News of a Kidnapping (18 page)

“It’s possible.”

Nydia stood, extended her hand in silence, and left the office before he could open the door for her. Then Miguel Silva came into the office and found the president very affected by the story of the dead gunman. Gaviria lost no time in writing a personal letter to the prosecutor general telling
him to investigate the case and bring it to trial.

Most people agreed that the purpose of the raid had been to capture Escobar or one of the important capos, but that even with this rationale it was stupid and doomed to failure. According to the immediate police version, Diana had died in the course of a search mission carried out with the support of helicopters and ground personnel. Without
intending to, they had encountered the armed unit guarding Diana Turbay and the cameraman Richard Becerra. As they were fleeing, one of the kidnappers shot Diana in the back and shattered her spine. The cameraman was not hurt. Diana was taken to the Medellín General Hospital in a police helicopter, and died there at 4:35 in the afternoon.

Pablo Escobar’s version was quite different and agreed
in its essential points with the story Nydia told to the president. According to him, the police had carried out the raid knowing that the hostages were in that location. They had obtained the information under torture from two of his men whom he identified with their real names and the numbers on their identity cards. His communiqué claimed they had been arrested and tortured by the police, and
that
one of them had guided the officers there from a helicopter. He said that Diana was killed by the police when she was running away from the fighting and had already been released by her captors. He concluded by stating that three innocent campesinos had also been killed in the skirmish, but the police described them to the press as criminals who had been shot during the fighting. This report
must have given Escobar the satisfaction he had hoped for when he denounced police violations of human rights.

On the night of the tragedy, Richard Becerra, the only available witness, was besieged by reporters in a room at General Police Headquarters in Bogotá. He was still wearing the black leather jacket he had on when he had been kidnapped, and the straw hat his captors had given him so he
would be mistaken for a campesino. He was not in any state of mind to provide illuminating details.

The impression he made on his more understanding colleagues was that the confusion of events had not allowed him to form an opinion about the incident. His statement that the bullet that killed Diana was fired intentionally by one of the kidnappers was not supported by any evidence. The widespread
belief, over and above all the conjectures, was that Diana died by accident in the cross fire. But the definitive investigation would be handled by the prosecutor general, in accordance with the letter sent to him by President Gaviria following the revelations of Nydia Quintero.

The drama had not ended. In response to public uncertainty regarding the fate of Marina Montoya, the Extraditables
issued another communiqué on January 30, acknowledging that they had given the order to execute her on January 23. But, “because we are in hiding and communications are poor, we have no information—at present—as to whether she was executed or released. If she was
executed, we do not understand why the police have not yet reported finding her body. If she was released, it is now up to her family.”
Only then, seven days after the order to kill her was given, did the search for her body begin.

Pedro Morales, one of the pathologists who had performed the autopsy, read the bulletin in the paper and believed the corpse of the lady with the fine clothes and impeccable nails was in fact Marina Montoya. He was correct. As soon as her identity was established, however, someone claiming to be from
the Justice Ministry called the Institute of Forensic Medicine, urging them not to reveal that the body was in a mass grave.

Luis Guillermo Pérez Montoya, Marina’s son, was leaving for lunch when he heard the preliminary report on the radio. At the Institute, they showed him the photograph of the woman disfigured by bullets, and he had difficulty recognizing her. A special deployment of police
was required at the Southern Cemetery, because the news had already been announced and they had to clear a path to the grave site for Luis Guillermo Pérez through a mass of curious onlookers.

According to regulations at the Institute, an anonymous corpse has to be buried with a serial number stamped on the torso, arms, and legs so that it can be identified even in case of dismemberment. It has
to be enclosed in black plastic, the kind used for trash bags, and tied at the ankles and wrists with strong cord. The body of Marina Montoya—according to her son—was naked and covered in mud, and had been tossed into the common grave without the identifying tattoos required by law. Beside her was the body of the boy who had been buried at the same time, wrapped in the pink sweatsuit.

Back in
the amphitheater, after she had been washed down with a high-pressure hose, her son examined her teeth and hesitated for a moment. He seemed to remember that Marina was missing her left premolar, and this corpse had all its teeth. But when he looked at the hands, and placed them over his own, all his
doubts vanished: They were the same. Another suspicion would persist, perhaps forever: Luis Guillermo
Pérez was convinced that his mother’s corpse had been identified at the time of the on-site examination, and had been sent straight to the common grave to get rid of evidence that might upset the public or embarrass the government.

Diana’s death—even before the discovery of Marina’s body—had a powerful impact on the country. When Gaviria had refused to modify the second decree, he had not given
in to Villamizar’s harshness or Nydia’s entreaties. His argument, in brief, was that the decrees could not be judged in terms of the abductions but with a view to the public interest, since Escobar was not taking hostages to put pressure on the capitulation policy but to force non-extradition and obtain an amnesty. These thoughts led him to a final modification of the decree. It was difficult,
after having resisted Nydia’s pleas and the grief of so many other people, to change the date, but he resolved to do it.

Villamizar received the news through Rafael Pardo. The wait seemed infinite to him. He had not had a minute’s peace. His life revolved around the radio and telephone, and his relief was immense when he heard no bad news. He called Pardo at all hours. “Any news?” he would ask.
“How long can this go on?” Pardo calmed him down with doses of rationality. Every night he came home in the same state. “That decree has to be issued or they’ll kill everybody in sight,” he would say. Pardo calmed him down. At last, on January 28, it was Pardo who made the call to say that the final version of the decree was ready for the president’s signature. The delay had been due to the fact
that all the ministers had to sign it, and they had not been able to locate Alberto Casas Santamaría, the communications minister, until Rafael Pardo reached him by phone and threatened him, as amiable as an old friend.

“Mr. Minister,” he told him. “Either you’re here in half an hour to sign the decree, or you’re not a minister anymore.”

On January 29, Decree 303 was issued, clearing away all
the obstacles that had interfered so far with the surrender of the drug traffickers. Just as many in the government expected, they were never able to dispel the widespread belief that the decree was an act of contrition for Diana’s death. This, as usual, generated still other objections: those who thought it was a concession to the traffickers, the result of a stunned public opinion, and those who
saw it as a step the president could not avoid taking, though it came too late for Diana Turbay. In any case, President Gaviria signed it out of conviction, knowing that the delay could be interpreted as proof of his hard heart, and the belated decision proclaimed as an act of weakness.

The next day, at seven in the morning, the president returned a call he had received from Villamizar the night
before to thank him for the decree. Gaviria listened to his reasons in absolute silence, and shared with him his anguish of January 25.

“It was a terrible day for everyone,” he said.

Then Villamizar called Guido Parra with a clear conscience. “You’re not going to start all that shit now about how this decree is no good,” he said. Guido Parra had already studied it with care.

“Right,” he said,
“no problem on this end. Just think how much grief it could have saved us if it had come out earlier.”

Villamizar wanted to know what the next step would be.

“Nothing,” said Guido Parra. “It’s a matter of forty-eight hours.”

The Extraditables immediately let it be known in a communiqué that they would cancel the announced executions in light of appeals from several well-known persons. They
may have been referring to the radio messages addressed to them by former presidents López Michelsen and Pastrana, and Monsignor Castrillón. But in essence it could also be interpreted as their acceptance of the decree. “We will respect the lives of the remaining hostages,”
said the communiqué. As a special concession, they also announced that early that same day they would release a hostage.
Villamizar, who was with Guido Parra, gave a start of surprise.

“What do they mean just one!” he shouted. “You said they’d let them all go!”

Guido Parra did not turn a hair.

“Take it easy, Alberto,” he said. “It’s a matter of a week.”

Maruja and Beatriz had not heard about the deaths. With no television or radio, and the enemy their only source of information, it was impossible to guess the truth. The guards’ contradictions undermined the story that they had taken Marina to a farm,
and any other conjecture led to the same impasse: She was free, or she was dead. In other words, they had once been the only people who knew she was alive, and now they were the only people not to know she was dead.

Uncertainty about what they had done with Marina turned the empty bed into a phantom. The Monk had returned half an hour after she was taken away. He came in like a ghost and huddled
in a corner. Beatriz asked him point-blank:

“What did you do with Marina?”

The Monk said that when he walked outside with her, two new bosses who had not come to the room were waiting for him in the garage. That he asked where they were taking her, and one of them answered in a rage: “You don’t ask questions here, you son of a bitch.” And that then they told him to get back in the house and
leave Marina with Barrabás, the other guard on duty.

At first hearing the story seemed credible. It would not have been easy for the Monk to go away and come back so soon if he had taken part in the crime, or for him to have the heart to kill a ruin of a woman, whom he seemed to love as if she were his grandmother, and who doted on him as if he were her grandson. Barrabás, however, had a reputation
as a heartless killer who even bragged about his crimes. The uncertainty became even more disquieting in the middle of the night, when Maruja and Beatriz were awakened by the moans of a wounded animal, and it was the Monk sobbing. He did not want breakfast, and they heard him sigh several times and say: “How sad that they took Granny away!” But he never said outright that she was dead. Even
the majordomo’s stubborn refusal to return the television and the radio increased their suspicion that she had been killed.

Damaris, after several days away from the house, returned in a frame of mind that only added to the confusion. During one of their night walks, Maruja asked her where she had gone, and Damaris answered in the same voice she would have used to tell the truth: “I’m taking
care of doña Marina.” And without giving Maruja time to think about it, she added: “She always thinks of you and sends you both her best.” And then, in an even more casual tone, she said that Barrabás had not come back because he was in charge of her security. From then on, every time Damaris went out, she came back with news that grew less believable the more enthusiastic she became. She always ended
with a ritual phrase:

“Doña Marina is just marvelous.”

Maruja had no reason to believe Damaris more than she believed the Monk or any of the other guards, but she also had no reason not to believe them in circumstances where everything seemed possible. If Marina really was alive, they had no motive for depriving the hostages of news and distractions, unless it was to hide the worst from them.

To Maruja’s overheated imagination, nothing seemed absurd. So far she had hidden her worry from Beatriz, afraid she could not
tolerate the truth. But Beatriz was safe from all infection. From the very first she had rejected any thought that Marina might be dead. Her dreams helped her. She dreamed that her brother Alberto, as real as he was in life, told her in detail about his efforts, about how
well things were going, about how little time they had to wait to be free. She dreamed that her father reassured her with the news that the credit cards she had left in her bag were safe. The images were so vivid that when she recalled them later they were indistinguishable from reality.

At this time, a seventeen-year-old they called Jonás was finishing up his guard duty with Maruja and Beatriz.
Beginning at seven in the morning, he would listen to music on a tinny cassette player. He played his favorite songs over and over, at a deafening volume, until they were sick of them. And in the meantime, as part of the chorus, he would shout: “What a fucking life, I don’t know why I ever got into this!” In his calmer moments he would talk to Beatriz about his family. But this only brought him
to the edge of the abyss, and with a measureless sigh he would say: “If you only knew who my father was!” He never told, but this and many other of the guards’ enigmas made the atmosphere in the room even more rarefied.

The majordomo, caretaker of their domestic welfare, must have informed his bosses about the prevailing restiveness, because two showed up in a conciliatory mood. Again they refused
to return the radio and television, but they did make an effort to improve the hostages’ daily lives. They promised books but brought very few, and one was a novel by Corín Tellado. They gave them entertainment publications but no news magazines. A large light-bulb replaced the blue one, and orders were given to turn it on for an hour at seven in the morning, and an hour at seven in the evening,
so they could read, but Beatriz and Maruja were so accustomed to semi-darkness they could not tolerate a bright light. Besides, the bulb heated the air in the room and made it unbreathable.

Maruja allowed herself to succumb to the inertia of the desperate. She spent days and nights lying on the mattress, pretending to be asleep, her face turned to the wall so she would not have to speak. She
ate almost nothing. Beatriz occupied the empty bed and took refuge in the crossword puzzles and games in the magazines. The fact was brutal and painful, but it was the fact: There was more room with four people instead of five, fewer tensions, more air to breathe.

Jonás finished his tour of duty at the end of January and said goodbye to the hostages with a demonstration of his trust. “I’ll tell
you something if you promise not to say who told you.” And then he revealed the news that had been gnawing at him inside:

“They killed doña Diana Turbay.”

The blow woke them. For Maruja it was the most terrible moment of her captivity. Beatriz tried not to think about what seemed irremediable to her: “If they killed Diana, I’ll be next.” After all, since the first of January, when the old year
had ended and they were still not free, she had been telling herself: “Either they let me go or I let myself die.”

One day, when Maruja was playing a game of dominoes with another guard, the Gorilla touched various places on his chest with his index finger and said: “I feel something funny here. What do you think it is?” Maruja stopped playing, looked at him with all the contempt she could summon,
and said: “It’s either gas or a heart attack.” He dropped his submachine gun to the floor, stood up in terror, spread his hand over his chest, and with a colossal shout he roared:

“My heart hurts, damn it!”

He collapsed onto the remains of breakfast and lay there, facedown. Beatriz, who knew he hated her, felt a professional impulse to help him, but just then the majordomo and his wife came
in, frightened by the shouting and the noise of his fall. The other guard, who was small and thin, had tried to help him but his submachine gun got in the way, and he handed it to Beatriz.

“You’re responsible for doña Maruja,” he told her.

He, the majordomo, and Damaris together could not lift the Gorilla. They took hold of him and dragged him to the living room. Beatriz, weapon in hand, and
a dumbfounded Maruja saw the submachine gun on the floor, and both were shaken by the same temptation. Maruja knew how to fire a revolver, and she had once been shown how to use a submachine gun, but a providential lucidity kept her from picking it up. For her part, Beatriz was familiar with military procedures. For five years she had trained with the reserves twice a week, and had been promoted
from second lieutenant to lieutenant to the rank of captain as a civilian affiliated with the Military Hospital. She had taken a special artillery course. But she too realized that they had everything to lose. The two women consoled themselves with the thought that the Gorilla would never return. And, in fact, he never did.

When Pacho Santos watched Diana’s funeral and the exhumation of Marina
Montoya on television, he knew his only alternative was escape. By this time he had a rough idea of where he was. From the guards’ conversations and things they had let slip, and through other reporter’s arts, Pacho had established that he was in a corner house in some sprawling, crowded neighborhood in western Bogotá. He was in the main room on the second floor, and the window faced the street
but was boarded over. He knew the house was rented, perhaps without a lease, because the woman who owned it arrived at the beginning of each month to collect the rent. She was the only outsider who came in and went out, and before they opened the street door for her they would chain Pacho to the bed, warning him with threats to keep absolutely quiet, and turning off the radio and television.

He had established that the boarded window in his room overlooked the garden, and that there was a door to the outside at the end of the narrow hall where the bathroom was located. He could
use it whenever he chose, with no one guarding him, just by walking across the hall, but first he had to ask to be unchained. The only ventilation in the bathroom was a window where he could see the sky. The
window was very high and would not be easy to reach, but it was wide enough to get through. He had no idea where it led. In the adjoining room were the red metal bunk beds where the off-duty guards slept. There were four of them, and two-man teams worked six-hour shifts. In the ordinary course of events, they never displayed their weapons, though they always carried them. Only one slept on the floor
next to the double bed.

He had established that they were close to a factory, whose whistle could be heard several times a day, and because of daily choral singing and the noise at recess, he knew he was near a school. On one occasion he had asked for a pizza, and it was still hot when they brought it back in less than five minutes, and so he knew it could have been made and sold on the same
block. There was no doubt about their buying newspapers right across the street, in a shop large enough to carry
Time
and
Newsweek.
The smell of fresh-baked bread would wake him at night. With shrewd questions he managed to find out from the guards that within a hundred meters there was a pharmacy, an automobile mechanic, two bars, a restaurant, a shoemaker, and two bus stops. With these and many
other scraps of information gathered piecemeal, he tried to solve the puzzle of his escape routes.

One of the guards had told him that in case the law came they had orders to go straight to his room and shoot him three times point-blank: one bullet in the head, another in the heart, the third in the liver. After he heard this, he managed to hide a liter soda bottle and kept it within reach to
use as a club. It was the only weapon he had.

Chess—a guard taught him to play with outstanding skill—had given him a new way to measure time. Another guard on the October shift was an expert in television soap operas and introduced him to the vice of following them regardless of whether they were
good or bad. The secret was not to worry too much about today’s episode, and learn to imagine the
surprises that tomorrow would bring. Together they watched Alexandra’s programs, and listened to the news on radio and television.

Another guard had taken the twenty thousand pesos Pacho had in his pocket on the day of the kidnapping, but as compensation he promised to bring him anything he asked for, books in particular: several by Milan Kundera,
Crime and Punishment,
the biography of General
Santander de Pilar Moreno de Angel. Pacho may have been the only Colombian of his generation who had heard of José María Vargas Vila, the world’s most popular Colombian writer at the turn of the century, and he was moved to tears by his books. He read almost all of them, lifted for him by one of the guards from his grandfather’s library. With the mother of another guard, he maintained a pleasant
correspondence for several months until the men in charge of security made them stop. His reading ration was completed with the daily newspapers, which were given to him, still folded, in the afternoon. The guard whose job it was to bring them in had a visceral hatred for journalists. For a well-known television newscaster in particular, and when he appeared on the screen, the guard would aim his
submachine gun at him.

“I’d do him for nothing,” he would say.

Pacho never saw the bosses. He knew they visited from time to time, though they never came up to his bedroom, and held security meetings at a café in Chapinero. But with the guards he managed to establish a kind of emergency friendship. They had the power of life and death over him, but they always recognized his right to negotiate
certain living conditions. Almost every day he would win some arguments and lose others. He always lost the one about sleeping with the chain, but he won their confidence playing
remis,
a childish, undemanding game that consists of making three- and four-card melds with ten cards. Every two weeks an invisible
boss would send them a loan of 100,000 pesos that was divided among them so they could
gamble. Pacho always lost. At the end of six months, they confessed that they had all cheated, and if they happened to let him win from time to time, it was only to keep him from losing his enthusiasm. They used sleight of hand with the mastery of professional magicians.