"That's where the Food Aid International apartment is," I told Lloyd excitedly.
"What? That place?" He peered into the darkness at the boxy three-story building. "You're kidding! Damn, I wish we'd known that earlier. It would've been a perfect place to watch the children from."
I said nothing. I hadn't tried to contact Russ or anybody I knew from Food Aid International. For one thing, I didn't want him to get into any trouble on my account. He'd already stuck his neck out enough. And he would still be here to take the heat long after I was gone. For another thing, I couldn't in good conscience do anything to jeopardize the missions of the agency. The Bolivian government would surely frown on a foreign organization meddling in the affairs of its citizens, not to mention flouting its laws.
Bob pulled the Jeep up opposite the sloping concrete walkway that ran alongside the school. It was about a hundred feet long and led down to the schoolyard in back. A chain-link fence separated it from the apartment building next door. At sidewalk level a gate closed off the ramp.
Bob pointed toward the gate. "There's a guard there every morning, an old guy. He stands there while the kids go in and then he locks the gate after the last bell rings."
Lloyd said tersely, "We're talking about a thirty-second operation. You'll have that long to intercept the children, get past the guard, and get into the Jeep." He pointed down the walkway. "At the bottom of that ramp and around the corner is a bathroom. You'll hide in there while you're waiting for the children to arrive."
"How will I know when to come out?"
"We might use two-way radios. Or maybe some other signal."
The plan sounded vague. I peered down the ramp to the murky darkness at the bottom. So this was where it was going to happen. All of a sudden it was becoming very real.
Back at the hotel, Lloyd gave me instructions for the next day. I was to call up Dr. Castillo and tell him that I had come to Bolivia thinking that the papers had been signed and I could go home with my children. After all, Dr. Castillo had told me it would take only two months. If I couldn't leave with my children, then I wanted at least to get their passports. I was to demand that he accompany me to the Consulate to help me get them.
"Tell him it's vital that you get the passports now. You don't want to wait around for months until it's time to come get the children, and then have to wait around some more just for passports."
"What about my phone call with him today? He thinks I was calling from the States. Besides, he already told me today that the papers aren't signed yet. How am I supposed to explain that all of a sudden I'm here in La Paz and don't remember anything he said yesterday?"
Lloyd said, "You'll think of something."
Then he and Bob left. It was decided that Guy would sleep on one of the sofas in the sitting room next door. I went to bed early but tossed and turned all night.
Chapter Twelve
Friday, April 22, 1988
The three men went to the Amor de Dios school in the morning to watch Federico drop off Jane and Michael. Their report was bad. He had taken both children by the hand and walked them all the way down the ramp. Michael had struggled to break free but Federico had held on tight.
"We don't know what this means," Lloyd said, "but he's never done it before. Of course, if he keeps it up, it'll be impossible to get those children."
My throat went dry. "Maybe he knows I'm here."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's something that came out of that meeting last night at the school. What bothers me even more, though, is that there were two guards at the gate, not just one. We spotted two plainclothesmen outside the school, too."
"How did you know they were plainclothesmen?" I asked.
"When you've been in the business as long as I have, you can tell," he said. "Anyway, we've got to move fast. The longer we're down here, the riskier it is. "
I blinked back tears.
Lloyd noticed and warned, "You've been holding up well so far. You've got to continue to keep logic over emotions."
He left me alone to call Dr. Castillo.
An icy band of fear squeezed my chest—fear that I might fail, fear for Jane and Michael should I fail. What then? What would the rest of their lives be like? Lloyd's words from the other night echoed: They never smile. They're like little robots.
No, I told myself, don't get carried away by negative thoughts. Anticipating such moments of panic, I had scribbled some phrases in a small notebook that I carried in my purse. I took the notebook out now and thumbed through it.
"The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid." Hebrews 13:6. This was a Bible verse that Jane had to memorize for her first-grade class at St. Paul's Lutheran School in McAllen. During the long months since I'd last seen her, I'd kept it posted on my refrigerator.
"Fear not." Jesus. Then, a piece of wisdom from Mr. Rosenthal, who chided me for worrying too much about events I had no control over: "Do all that you can, then don't worry about the results."
Next, from Martin Luther: "God is the being of all that are and the life of all that live and the wisdom of all the wise, for all things have their being more truly in God than in themselves."
Daddy had given me that one. As I read and reread the phrases, my thoughts and fears quieted a little. I put the book away and called Dr. Castillo.
"Catereen? Where are you calling from?" He was understandably puzzled that I was calling back so soon.
"I'm here in La Paz," I replied. His voice registered surprise. "In La Paz? Aqui?"
This was not going to be easy.
I told him that I had been in La Paz when I'd called the day before, but that I'd had a bad case of soroche.
"To tell the truth, I don't remember a thing we talked about yesterday."
To my amazement he bought it. Even better, he agreed without hesitation to meet with me that very morning and accompany me to get the passports. I hung up and gave Lloyd the good news. Then I set about getting ready. I was excited at the prospect of getting out of the hotel room, where I was beginning to feel like a prisoner. It was also a relief to take off the wig and shake out my real hair. I tried to fluff some life into it where it had been flattened by the wig. Then I stopped and made a wry smile in the mirror. At a time like this, what did it matter what I looked like? Still, I changed from my jeans into a pair of black slacks and put my gray corduroy blazer over my sweater. In a few minutes I was ready.
Again we went down to the Jeep in relays. This time, Guy went to the lobby first to watch for anyone who might be paying particular attention to us. The men were aware that they'd been under surveillance since their arrival in La Paz. Then Bob went down in the elevator, followed by me and then Lloyd. I felt quite exposed without my wig. Once in the Jeep, I slouched low in the backseat as we drove along the back streets toward downtown.
"Man, I've never seen a hotel crawling with so many security people," Bob said.
"Really? Where?" I hadn't noticed any.
"They're all over that place. When I was checking you into the hotel on Wednesday night, twice one of them tried to make off with your suitcase. He said he would help me with my luggage, and I kept telling him I didn't want his help. One night," Bob chuckled, "I was standing outside the hotel nightclub—listening to some guy singing and playing the guitar. I heard something behind me and damn if it wasn't a security guard with a two-way radio. He was saying"—here Bob imitated the self-important tones of the guard—‘The gringo is standing outside the nightclub, listening to the entertainer.’”
Bob shifted the Jeep into first gear and it labored up a steep downtown street. The city was laid out so that the main street wound through the town at its lowest point. The streets intersecting the main road went straight up the canyon walls. I'd always hated to drive there, preferring the discomfort of a crowded taxi or bus. The trickiest part was stopping and starting halfway up a hill without plowing into the car in front of you or sliding into the car behind. A standard transmission was a necessity.
Dr. Castillo w
as waiting outside the building, as promised. His sonorous voice belied his thin, bespectacled appearance. Thick glasses perched on a large nose, under which a moustache bristled. His had big ears with earlobes like flaps. He greeted me warmly and then led me up three flights of concrete stairs. I still wasn't used to the lack of oxygen at this altitude, and by the time we reached his office on the third floor I was out of breath.
By American standards his office was shabby and ill-equipped, in a time warp reminiscent of the fifties, or even the forties. In the anteroom, a wooden desk held a manual typewriter and a pile of carbon paper. A sofa, scattered wooden chairs, and a battered coffee table piled with magazines completed the furnishings. Above the desk in Dr. Castillo's inner office hung a calendar of naked women—standard office equipment in Bolivia.
We sat down and Dr. Castillo first went over my file with me, explaining in detail what each document was. There was nothing in it that I didn't already know about from my previous conversations with him.
Then we walked to the nearby courthouse, a dreary, ancient building with high ceilings and chipped plaster. Dr. Castillo reminded me that he had once been a judge before the fickle winds of political change had swept him out. The judge in charge of my case was an old friend of his. But the encouragement I felt upon hearing that piece of news evaporated as soon as I saw Don Carlitos. He was a tiny old man with bleary eyes who seemed to be barely aware of his surroundings. He peered up at me dimly as Dr. Castillo introduced us. Then Dr. Castillo talked about the case while I watched Don Carlitos shakily light a filter cigarette at the wrong end. He then calmly broke off the tip of the cigarette and relit it at the correct end.
After listening to Dr. Castillo recap the situation, Don Carlitos assured us that as soon as the papers were signed by the Supreme Court, Federico's suit for custody would be annulled. But, he added ominously, Federico had the right to appeal, and the outcome of that appeal was “otra cosa,” another thing. Dr. Castillo thanked Don Carlitos profusely for his time and we shook hands all around. I had the uneasy feeling that Don Carlitos had already forgotten who I was.
Now I was confused. It seemed that things were not as simple as Dr. Castillo had led me to believe. What was this appeal that Don Carlitos had mentioned? How did that work? Dr. Castillo explained as we walked the few blocks to the consulate. Federico had the right to appeal the decision if the Supreme Court annulled his lawsuit. How long would the appeal take? It depended on how hard Federico fought. He could keep bringing up new arguments and prolong it indefinitely. Then suddenly and without preamble, Dr. Castillo announced, "The best thing would be just to snatch them back yourself."
I couldn't believe my ears. "You mean, kidnap them back?"
"Yes," he said simply. "I have a friend, a capitan, who is the assistant to the Minister of the Interior. I think he could help you." The Minister of the Interior was probably the most feared person in the Bolivian Government, and, next to the President, the most powerful. He was responsible for arresting political prisoners, who were then thrown in cells somewhere in the ministry building. There they were held without benefit of trial. Sometimes they were tortured. It was rumored to have happened even to American journalists. The minister's assistant would be in a position of power, too, if he had the ear of the Interior Minister. Getting the kids out of Bolivia would be child's play with him on our side. But if he couldn't be trusted, we'd all be at risk.
I played dumb. "Do you really think I could get away with such a thing?"
"I am sure that you could. But you would need assistance. The capitan could be very helpful. The least he could do would be to get exit papers for the children to cross the border with."
Anyone who wanted to leave Bolivia with minors had to get a government permit to do so. Getting permits was a wearisome process that I was all too familiar with. It required half a dozen photos of each child, the physical presence of both parents and children at the government ministry that issued the permits and a blizzard of signatures and stamps. Both parents had to give their permission in writing and in person for a child to travel with the other parent. These permits had to be produced at airports before boarding, even for in-country flights, and at all border crossings.
The system was designed to prevent child kidnappings. In Bolivia I was always hearing horror stories about children being snatched by strangers and sold abroad to adoption rings. A more common occurrence, I was told, was that indigenous parents would sell a child into more or less slavery to another merchant, who would use the child to haul merchandise to and from the marketplaces and perform chores around the house. At least that way, the impoverished parents knew their child would have food and shelter. Who knew if any of these rumors were true? It was hard to separate fact from fiction in Bolivia.
At any rate, it would be a great help to get my hands on legal exit permits for Jane and Michael.
By then we'd arrived at the consulate. Dr. Castillo whispered that we'd discuss El Capitan later.
The Consulate was on the third floor of an edifice that was indistinguishable from the other old buildings on the street. Inside, a Marine guard directed us through a security arch before allowing us to enter. The woman at the counter greeted Dr. Castillo by name. In a few moments a tall man with thinning red hair came out and extended his hand.
"I'm Steven Dunlop. I'm very glad to meet you, Mrs. Bascope," he said warmly. I recognized his name from my conversations with Dr. Castillo. Steven Dunlop was the Vice Consul in La Paz. He seemed to know who I was, too, and ushered us into his office. Within moments we were joined by a Bolivian man and woman. I was surprised at our reception. They all seemed to have dropped whatever they were doing for our unannounced visit.
Dunlop began by making introductions. Dr. Garza was the attorney for the U.S. Embassy. Alicia had been the representative from the consulate who had made the last welfare and whereabouts visit to see Jane and Michael. She leaned over and touched my arm.
"Your children are beautiful," she said.
"Thank you," I said. "Are they all right?"
"Yes, they seemed well cared for and happy." She added hastily, "I'm sure they miss you very much, though."
I explained my sudden appearance in Bolivia with the same story I had told Dr. Castillo: I thought everything had been taken care of and I could simply come down and pick up Jane and Michael. Now that Dr. Castillo had explained the impossibility of that, at least for now, I would like to get passports for the children. And to see them. Dr. Garza shook his head.
"I'm afraid that it's impossible for you to see your children. In fact, you are in a very precarious situation. If your husband finds out you are here and serves you with legal papers, you would be forced to remain in Bolivia for the duration of the lawsuit. And that could take a long time."
"Where are you staying now?" Dunlop asked.
I thought quickly. Lloyd had told me not to tell anyone about him or Bob or Guy. But I'd already told Dr. Castillo that I was staying at the Sheraton, so I couldn't very well make up something else now. "I'm at the Sheraton."
"You could easily be traced through your hotel registration and served with papers. Do you have any friends you could stay with?" Dunlop asked.
"I don't know," I said hesitantly.
Dr. Garza suggested. "You should at least change hotels, then. The first place they'd look would be the Sheraton, where all the gringos go. You could stay in a cheaper hotel, like the Libertador, down the street from here."
They all agreed that's what I should do. Then there ensued an hour-long discussion of the legal aspects of the situation and what my chances were of getting custody of Jane and Michael through the Bolivian court system. The embassy lawyer agreed with Dr. Castillo's assessment that I would almost surely be awarded custody of the children—eventually. But Federico had already been granted temporary custody. Worse, his petition was full of damning accusations, about drug use, consorting with drug dealers, sleeping around.
"It's obvious that Sr. Bascope is af
ter revenge," said Dr. Castillo.
"Yes," Dr. Garza agreed with a tone of disgust, as he leafed through a copy of Federico's custody petition. "This has nothing to do with what's best for the children." He laid aside the petition.
"The things he is claiming are very bad, very damaging. But," he said, "if they are untrue, then there is no evidence, no proof. And without proof--" He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, "you would be awarded the children." Then he echoed Don Carlitos' words. "But of course he would still have the right of appeal."
Dunlop, who had been in Bolivia only a few weeks and hadn't mastered Spanish yet, had been struggling to follow the conversation. I gave him a summary in English.
"So," Dunlop asked, "if the Supreme Court annuls Mr. Bascope's case, how long would the appeal take?"
"It depends," said Dr. Garza. "If Sr. Bascope doesn't put up a fight, it could be over soon. If he fights, and I believe he will, it could take a year, maybe longer." He turned to me. "But in the end, you would get the children."
Steven Dunlop shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm not so sure. I've never seen things happen that easily here."
Dr. Garza added, “Of course, the political factor enters into it, too."
There was a long pause. We all knew that the political factor could change everything. Dr. Garza broke the silence.
"Your best bet," he said, "is simply to snatch them back and make a run for it."
"My sentiments exactly," Dr. Castillo said firmly.
For the second time that day, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Could it be that these two attorneys, Dr. Castillo and Dr. Garza, were advocating that I violate the laws of their own country? I glanced at Dunlop.
He nodded, "I think they're right."
I stammered, "I thought the embassy couldn't be involved in anything like that."
Where Are My Children? The True Story of a Mother Who Risked Her Life to Rescue Her Kidnapped Children Page 11
