News of a Kidnapping

  "Escobar is a good man."

  El Tiempo reported on Friday, May 17, that the father was the bearer of a private letter that he would give to President Gaviria on the following Monday. In reality, these were the notes he and Escobar had written together during their interview. On Sunday, the Extraditables issued a communique that almost went unnoticed in the clamor of news: "We have ordered the release of Francisco Santos and Maruja Pachon." They did not say when. The radio, however, took it as a fait accompli and crowds of excited reporters began to stand guard at the captives' houses.

  It was over: Villamizar received a message from Escobar in which he said he would not release Maruja Pachon and Francisco Santos that day but the next--Monday, May 20--of seven in the evening. But on Tuesday, at nine in the morning, Villamizar would have to go back to Medellin for Escobar's surrender.

  11

  Maruja heard the Extraditables' communique at seven o'clock on the evening of Sunday, May 19. It did not mention a time or a date for their release, and considering how the Extraditables operated, it could happen either in five minutes or two months later. The majordomo and his wife burst into the room, ready for a party.

  "It's over!" they shouted. "We have to celebrate."

  Maruja had a hard time convincing them to wait for a direct official order from one of Pablo Escobar's emissaries. The news did not surprise her, for in the past few weeks there had been unmistakable signs that things were going better than she had supposed when they made the disheartening promise to carpet the room. More and more friends and popular actors had appeared on recent broadcasts of "Colombia Wants Them Back." Her optimism renewed, Maruja followed the soap operas with so much attention that she thought she could find coded messages even in the glycerine tears of impossible loves. The news from Father Garcia Herreros, which grew more spectacular every day, made it clear that the unbelievable was going to happen.

  Maruja wanted to put on the clothes she had been wearing when she arrived, foreseeing a sudden release that would have her appearing in front of the cameras dressed in a captive's melancholy sweatsuit. But the lack of new developments on the radio, and the disappointment of the majordomo who had expected the official order before he went to bed, put her on guard against playing the fool, if only to herself. She took a large dose of sleeping pills and did not wake until the following day, Monday, with the frightening impression that she did not know who she was, or where.

  Villamizar had not been troubled by any doubts, for the communique from Escobar was unequivocal. He passed it on to the reporters, but they ignored it. At about nine, a radio station announced with great fanfare that Senora Maruja Pachon de Villamizar had just been released in the Salitre district. The reporters left in a stampede, but Villamizar did not move.

  "They would never let her go in an isolated place like that, where anything could happen to her," he said. "It'll be tomorrow, for sure, and in a place that's safe."

  A reporter barred his way with a microphone.

  "What's surprising," he said, "is the confidence you have in those people."

  "It's his word of honor," said Villamizar.

  The reporters he knew best stayed in the hallways of the apartment--and some were at the bar--until Villamizar asked them to leave so he could lock up for the night. Others camped in vans and cars outside the building, and spent the night there.

  On Monday Villamizar woke to the six o'clock news, as he always did, and stayed in bed until eleven. He tried to use the phone as little as possible, but there were constant calls from reporters and friends. The news of the day continued to be the wait for the hostages.

  Father Garcia Herreros had visited Mariave on Thursday to tell her in confidence that her husband would be released the following Sunday. It has not been possible to learn how he obtained the news seventy-two hours before the first communique from the Extraditables, but the Santos family accepted it as fact. To celebrate they took a picture of Hernando with Mariave and the children and published it on Saturday in El Tiempo, hoping that Pacho would understand it as a personal message. He did: As soon as he opened the paper in his captive's cell, Pacho had a clear intuition that his father's efforts had come to a successful conclusion. He spent an uneasy day waiting for the miracle, slipping innocent-seeming ploys into his conversation with the guards to see if he could catch them in an indiscretion, but he learned nothing. Radio and television, which had reported nothing else for several weeks, did not mention it at all that Saturday.

  Sunday began the same way. It seemed to Pacho that the guards were tense and uneasy in the morning, but as the day wore on they made a gradual return to their Sunday routine: a special lunch of pizza, movies and taped television programs, some cards, some soccer. Then, when they least expected it, the newscast "Cripton" opened with the lead story: The Extraditables had announced the release of the last two hostages. Pacho jumped up with a triumphant shout and threw his arms around the guard on duty. "I thought I'd have a heart attack," he has said. But the guard responded with skeptical stoicism.

  "Let's wait till we get confirmation," he said.

  They made a rapid survey of other news programs on radio and television, and found the communique on all of them. One was transmitting from the editorial room at El Tiempo, and after eight months Pacho began to feel again the solid ground of a free life: the rather desolate atmosphere of the Sunday shift, the usual faces in their glass cubicles, his own work site. Following another repetition of the announcement of their imminent release, the television program's special correspondent waved the microphone and--like an ice cream cone--put it up to the mouth of a sports editor and asked:

  "What do you think of the news?"

  Pacho could not control the reflexive response of a chief editor.

  "What a moronic question!" he said. "Was he expecting them to say I should be held for another month?"

  As always, the radio news was less rigorous but more emotional. Many reporters were concentrating on Hernando Santos's house, broadcasting statements from every person who crossed their path. This increased Pacho's nervous tension, for it did not seem unreasonable to think he might be released that same night. "This was the start of the longest twenty-six hours of my life," he has said. "Each second was like an hour."

  The press was everywhere. Television cameras moved back and forth from Pacho's house to his father's, both of which had been overflowing since Sunday night with relatives, friends, curious onlookers, and journalists from all over the world. Mariave and Hernando Santos cannot remember how many times they went from one house to the other, following each unforeseen turn in the news, until Pacho was no longer certain which house was which on television. The worst thing was that at each one the same questions were asked over and over again, and the trip between the houses became intolerable. There was so much confusion that Hernando Santos could not get through the mob crowding around his own house, and had to slip in through the garage.

  The off-duty guards came in to congratulate Pacho. They were so happy at the news that he forgot they were his jailers, and it turned into a party of compadres who were all the same age. At that moment he realized that his goal of rehabilitating his guards would be frustrated by his release. They were boys from the Antioquian countryside who had emigrated to Medellin, lost their way in the slums, and killed and were killed with no scruples. As a rule they came from broken homes where the father was a negative figure and the mother a very strong one. They were used to working for very high pay and had no sense of money.

  When at last he fell asleep, Pacho had a horrifying dream that he was free and happy but suddenly opened his eyes and saw the ceiling unchanged. He spent the rest of the night tormented by the mad rooster--madder and closer than ever--and not knowing for certain where reality lay.

  At six in the morning on Monday, the radio confirmed the news with no indication of the hour of their possible release. After countless repetitions of the original bulletin, it was announced that Father Garcia Herreros would hol
d a press conference at noon following a meeting with President Gaviria: "Oh God," Pacho said to himself. "Don't let this man who has done so much for us screw it up at the last minute." At one in the afternoon they told him he would be freed, but he was not told anything else until after five, when one of the masked bosses said in an unemotional way that--in line with Escobar's feeling for publicity--Maruja would be released in time for the seven o'clock news, and he in time for the newscasts at nine-thirty.

  Maruja's morning had been more pleasant. A low-ranking boss came into the room at about nine and said she would be released that afternoon. He also told her some of the details of Father Garcia Herreros's efforts, perhaps by way of apology for an injustice he had committed on a recent visit when Maruja asked if her fate was in the hands of Father Garcia Herreros. He had answered with a touch of mockery:

  "Don't worry, you're much safer than that."

  Maruja realized he had misinterpreted her question, and she was quick to clarify that she always had great respect for the father. It is true that at first she had ignored his television sermons, which at times were confusing and impenetrable, but after the first message to Escobar she understood that he was involved in her life, and she watched him night after night, paying very close attention. She had followed the steps he had taken, his visits to Medellin, the progress of his conversations with Escobar, and had no doubt he was on the right path. The boss's sarcasm, however, caused her to wonder if the father had less credit with the Extraditables than might be supposed from his public statements to journalists. The confirmation that she would soon be freed through his efforts made her feel happier.

  After a brief conversation regarding the impact their release would have on the country, she asked about the ring that had been taken from her in the first house on the night of her abduction.

  "Not to worry," he said. "All your things are safe."

  "But I am worried," she said, "because it wasn't taken here but in that first house, and we never saw the man again. It wasn't you, was it?"

  "Not me," he said. "But I already told you to take it easy, your things are safe. I've seen them."

  The majordomo's wife offered to buy Maruja anything she needed. Maruja asked for mascara, lipstick, eyebrow pencil, and a pair of stockings to replace the ones that had been torn on the night she was kidnapped. Later the majordomo came in, troubled by the lack of new information regarding her release, afraid there had been a last-minute change in plans, as so often happened. Maruja, however, was calm. She showered, and dressed in the same clothing she had worn on the night of her abduction, except for the cream-colored jacket, which she would put on when she went out.

  For the entire day the radio stations kept interest alive with speculations on the waiting hostages, interviews with their families, unconfirmed rumors that were canceled out the next minute by even more sensational ones. But nothing definite. Maruja listened to the voices of her children and friends with an anticipatory jubilation threatened by uncertainty. Again she saw her redecorated house, her husband conversing easily with a crowd of journalists who were growing tired of waiting. She had time to study the decorative details that had bothered her so much the first time, and her frame of mind improved. The guards took a break from their frenetic cleaning to watch and listen to the newscasts, and they tried to keep her spirits up but had less and less success as the afternoon wore on.

  President Gaviria woke without the help of an alarm clock at five on the morning of his forty-first Monday in office. He got up without turning on the light so as not to disturb Ana Milena--who sometimes went to bed later than he did--and when he had shaved, showered, and dressed for the office, he sat in a folding chair that he kept outside the bedroom, in a cold, gloomy hallway, in order to hear the news without waking anyone. He listened to the radio newscasts on a pocket-size transistor that he held up to his ear and played at very low volume. He glanced through the papers, from the headlines to the advertisements, and tore out items to be dealt with later with his secretaries, advisers, and ministers. On one occasion he had found an article on something that was supposed to be taken care of and was not, and sent it to the appropriate minister with a single question scrawled in the margin: "When the hell is the ministry going to resolve this mess?" The solution was instantaneous.

  The only news that day was the imminent release of the hostages, and that included his meeting with Father Garcia Herreros to hear his report on the interview with Escobar. The president reorganized his day so that he would be available at a moment's notice. He canceled some meetings that could be postponed, and adjusted others. His first was with the presidential advisers, which he opened with his schoolboy's comment:

  "Okay, let's finish this assignment."

  Several of the advisers had just returned from Caracas, where they had talked on Friday with the reticent General Maza Marquez. In the course of the conversation the press adviser, Mauricio Vargas, had expressed his concern that no one, inside or outside the government, had a clear idea of where Pablo Escobar was really heading. Maza was sure he would not surrender because he trusted nothing but a pardon from the Constituent Assembly. Vargas replied with a question: What good would a pardon do for a man sentenced to death by his own enemies and by the Cali cartel? "It might help him, but it's not exactly a complete solution," he concluded. Escobar was in urgent need of a secure prison for himself and his people under the protection of the state.

  The advisers raised the issue because of the fear that Father Garcia Herreros would come to the twelve o'clock meeting with an unacceptable, eleventh-hour demand, without which Escobar would not surrender and not release the journalists. For the government, it would be an almost irreparable fiasco. Gabriel Silva, the adviser on foreign affairs, made two self-protective recommendations: first, that the president not attend the meeting alone, and second, that he issue as complete a communique as possible as soon as the meeting was over in order to forestall speculation. Rafael Pardo, who had flown to New York the day before, agreed by telephone.

  The president received Father Garcia Herreros at a special noon meeting. On one side were the priest, two clerics from his community, and Alberto Villamizar with his son Andres; on the other, the president with his private secretary, Miguel Silva, and Mauricio Vargas. The presidential palace information services took photos and videos to give to the press if things went well. If not, at least the evidence of their failure would not be left up to the media.

  The father, very conscious of the significance of the moment, told the president the details of his meeting with Escobar. He had no doubt at all that Escobar was going to turn himself in and free the hostages, and he backed up his words with the notes the two of them had written. For reasons of security that Escobar himself had outlined, his only condition was that the prison be the one in Envigado, not Itagui.

  The president read the notes and returned them to the father. He was struck by the fact that Escobar did not promise to release the prisoners but agreed only to raise the issue with the Extraditables. Villamizar explained that this was one of Escobar's many precautions: He had never admitted to holding the hostages so it could not be used as evidence against him.

  The father asked what he should do if Escobar asked him to be present at his surrender. The president agreed that he should go. When the father raised doubts concerning the safety of the operation, the president replied that no one could provide better guarantees than Escobar for the safety of his own operation. Finally, the president indicated to the father--whose companions seconded the idea--that it was important to keep public statements to a minimum in order to avoid the damage that an inopportune word might create. The father agreed and even made a veiled final offer: "I've wanted to be of service in this, and I am at your disposal if you need me for anything else, like making peace with the other priest." It was clear to everyone that he was referring to the Spanish priest, Manuel Perez, commander of the National Army of Liberation. The meeting took twenty minutes, and there was no offici
al communique. Faithful to his promise, Father Garcia Herreros displayed exemplary restraint in his statements to the press.

  Maruja watched his news conference and learned nothing new. The television newscasts again showed reporters waiting at the houses of the hostages, which may well have been the same images shown the day before. Maruja also repeated the previous day's routine minute by minute, and had more than enough time to watch the afternoon soap operas. Damaris, energized by the official announcement, had granted her the privilege of choosing the menu for lunch, like condemned prisoners on the eve of their execution. Maruja said, with no touch of irony, that anything would be fine except lentils. But time grew short, Damaris could not go shopping, and there were only lentils with lentils for their farewell lunch.

  For his part, Pacho put on the clothes he had been wearing the day of the kidnapping--these were too tight, since a sedentary life and bad food had made him put on weight--and sat down to listen to the news and smoke one cigarette after the other. He heard all kinds of stories about his release. He heard the corrections, the outright lies of his colleagues made reckless by the tension of waiting. He heard that he had been incognito in a restaurant, but the man eating there turned out to be one of his brothers.

  He reread the editorials, the commentaries, the reports he had written on current events so he would not forget his trade, thinking he might publish them as a document of his captivity when he was freed. There were more than a hundred of them. He read one to his guards that had been written in December, when the traditional political class began its rantings against the legitimacy of the Constituent Assembly. Pacho lashed out at them with an energy and independence that were undoubtedly the product of his thinking in captivity: "We all know how you get votes in Colombia, and how countless parliamentarians won their elections," he said in an editorial note. He said that buying votes was rampant throughout the country, especially along the coast, that raffling off home appliances in exchange for electoral favors was the order of the day, and that many elected officials paid for their election through other kinds of political corruption, like charging fees over and above their public salaries and parliamentary compensation. And this was why, he said, the same people were always elected, and they, "faced with the possibility of losing their privileges, are now in an uproar." And he concluded with criticism that included himself: "The impartiality of the media--including El Tiempo--which was making progress after a long, hard struggle, has vanished."