News of a Kidnapping (2 page)

Her arrival was identical to Maruja’s. Her head was covered by the foul-smelling jacket, and they led her by the hand, warning her not to look anywhere but down. She saw what Maruja had seen: the courtyard, the tile floor, and two steps. They told her to move left, and then
they removed the jacket. There was Maruja, sitting on a stool, looking pale in the red glow of the only light in the room.

“Beatriz!” said Maruja. “You’re here too?”

She did not know what had happened to Beatriz, but thought they had let her go because she was not really involved in anything. When she saw her she felt great joy at not being alone, and at the same time immense sadness because
she had been kidnapped too. They embraced as if they had not seen each other for a long time.

It was inconceivable that the two of them could survive in that squalid room, sleeping on a single mattress on the floor, with two masked guards who did not take their eyes off them for an instant. Then another man in a mask—elegant, well built, at least five feet, ten inches tall—whom the others called
“Doctor,” the title used for any professional, took charge with the air of someone who had great authority. The rings were removed from Beatriz’s left hand, but they did not notice that she was wearing a gold chain with a medal of the Virgin.

“This is a military operation, and nothing’s going to happen to you,” he said, and repeated: “We’ve only brought you here so that you can deliver a communiqué
to the government.”

“Who’s holding us?” Maruja asked.

He shrugged. “That doesn’t matter now,” he said. He raised the machine gun so they had a clear view of it, and went on: “But I want to tell you one thing. This machine gun has a silencer, nobody knows where you are, or who you’re with. The minute you scream or do anything else, we’ll get rid of you and nobody will ever see you again.” They
held their breath, expecting the worst. But when he had finished his threats, the boss turned to Beatriz.

“Now we’re separating you, we’re going to let you go,” he said. “We took you along by mistake.”

Beatriz’s response was immediate.

“Oh, no,” she said without any hesitation. “I’m staying with Maruja.”

Her decision was so brave and generous that even her abductor exclaimed in amazement,
without a shred of irony: “What a loyal friend you have, doña Maruja!” And she, grateful despite her consternation, agreed and thanked Beatriz. Then the “Doctor” asked if they wanted anything to eat. They refused but asked for water since their mouths were bone dry. Maruja, who always has a cigarette lit and keeps the pack and lighter in easy reach, had not smoked during the trip. She asked for her
bag, where she kept her cigarettes, and he gave her one of his.

Both women asked to use the bathroom. Beatriz went first, her head covered by a torn, dirty cloth. “Keep your eyes on the floor,” someone ordered. She was led by the hand along a narrow hall to a tiny, filthy lavatory with a sorry little window looking out on the night. The door had no inside lock, but it did close, and so Beatriz
climbed up on the toilet and looked out the window. In the light of a streetlamp all she could see was a small adobe house with red roof tiles and a patch of grass in front, the kind of house seen all along the roads through the savanna.

When she returned to the room, she found a drastic change in circumstances. “We know who you are now, and we can use you, too,” the “Doctor” said. “You’ll stay
with us.” They had found out on the radio, which had just announced the kidnapping.

Eduardo Carrillo, who reported on legal issues for the National Radio Network (RCN), had been discussing another matter with one of his sources in the military when the officer received a report of the abduction on his two-way radio. The news was announced without delay, or further details. That was how the kidnappers
learned Beatriz’s identity.

The radio also said that the cab driver could remember two numbers on the license plate, and had given a general description of the car that had bumped into his taxi. The police had determined their escape route. The house had become dangerous for everyone, and they had to leave right away. Even worse: They were going to use a different car, and the two women would
have to be put in the trunk.

They protested but to no avail because their kidnappers seemed as frightened as they were, and made no effort to conceal it. Maruja asked for a little rubbing alcohol, terrified at the thought they would suffocate in the trunk.

“We don’t have any alcohol,” said the “Doctor” in a harsh voice. “You’ll ride in the trunk and that’s all there is to it. Hurry up.”

They
were obliged to take off their shoes and carry them as they were led through the house to the garage. There their heads were uncovered, and they were put into the trunk of the car in a fetal position. No force was used. The space was big enough, and it was well ventilated because the rubber seals had been removed. Before he closed the trunk, the “Doctor” filled them with dread. “We’re carrying ten
kilos of dynamite,” he said. “At the first shout, cough, cry, whatever, we’ll get out of the car and blow it up.”

To their relief and surprise, a breeze as cold and pure as air-conditioning came in the sides of the trunk. The desperate
anguish disappeared, leaving only uncertainty. Maruja turned inward, an attitude that could have been confused with complete withdrawal but was in fact her magic
formula for dealing with anxiety. Beatriz, on the other hand, driven by an insatiable curiosity, looked through the illuminated opening of the poorly sealed trunk. She could see the passengers through the back window: two men in the back seat, and next to the driver a woman with long hair, holding a baby about two years old. To her right she saw the yellow lights of the huge sign for a well-known
shopping center. There could be no doubt: They were on the highway heading north. It was well lit for a long time, then they were in total darkness on an unpaved road, and the car slowed down. After about fifteen minutes, it stopped.

It must have been another checkpoint. Beatriz heard indistinct voices, the sound of other cars, music, but it was too dark to see anything. Maruja roused herself
and became alert, hoping it was an inspection station where the men would be obliged to show what they were carrying in the trunk. After about five minutes the car pulled away and drove up a steep incline, but this time they could not determine the route. Some ten minutes later the automobile stopped, and the trunk was opened. Again their heads were covered, and their captors helped them out into
darkness.

Together this time, Maruja and Beatriz walked as they had in the other house, looking down, and were led by their kidnappers along a hall, through a small living room where other people were speaking in whispers, until they came to a room. Before they went in, the “Doctor” prepared them:

“Now you’re going to see a friend of yours,” he said.

The light in the room was so dim it took
a moment for their eyes to adjust. It was a space no larger than the other room, with one boarded-up window. Two men, sitting on a single mattress on the floor and wearing hoods like the ones in the first house, were absorbed in watching television. Everything was dismal and oppressive. In the corner, to the left of the door, on a narrow bed
with iron posts, sat a spectral woman with limp white
hair, dazed eyes, and skin that adhered to her bones. She gave no sign of having heard them come in: not a glance, not a breath, nothing. A corpse could not have seemed so dead. Maruja had to control her shock.

“Marina!” she whispered.

Marina Montoya, kidnapped three months earlier, was thought to be dead. Her brother, don Germán Montoya, had been secretary general to the presidency and a powerful
figure in the Virgilio Barco government. His son, Alvaro Diego, the director of an important insurance company, had been abducted by the narco-traffickers to put pressure on their negotiations with the government. The accepted story, which was never confirmed, was that he had been released following a secret agreement that the government had not lived up to. The kidnapping of his aunt Marina
nine months later could only be interpreted as a brutal reprisal because by then she no longer had exchange value. The Virgilio Barco government was out of office, German Montoya was Colombia’s ambassador to Canada, and the thought in everyone’s mind was that Marina had been kidnapped for the sole purpose of killing her.

After the initial outcry over her abduction, which had mobilized both national
and international opinion, Marina’s name had disappeared from the papers. Maruja and Beatriz knew her well, but it was difficult for them to recognize her. As far as they were concerned, the fact that they had been brought to the same room could only mean that they were in the cell for prisoners condemned to death. Marina did not move a muscle. Maruja squeezed her hand, then shuddered. Marina’s
hand was neither cold nor warm; it conveyed nothing.

The theme music for the television newscast brought them out of their stupor. It was nine-thirty on the night of November 7, 1990. Half an hour earlier, Hernán Estupiñán, a reporter for the program “National News,” had been informed of the kidnapping
by a friend at FOCINE and had hurried to the site of the abduction. He had not yet returned
with complete details, but Javier Ayala, the director and announcer, began the program by reading an emergency bulletin before the credits came on: “The director of FOCINE, doña Maruja Pachón de Villamizar, wife of the well-known politician Alberto Villamizar, and his sister, Beatriz Villamizar de Guerrero, were kidnapped at seven-thirty this evening.” The purpose seemed clear: Maruja was the sister
of Gloria Pachón, the widow of Luis Carlos Galán, the young journalist who, in 1979, had founded the New Liberalism in an effort to revitalize and modernize the corrupt Liberal Party; the New Liberalism was the most serious and energetic force that opposed drug trafficking and supported the extradition of Colombian nationals.

The first family member to learn about the abduction was Dr. Pedro Guerrero, Beatriz’s husband. He was at the Clinic for Psychotherapy and Human Sexuality—about ten blocks away—preparing a lecture on the evolution of animal species from the elementary
functions of single-celled organisms to human emotions and affections. He was interrupted by a phone call from a police officer who asked in a cold, professional way if he was acquainted with Beatriz Villamizar. “Of course,” Dr. Guerrero replied, “she’s my wife.” The officer was silent for a moment and then, in a more human tone, said, “All right, try to stay calm.” Dr. Guerrero did not need to
be a distinguished psychiatrist to understand that those words were the preamble to something very serious.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“A driver was murdered at the corner of Carrera Quinta and Calle 85,” said the officer. “The car’s a Renault 21, light gray, Bogotá license plate PS-2034. Do you know the number?”

“I have no idea,” said Dr. Guerrero in an impatient voice. “Just tell me what
happened to Beatriz.”

“The only thing we can tell you now is that she’s missing,” the
officer said. “We found her handbag on the seat, and a notebook where it said to call you in case of emergency.”

There could be no doubt. Dr. Guerrero was the one who had advised his wife to put an emergency number in her datebook. Although he did not know the license number, the description matched Maruja’s
car. The corner where the crime occurred was just a few steps from Maruja’s house, their first stop before Beatriz was driven home. Dr. Guerrero canceled his lecture with a hurried explanation. His friend, the urologist Alonso Acuña, drove him to the crime scene, through the heavy seven o’clock traffic, in fifteen minutes.

Alberto Villamizar, Maruja Pachón’s husband and Beatriz’s brother, was
only two hundred meters from the corner where the abduction took place, but heard about it when the doorman called him on the house phone. He had come home at four, after spending the afternoon at the offices of the newspaper
El Tiempo,
working on the campaign for the Constituent Assembly whose members were to be elected in December, and he had fallen asleep fully dressed, exhausted by the previous
night’s party. His son Andrés came in a little before seven, accompanied by Beatriz’s son Gabriel, who had been his best friend since childhood. Andrés looked for his mother in the bedroom and woke Alberto, who was surprised to see that it was already dark. Still half asleep, he turned on the light and checked the time. It was almost seven, and Maruja was not back yet.

The delay was unusual.
She and Beatriz were always home earlier than this, regardless of traffic, or called if they were detained for some reason. And Maruja and he had both arranged to be at home by five. Alberto was worried and asked Andrés to call FOCINE. The watchman said that Maruja and Beatriz had left a little later than normal and would be there any minute. Villamizar had gone to the kitchen for a glass of water
when the telephone rang. Andrés answered. Just by the sound of his son’s voice, Alberto could tell it was an alarming call. He was right. Something had
happened on the corner, and the car seemed to be Maruja’s. The doorman’s account was confused.

Alberto asked Andrés to stay home in case anyone called, then raced out. Gabriel ran after him. They were too impatient to wait for the elevator, and
they dashed down the stairs. The doorman shouted after them:

“I think somebody was killed.”

The street looked as if a celebration were in progress. The neighbors were at the windows of the residential buildings, and the horns of cars stalled on the Circunvalar were blaring. At the corner a squad car attempted to keep a curious crowd away from the abandoned automobile. It surprised Villamizar
to see Dr. Guerrero there before him.

It was, in fact, Maruja’s car. At least half an hour had gone by since the kidnapping, and all that was left were the remains: bullet-shattered glass on the driver’s side, blood and broken glass on the seat, and the dark wet stain on the asphalt where the driver had been lying. He had just been taken away, still alive. Everything else was clean and in order.

An efficient, well-mannered policeman gave Villamizar the details provided by the few witnesses. They were fragmentary, imprecise, sometimes contradictory, but left no doubt that it had been an abduction, and that the driver was the only one wounded. Alberto wanted to know if he had said anything, given any clues. But that had been impossible: The driver was in a coma, and no one had said where
he had been taken.

Dr. Guerrero, on the other hand, seemed anesthetized by shock, incapable of assessing the gravity of the situation. When he arrived he had identified Beatriz’s bag, her cosmetic case, her date-book, a leather cardcase that held her identity card, her wallet containing twelve thousand pesos and a credit card, and concluded that only his wife had been abducted.

“See, Maruja’s
bag isn’t here,” he said to his brother-in-law. “She probably wasn’t even in the car.”

Perhaps this was a kind of professional delicacy intended to distract him while they both caught their breath. But Alberto was beyond that. What interested him now was to find out if the only blood in and around the car was the driver’s, to be certain neither woman had been wounded. Everything else seemed clear
to him, and what his feeling most resembled was guilt at never having foreseen that this kidnapping might happen. He had the absolute conviction that it was a personal act directed at him, and he knew who had done it, and why.

He had just left the house when radio programs were interrupted by the announcement that Maruja’s driver had died in the private car that was taking him to the Clínica
del Country. A short while later Guillermo Franco, the crime reporter for Caracol Radio, came on the scene, alerted by the report of a shooting, but all he found was the abandoned car. He picked up glass fragments and a blood-stained cigarette paper from the driver’s seat and placed them in a small, transparent box that was numbered and dated. That same night the box joined the extensive collection
of artifacts in the chronicle of crime created by Franco during his long years in the profession. The police officer accompanied Villamizar back to his house, asking a series of informal questions that might prove helpful to his investigation, but Alberto responded without thinking of anything but the long, difficult days that lay ahead of him. The first thing was to tell Andrés about the decision
he had made. He asked him to see to the people who were beginning to come to the house, while he made some urgent phone calls and put his ideas in order. He went to the bedroom, closed the door, and called the presidential palace.

He had a very good political and personal relationship with President César Gaviria, and Gaviria knew Alberto as an impulsive but cordial man capable of maintaining
his sangfroid under the most stressful circumstances. He was struck, therefore, by the abrupt vehemence with which Villamizar informed him that his wife and sister had been abducted, concluding with a brusque:

“I’m holding you responsible for their lives.”

César Gaviria can be the harshest of men when he believes he should be, and this was one of those times.

“You listen to me, Alberto.” His
tone was curt. “Everything will be done that can be done.”

And then, with the same coldness, he said he would immediately instruct his adviser on security, Rafael Pardo Rueda, to take charge of the matter and keep him up-to-date regarding the situation. Subsequent events would prove that his decision was the correct one.

The media arrived en masse. Villamizar knew that other kidnapping victims
had been allowed to listen to the radio and television, and he improvised a message in which he demanded that Maruja and Beatriz be treated with the respect they deserved as honorable women who had nothing to do with the war, and announced that from this moment on he would devote all his time and energy to obtaining their release.

One of the first to come to the house was General Miguel Maza
Márquez, head of the Administrative Department for Security (DAS), whose responsibility it was to investigate the abduction. The general had held this position for seven years, since the days of the Belisario Betancur government; he had continued in office under President Virgilio Barco, and had just been confirmed by César Gaviria—unprecedented longevity in a post from which it is almost impossible
to emerge unscathed, above all during the most difficult days in the war against the drug traffickers. Compact and hard, as if forged in steel, with the bull neck typical of the warlike people from La Guajira, the general is a man of long, gloomy silences, and at the same time capable of openhearted intimacy with friends: He is pure Guajiran. But in his work there were no nuances. To his mind,
the war against the drug dealers was a personal struggle to the death with Pablo Escobar. And the feeling was more than mutual. Escobar had used 2,600 kilos of dynamite in two successive attempts against his life: the highest
distinction Escobar had ever granted to an enemy. Maza Márquez escaped unharmed on both occasions, attributing this to the protection of the Holy Infant—the same saint, of
course, to whom Escobar attributed the miracle of his not being killed by Maza Márquez.

President Gaviria had made it a matter of policy that no armed force was to attempt a rescue without the prior agreement of the kidnap victim’s family. But the political rumor mill produced a good deal of talk regarding procedural differences between the president and General Maza. Villamizar was taking no
chances.

“I want you to know that I’m opposed to an armed rescue,” he told General Maza. “I want to be sure it won’t happen, and that I’m consulted before any decision is reached.”

Maza Márquez agreed. At the end of their long, informative talk, he ordered a tap on Villamizar’s telephone in the event the kidnappers attempted to communicate with him at night.

That same evening Villamizar had
his first conversation with Rafael Pardo, who informed him that the president had appointed him mediator between the government and the family, and that he, Pardo, was the only one authorized to make official statements regarding the case. It was clear to both men that Maruja’s abduction was a move by the drug dealers to exert pressure on the government through her sister, Gloria Pachón, and they
decided to proceed on that assumption without hypothesizing any further.

Colombia had not been aware of her own importance in the international drug trade until the traffickers invaded the country’s highest political echelons through the back door, first with their increasing ability to corrupt and suborn, and then with their own ambitions. In 1982 Pablo Escobar had tried to find a place in the
New Liberalism movement headed by Luis Carlos Galán, but Galán removed his name from the rolls and exposed him before a crowd of five thousand people in Medellín. A short while later Escobar was in the Chamber of Deputies as a representative of a marginal wing of the official Liberal Party, but he had not forgotten
the insult and unleashed an all-out war against the state, in particular against
the New Liberalism. Rodrigo Lara Bonilla, who represented the New Liberalism as justice minister in the Belisario Betancur government, was murdered in a drive-by shooting on the streets of Bogotá. His successor, Enrique Parejo, was pursued all the way to Budapest by a hired assassin who shot him in the face with a pistol but did not kill him. On August 18, 1989, Luis Carlos Galán, who was protected
by eighteen well-armed bodyguards, was machine-gunned on the main square in the municipality of Soacha, some ten kilometers from the presidential palace.

The main reason for the war was the drug traffickers’ fear of extradition to the United States, where they could be tried for crimes committed there and receive extraordinarily harsh sentences, like the one given Carlos Lehder, a Colombian drug
dealer who had been extradited to the United States in 1987 and sentenced to life imprisonment plus 130 years. This was possible because a treaty signed during the presidency of Julio César Turbay allowed the extradition of Colombian nationals for the first time. After the murder of Lara Bonilla, President Belisario Betancur applied its provisions with a series of summary extraditions. The traffickers—terrified
by the long, worldwide reach of the United States—realized that the safest place for them was Colombia, and they went underground, fugitives inside their own country. The great irony was that their only alternative was to place themselves under the protection of the state to save their own skins. And so they attempted—by persuasion and by force—to obtain that protection by engaging
in indiscriminate, merciless terrorism and, at the same time, by offering to surrender to the authorities and bring home and invest their capital in Colombia, on the sole condition that they not be extradited. Theirs was an authentic shadow power with a brand name—the Extraditables—and a slogan typical of Escobar: “We prefer a grave in Colombia to a cell in the United States.”

President Betancur
kept up the war. His successor, Virgilio
Barco, intensified it. This was the situation in 1989 when César Gaviria emerged as a presidential candidate following the assassination of Luis Carlos Galán, whose campaign he had directed. In his own campaign, he defended extradition as an indispensable tool for strengthening the penal system, and announced an unprecedented strategy against the drug traffickers.
It was a simple idea: Those who surrendered to the judges and confessed to some or all of their crimes could obtain non-extradition in return. But this idea, as formulated in the original decree, was not enough for the Extraditables. Through his lawyers, Escobar demanded that non-extradition be made unconditional, that confession and indictment not be obligatory, that the prison be invulnerable
to attack, and that their families and followers be guaranteed protection. Holding terrorism in one hand and negotiation in the other, he began abducting journalists in order to twist the government’s arm and achieve his demands. In two months, eight had been kidnapped. The abduction of Maruja and Beatriz seemed to be one more in that ominous series.