News of a Kidnapping (19 page)

This had been his life until the New Year. From the first he had guessed it would be a long captivity, and his relationship
with the guards had made him think he could get through it. But the deaths of Diana and Marina shattered his optimism. The same guards who used to cheer him up now came back to the house in low spirits. Everything seemed to be on hold until the Constituent Assembly made its decision on extradition and an amnesty. At this time he had no doubt that the escape option was possible. On one condition:
He would attempt it only when he saw every other alternative closed to him.

For Maruja and Beatriz, prospects had also been dimmed after the hopes of December, but they began to brighten again toward the end of January with rumors that two hostages would be freed. They had no idea at the time how many were left or if there were any new ones. Maruja took it for granted that Beatriz would be the
one released. On the night of February 2, during the walk in the courtyard, Damaris confirmed the rumors. She was so sure, she had purchased lipstick, blush, eyeshadow, and other cosmetics for the day they left. Beatriz shaved her legs on the assumption that there would be no time when the moment came.

But two bosses who visited them the next day gave no precise details about who would be released,
or if in fact either one would go free. Their high rank was obvious. They were different from the others, and much more communicative. They confirmed that
a communiqué from the Extraditables had announced the release of two hostages, but there might be some unforeseen obstacles. This reminded the captives of the earlier broken promise that they would be released on December 9.

The new bosses
began creating an optimistic atmosphere. They came in at odd hours, jubilant for no reason. “Things are really moving along,” they would say. They commented on the news with the enthusiasm of children, but refused to return the television and radio so that the hostages could hear it for themselves. One, through malice or stupidity, said goodbye one night with words whose double meaning almost scared
them to death: “Don’t worry, ladies, it’ll be very quick.”

The tension lasted for four days, while they were given discrete pieces of news, one item at a time. On the third day they said only one hostage would be released, and that it might be Beatriz because they were saving Francisco Santos and Maruja for higher things. What distressed the women most was not being able to compare this information
with news from outside—above all, with news from Alberto, who may have known better than the bosses themselves the real cause for all the uncertainty.

At last, on February 7, the men arrived earlier than usual and laid their cards on the table: Beatriz was going. Maruja would have to wait another week. “Just a few minor details left to settle,” said one of the men in hoods. Beatriz suffered an
attack of loquacity that exhausted first the bosses, then the majordomo and his wife, and finally the guards. Maruja ignored her, for she was wounded by a wordless rancor toward her husband when it occurred to her that he had chosen to free his sister rather than his wife. She burned with festering rage the entire afternoon, and the embers remained warm for several days afterward.

She spent that
night instructing Beatriz on what she should tell Alberto Villamizar about their captivity, how to handle the details to protect everyone’s safety. Any mistake, no matter how innocent it might seem, could cost a life. So Beatriz had to provide her
brother with a simple, truthful description of the situation without minimizing or exaggerating anything that would make him suffer less or worry more:
just the bare truth. What she must not tell him was anything that could identify the house. Beatriz resented it.

“Don’t you trust my brother?”

“More than anybody in this world,” said Maruja, “but this is between you and me, and no one else. You have to promise me that nobody will find out.”

Her fear was well founded. She knew her husband’s impulsive nature, and for all their sakes she wanted
to avoid an armed rescue attempt. She had another message for Alberto: Could he find out if the medicine she was taking for her circulation had any side effects? She spent the rest of the night devising a more efficient code for messages on radio and television, and for written correspondence in the event it was allowed in the future. Deep in her soul, however, she was dictating her will: what should
be done with the children, with her antiques, with ordinary things that deserved special attention. She was so impassioned that one of the guards overheard her and said:

“Take it easy. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

The next day they waited, even more uneasy, but nothing occurred. They talked through the afternoon. At last, at seven o’clock, the door burst open and the two bosses, and one
they did not know, came in and walked over to Beatriz.

“We’ve come for you. Get ready.”

Beatriz was terror-stricken at the dreadful repetition of the night they took away Marina: the same door opening, the same words that might mean either freedom or death, the same mystery regarding her fate. She did not understand why on both occasions they said: “We’ve come for you,” instead of what she longed
to hear: “We’re letting you go.” Trying to trick them into an answer, she asked:

“Are you going to release Marina too?”

The two bosses started.

“No questions!” one of them answered with a harsh growl. “How am I supposed to know that?”

Another, more conciliatory, ended the conversation:

“One thing has nothing to do with the other. This is political.”

The word Beatriz longed to hear—freedom—was
left unspoken. But the atmosphere was encouraging. The bosses were not in a hurry. Damaris, wearing a schoolgirl’s miniskirt, brought in drinks and a cake for a farewell party. They discussed the big news of the day, news that the captives knew nothing about: In two separate operations the industrialists Lorenzo King Mazuera and Eduardo Puyana had been abducted in Bogotá, apparently by the Extraditables.
But they also said that Pablo Escobar really wanted to turn himself in after living so long on the run. Even hiding in sewers, it was said. They promised to bring back the television and radio that same night so Maruja could see Beatriz with her family.

Maruja’s analysis seemed reasonable. Until now she had suspected that Marina had been executed, but that night she had no doubts at all because
of the difference in procedure. In Marina’s case, bosses had not prepared them several days in advance. They had not come for her themselves but had sent two low-level killers with no authority and only five minutes to carry out their orders. The farewell cake and wine for Beatriz would have been a truly macabre celebration if they were going to murder her. In Marina’s case the television and radio
had been taken away so they would not find out about her execution, and now they were offering to give them back so that good news would soften the devastating effects of bad. This was when Maruja concluded, with no further hesitations, that Marina had been killed, and Beatriz was going free.

The bosses gave her ten minutes to get ready while they went to drink some coffee. Beatriz could not
rid herself of the idea that she was reliving Marina’s final night. She requested a mirror to put on her makeup, and Damaris brought her a large one with a gilt-leaf frame. Maruja and Beatriz, after three months without a mirror,
rushed to look at themselves. It was one of the most shaking experiences of their captivity. Maruja had the impression she would not have recognized herself on the street.
“I almost died of panic,” she has said. “I looked skinny, unfamiliar, as if I had makeup on for a part in a play.” Beatriz saw herself—ashen, weighing twenty-two pounds less, her hair long and limp—and exclaimed in horror: “That’s not me!” She had often felt a half-serious embarrassment at the thought that one day she would be released and look awful, but she never dreamed the reality would
be so bad. And then it became worse: One of the bosses turned on the overhead light, and the atmosphere in the room turned even more sinister.

One of the guards held the mirror for Beatriz while she combed her hair. She wanted to put on some makeup, but Maruja stopped her. “What’s gotten into you?” she said in a shocked voice. “As pale as you are, you’ll look awful if you put that on!” Beatriz
listened. She dabbed on the aftershave that Spots had given her. Then, without water, she swallowed a tranquilizer.

The clothes she had been wearing on the night of her kidnapping were in the bag, along with her other things, but she preferred the least-worn pink sweatsuit. She hesitated about putting on her flat-heeled shoes, which had mildewed under the bed and did not really go with the sweatsuit.
Damaris offered to give her a pair of sneakers she used when she exercised. They were her size but looked so shabby that Beatriz turned them down, saying they were too tight. And so she wore her own shoes, and used a rubber band to pull her hair back into a ponytail. In the end, making do with odds and ends, she looked like a schoolgirl.

They did not put a hood over her head, as they had with
Marina, but tried to cover her eyes with adhesive tape so she would not see the route or their faces. She objected, knowing that when it was taken off it would tear away her eyebrows and lashes. “Wait,” she told them, “I’ll help you.” Then, over each lid, she put a large ball of cotton that was taped in place.

Their goodbyes were brief and without tears. Beatriz was about to cry, but Maruja stopped
her with a coldness intended to give her courage. “Tell Alberto not to worry, that I love him and the children very much,” she said. They kissed. Both were suffering: Beatriz, because she was filled with terror that at the moment of truth it might be easier to kill her than to let her go; Maruja, because of the double terror that they would kill Beatriz, and that she would be alone with the
four guards. The only thing she did not think of was that she might be executed once Beatriz was released.

The door closed, and Maruja did not move, did not know what to do next until she heard the engines start up in the garage and the sound of the cars growing fainter in the night. A feeling of immense abandonment overwhelmed her. Only then did she remember that they had not kept their promise
to return the television and the radio so she would know how the night ended.

The majordomo had left with Beatriz, but his wife promised to make a call and have the radio and television brought back before the 9:30 news. They were not returned. Maruja begged the guards to let her watch the television in the house, but neither they nor the majordomo dared to break the rules in so serious a matter.
Less than two hours later an excited Damaris came in to tell her that Beatriz was safe at home, and had been very careful in her statements, not saying anything that could do anyone any harm. The entire family, including Alberto, of course, was with her. The house was overflowing with people.

Maruja still suspected it was not true. She insisted that they lend her a radio. She lost control and
confronted the guards with no regard for the consequences. These were not serious, because the guards had witnessed the treatment she had received from the bosses and preferred to calm her down with renewed efforts to obtain a radio. Later the majordomo came in and gave her his word that Beatriz was all right and in a safe place, and that the entire country had seen and heard her with her family.
But what Maruja
wanted was a radio so she could hear Beatriz’s voice with her own ears. The majordomo promised to bring her one, but did not. At midnight, devastated by exhaustion and rage, Maruja took two of the powerful barbiturates and did not wake up until eight the next morning.

The Guards’ accounts were true. Beatriz had been taken to the garage through the courtyard. They had her lie down
on the floor of a vehicle that must have been a Jeep because they had to help her climb into it. At first they bounced over very rough roads. As soon as they began driving along a smooth, paved surface, one of the men riding with Beatriz began to make senseless threats. She could tell from his voice that he was in a nervous state his harshness could not hide, and that he was not one of the bosses
who had been in the house.

“A mob of reporters will be waiting for you,” the man said. “Well, you just be very careful. One wrong word can cost your sister-in-law her life. Remember: We never talked to you, you never saw us, and this drive took more than two hours.”

Beatriz listened in silence to these threats and many others that he seemed to repeat only to calm his own fear. In a three-way
conversation she realized she did not recognize any of the voices except the majordomo’s, and he barely spoke. She began to tremble uncontrollably: The most sinister of her forebodings was still a possibility.

“I want to ask a favor,” she said without thinking, her voice steady. “Maruja has circulatory problems, and we’d like to send her some medicine. Will you make sure she gets it?”

“Affirmative,”
the man said. “Don’t worry.”

“Thank you so much,” said Beatriz. “I’ll follow your instructions. I won’t make trouble for you.”

There was a long pause, and in the background she could hear
fast-moving cars, heavy trucks, fragments of music, and loud voices. The men whispered among themselves. Then one spoke to Beatriz.

“There are a lot of checkpoints along here,” he said. “If we’re stopped,
we’ll say you’re my wife; you’re so pale we can tell them we’re taking you to the hospital.”

Beatriz, who was feeling calmer, could not resist the temptation to gamble:

“With these patches on my eyes?”

“They operated on your eyes,” the man said. “You’ll sit beside me, and I’ll put my arm around you.”

The kidnappers’ concern was not unfounded. At that moment seven buses were burning in various
neighborhoods in Bogotá, set on fire by incendiary bombs placed by urban guerrillas. At the same time, the FARC had dynamited the electric tower in the municipality of Cáqueza, on the outskirts of the capital, and had tried to take over the town. For this reason the police were carrying out some raids in Bogotá, but they went almost unnoticed. And so the traffic at seven was no different from
any other Thursday evening: heavy and noisy, with long traffic lights, sudden maneuvers to avoid collisions, the most violent insults. The tension was noticeable even in the kidnappers’ silence.