. Rosenthal's door and went in. A haze of cigar smoke hung about his desk, where he sat with his feet propped up, an impish grin on his face. "What's up, kid?" His phone rang. I waited impatiently for the call to finish, then told him, "D Day has arrived."

  His face drooped perceptibly. Whatever happened, our strange and interesting relationship would be different. I would be leaving McAllen, whether I got the children back or not. For the past nine months, he had been my chief hand-holder and cheerleader When I didn't say what was on my mind, he knew and would chide, "Come on, Cass. This is Uncle Doug. You can't fool me." I would miss him very much.

  Friday, my last day at work arrived quickly. I was buoyant with hope, happier than I'd been in months. In a few days I'd be reunited with my children! I was convinced of it. Yet there was a sadness to the day, too. I would disappear without being able to say good-bye to my friends. No one but Mr. Rosenthal knew what was afoot. I longed to take my special friends aside and tell them how much I'd miss them. Instead I made a point of spending a little time visiting with each one that Friday, and whispered a silent good-bye as I walked away.

  The Recovery

  Chapter Ten

  Monday, April 18, 1988

  I was in Miami. Plastic flamingos stood in the corners of the hotel coffee shop, and the ceiling was festooned with twinkling white lights that would've been more at home on a Christmas tree than in a restaurant. I'd flown in from McAllen the night before and spent the night in this rather shabby and overpriced hotel near the Miami International Airport. I glanced at my watch and gulped down the rest of my coffee. The airport shuttle would be leaving soon. I climbed aboard t
he van with a few other passengers and we rode the few blocks to the airport.

  It was bustling with an interesting hodgepodge of mankind. There were the Miami types, bronzed men dressed in white cotton and gold chains, standing in line with Orthodox Jews wearing broad-brimmed black hats and earlocks. I passed a knot of Cubans talking in clipped Spanish, and farther on, Jamaicans laughing and shaking their dreadlocks at some private joke. Then there were the international businessmen in their generic business suits.

  At the ticket counter I was put on the flight to La Paz without any problems, in spite of the fact that my reservations had been "lost." After walking the equivalent of several football fields past ticket counters for what seemed like every airline in the world, I approached the gate where my flight was to depart.

  I spotted Lloyd immediately. He was wearing his pearl gray suit and sunglasses, and was seated in the waiting section of the departure gate. So he had come! He seemed to be looking in my direction, but he gave no sign of recognition. I took his cue and walked on by. After a few minutes he took the seat next to mine and began an innocuous conversation as if we were strangers. After a while he asked casually, "Do you have all the documents?"

  "Yes."

  "And the extra money?"

  I nodded. He was referring to the extra $5000 dollars in cash that I was supposed to keep with me, "in case you get separated from the rest of us," he'd said. The money made a sizable bundle in my purse, even in $50 bills. For weeks I'd cached it in my apartment in a dozen different hiding places where I hoped a burglar wouldn't think to look. Once it was hidden under the rags in the mop bucket under the kitchen sink. It was with great relief when I'd come home from work each day and find the money still there, and double relief that I could remember where I'd last put it. I held my purse close to my side.

  "What about your wig?"

  "It's in here." I patted my carry-on bag.

  "You should've worn it," Lloyd said shortly. Then he moved away. I studied my fellow passengers. So far I didn't recognize anyone. Not all the passengers were going to La Paz, though. It was the last stop on an itinerary that included Panama City and Lima, Peru.

  As luck would have it, our travel plans coincided with the FAA's crackdown on Eastern Airlines. Every outbound Eastern flight was required to undergo an FAA inspection before being cleared for takeoff. Shortly after we boarded our flight, the pilot announced it had been grounded: inspectors had found a mechanical problem. We were herded off the plane and down the concourse to another boarding gate. There we waited for several hours, only to be told that this plane, too, had been grounded after inspection.

  At that point all the Bolivian-bound passengers were reassigned to flights on the Bolivian airlines, Lloyd Aereo Boliviano, or LAB for short. It would leave around ten p.m. and arrive in La Paz the following morning. Lloyd decided to go on to La Paz on LAB, but I opted to stay with Eastern, even though it meant waiting two more days—until Wednesday—for the next flight to La Paz. It was just too risky to fly LAB—most of the passengers would be Bolivian. If one of them recognized me, it could get back to Federico.

  One other passenger, although he was Bolivian, chose to forgo the tiring overnight LAB flight and stay with Eastern. Mr. Sanchez and I were thrown together as partners in frustration all Monday afternoon and into the evening as we tried to retrieve our luggage, which had been transferred to the LAB flight along with everyone else's from our Eastern flight, before it got sent on to La Paz and possible oblivion. Mr. Sanchez was helpful in dealing with the LAB airline agents, and they eventually produced our luggage. I accepted a sandwich he kindly bought me. It was the only food I'd eaten since breakfast in the flamingo room, but I turned down his offer to stay at his beach condo until Wednesday.

  Instead I spent the next two nights at a luxurious Miami hotel, courtesy of Eastern Airlines. With two days on my hands and nothing to do, I loaded up on crossword puzzle books and started the Dorothy Sayers mystery I'd brought. I also bought a swimsuit in the hotel boutique and unwisely spent all day Tuesday dozing by the pool. The idea was to enhance my disguise by tanning my skin to a darker shade. But the result was a painful sunburn. That night I went down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. A lounge was at the entrance to the restaurant, and men in white suits were circling like sharks. I beat a hasty retreat to a café around the corner. It wouldn't be the last time I would wonder if I was out of my depth.

  The next morning I was up by seven o'clock. Carefully I pinned up my hair, then tugged the wig down over my head. The mirror told me that I had been transformed into a gypsy. I felt exotic, wild, and conspicuously phony. Surely everyone would see right through me. I watched the clerk as I paid my bill at the desk. He didn't seem to notice anything amiss. Of course, he was probably used to seeing much stranger things than a woman wearing a wig. On the airport shuttle no one seemed to notice anything unusual.

  This time our plane made it off the ground. It would be a long flight, twelve hours, with layovers in Panama City and Lima. I saw Mr. Sanchez a few rows ahead of me and watched as he scanned the faces of his fellow passengers. His eyes rested on me for a moment and a look of puzzlement passed over them. I gave him what I hoped was a disinterested glance and looked away. I felt his gaze on me several times during the flight, but to my relief he never spoke.

  I remained constantly aware of my fellow passengers. Was that one paying more than casual attention to me? I tensed up. Did he recognize me? Did he know Federico? During layovers I stayed in my seat.

  Finally, at about 10:30 P.M., the plane began to circle above the La Paz airport. At two miles of altitude, it was the highest airport in the world. A local joke was that planes didn't descend to land there, they flew upward. I pulled on a sweater and jacket. Although it was springtime in Texas, winter was approaching in the Southern Hemisphere. At any rate, here on the high Andean plateau, it was chilly year round.

  We disembarked directly onto the tarmac—South American airports didn't yet have the luxury of weatherproof boarding tunnels. And instead of the shopping mall atmosphere of the Miami air terminal, with its plush carpet and piped-in music, the La Paz airport was bare, stark and cold.

  We lined up at the immigration checkpoint while grim-faced military police examined our papers. I scanned the waiting crowd, wondering if anybody would be there to meet me. Lloyd had told me that if no one met me at the airport, I was to take a taxi directly to the El Dorado Hotel. No one stepped forward, so suitcase in hand, I made my way outside to get a taxi. The somber faces of the indigenous Bolivians surrounded me. I felt like an Amazon. At 5'9" I towered over them.

  I chose one of the cab drivers clamoring for patronage and squeezed into the backseat of his dilapidated taxi. Soon I was joined by two other Americans. We began the long descent into La Paz, which lay several hundred feet below the airport, in a kind of valley. Seen from the air, La Paz looked like a huge crevice in the flat plain between the two Andean mountain ranges, the eastern and western Cordilleras. On the road, at night, it was like driving into a huge bowl of stars. The twinkling lights hid the hillside slums we were passing through. Looming in the distance was snow-peaked Mount Illimani. During my last year in Bolivia, on New Year's Day 1985, a Braniff airplane had crashed into Illimani. Blizzards and steep slopes had thwarted all recovery attempts, and the bodies and wreckage still lay entombed in the ice near its peak. Illimani was a constant, brooding presence over the city.

  The young couple in the taxi asked me what I was doing in Bolivia. My story was ready: I was a journalist, on assignment for the Los Angeles Times, hoping that neither of them was from Los Angeles and knew somebody who worked on the paper. When they asked what had brought me to La Paz, I explained that I couldn't divulge what my mysterious mission was or even where I'd be staying. They were fascinated. They probably thought my assignment had something to do with the drug trade—most people thought of cocaine when they thought of Bolivia at all. Or perhaps they thought I was there to cover the Pope's visit; he was due to
arrive in three weeks.

  Around the last bend in the road lay the city proper. Buildings dating back to Spanish colonial times rose on either side of narrow, brick-paved streets. North Americans sometimes assume that all of South America is like the United States' nearest Latin neighbor, Mexico. But Bolivia is a world apart. Where Mexico is colorful, noisy, and festive, Bolivia is gray, somber, and mysterious. Mexicans are garrulous, outgoing, aggressive; the indigenous people in the La Paz area are fatalistic, stoic, and reserved. The Aymaras are descendants of the only tribe that was never conquered by the Incas and incorporated into their empire. Even now they resist all attempts at modernization and cling to their traditional ways and beliefs.

  It was nearly 11 P.M. as we entered the city, but the streets still swarmed with people, mostly the indigenous Aymara people dressed in their traditional garb. The women, called cholitas, wore several layers of velvet skirts—the number of skirts they wore indicated their wealth. On their heads perched derby hats, and they wore fringed shawls around their shoulders. Some carried rosy-cheeked babies tied to their backs with colorful, hand-loomed blankets. The men were thinner and more plainly dressed in dark pants and jackets and wool caps with earflaps. Beggars and peddlers slowed traffic on the sidewalks. Braided urchins no bigger than Michael begged passersby to buy candy or gum.

  My taxi companions were disgorged in the market district near the San Francisco Cathedral, where they would find humble lodgings listed in their "South America on $5 and $10 A Day" guidebook. The driver continued through downtown. The main street turned into a boulevard lined with flowers, benches, and equestrian statues of Bolivian heroes. We passed the elegant Plaza Hotel and the university, a single tall building draped with banners proclaiming socialist slogans.

  The driver pulled up in front of the El Dorado Hotel. Before I was out of the taxi, I saw Lloyd approaching. He was with another man I didn't recognize.