Even Silence Has an End Part 2

"Cuidame esta nina." He repeated it, and it permeated my entire being, as if water had been poured over my head. He repeated it, and it permeated my entire being, as if water had been poured over my head.

I knelt before him, hugging his legs, my cheek pressed against them.

"Don't worry," I said. "Everything will be fine."

It was more for my own rea.s.surance that I uttered these words. I helped him back into bed, taking care to place the bottle of oxygen next to him.

He switched on the television, which was airing the last news bulletin of the day. I curled up against him, my ear against his chest listening to the beating of his heart, and dozed off in his arms, unafraid.

Toward midnight I got up, put out the lights, and kissed him good night, making sure he was well covered up. He held out his hand to give me a blessing and was asleep before I even reached the door. That evening, as on all previous evenings, I turned to look at him one more time before I left.

I didn't know that it would be the last time I would ever see him.

THREE.

THE ABDUCTION.

FEBRUARY 23, 2002.

The security escort arrived as planned, a little before four in the morning. It was dark, and I was wearing my campaign uniform: a T-s.h.i.+rt printed with our campaign slogan-FOR A NEW COLOMBIA-jeans, and hiking boots. I put on my fleece jacket and just before leaving, on an impulse, removed my watch.

No one in the house except Pom, my dog, was awake. I kissed her between the ears and left with a small bag containing only what I would need for one night away.

Once I arrived at the airport, I checked that all the security arrangements were in place. The police captain in charge of coordinating the security team pulled a fax from his pocket and showed it to me. "Everything is in order. The authorities have provided you with armored vehicles." He smiled at me, satisfied that he had done his job.

The rest of the group was already there. The plane took off at dawn. We were stopping first at Neiva, a town 150 miles from Bogota, before crossing over the Andes to land in Florencia, the capital of the Caqueta department in the Llanos Orientales, Llanos Orientales, a stretch of lush, flat gra.s.sland between the Amazon rain forest and the Andes. After that we would go by car to San Vicente. a stretch of lush, flat gra.s.sland between the Amazon rain forest and the Andes. After that we would go by car to San Vicente.

The stopover was expected to be half an hour but ended up lasting just over two hours. I barely noticed, as my cell phone did not stop ringing; a vicious article in the local press was reporting the split that had occurred within our campaign team. The journalist quoted only the biting comments of those who had deserted our ranks to endorse my compet.i.tors. My team was outraged and wanted to get out our side of the story as quickly as possible. I spent most of the time on the telephone going back and forth between my HQ and the editor of the newspaper in question to have our version of the facts published.

We got back on the plane in sweltering heat, and by the time we reached Florencia, we were already behind schedule. However, we could still make the sixty-mile drive to San Vicente in less than two hours.

Florencia Airport had been taken over by the military. A dozen Black Hawk helicopters were lined up on the tarmac, blades rotating, waiting for the order to lift off. As soon as I disembarked from the aircraft, I was met by a colonel in charge of local operations, who led me into an air-conditioned office while my security team contacted those responsible for our journey on the ground and prepared the final details of the next leg.

The colonel was respectful, and with great courtesy and deference he offered to fly us by helicopter to San Vicente.

"They leave every half hour. You can be on the next one."

"That's very kind, but there are fifteen of us."

"Let me see what I can do."

He left the room, returning ten minutes later looking frustrated, and announced, "We can only take five people on board."

The captain in charge of my security escort was the first to react. "Some of the security team can remain behind."

I asked if the chopper could accommodate seven. The colonel nodded. "That's no problem." He asked us to wait in his office for the next helicopter.

We expected a half-hour wait. My security team was conferring among themselves, probably deciding who would go with me. One of the escorts began to clean his pistol and put back the bullets that had been removed for the plane journey. While he was handling the gun, he accidentally pulled the trigger, and a shot rang out, thankfully with no consequences. The bullet landed right next to me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, suddenly aware of how edgy I was.

I hated these small incidents, not because of the incidents themselves but because of the conflicting thoughts that entered my head immediately afterward. Bad omen, Bad omen, resonated a monotone voice within me. resonated a monotone voice within me. Smacks of a bad movie. Smacks of a bad movie. The other voice retorted, The other voice retorted, What a stupid thing to say. On the contrary, it's good luck! What a stupid thing to say. On the contrary, it's good luck! My team was on the alert, watching for my reaction, and the poor guy who'd fired the shot was now scarlet with embarra.s.sment, apologizing profusely. My team was on the alert, watching for my reaction, and the poor guy who'd fired the shot was now scarlet with embarra.s.sment, apologizing profusely.

"Please, don't worry. But let's be careful. We're all tired," I said, putting a close to the incident.

My thoughts turned to Papa, but I remembered that phone coverage was sketchy in this region. The wait continued. Some of my group wandered off to the restrooms or to get drinks. I had already seen at least three helicopters depart, and it still wasn't our turn. I didn't want to appear impatient, especially since the offer seemed very generous. Finally I went to see what was happening.

The colonel was outside talking to my security officers. When he saw me, he cut short his conversation.

"I'm very sorry, madam, but I have just received instructions not to take you by helicopter. It's an order from the top, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Well, in that case, we must revert to Plan A. Gentlemen, can we leave right away?"

The silence of my escort team was palpable. Then the colonel stepped forward with the suggestion that I should appeal to his general, who was on the tarmac. "If anyone can give you authorization, it's him."

I spotted a large, surly guy issuing orders from the landing strip. Before I had a chance to ask, the colonel nodded; he was indeed the general.

The general's aggressive tone was disconcerting. "There's nothing I can do for you. Please leave the runway!" For a moment I thought he had not recognized me, and I tried to explain why I was there. But he knew very well who I was and what I wanted. He was irritated; he kept talking to his subordinates, handing out orders, ignoring me, letting me talk to myself. He surely was prejudiced against me, probably because of the debates in Congress during which I had exposed incidents of corruption among some high-ranking officials. Without realizing it, I had raised the tone of my voice. Cameras appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly we were surrounded by a group of journalists.

The general put an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the terminal to get me off the runway and away from the cameras. He explained that he was acting on an order, that the president would be arriving shortly, that he had a hundred journalists with him, and that they needed the helicopters to transport them to San Vicente. He added, "If you want to wait here, he'll walk past. You will be able to speak to him. It's the best I can do." I stood there, my arms dangling, wondering if I really ought to go along with this whole charade. A pack of journalists rushed over to film the landing of the presidential plane. Leaving was no longer an option. It would be interpreted as discourteous.

The situation was all the more embarra.s.sing because the previous day we had asked to travel with the group of journalists going to San Vicente, and the president himself had refused. For the last twenty-four hours, the television news had been repeating incessantly that the region had been liberated and that the FARC had completely withdrawn. The president's trip to San Vicente was planned to prove it. The government had to show the world that the peace process had not been a huge mistake, that it had not led to the loss of control of a sizable portion of national territory to the guerrillas. From what I could see, the zone was under military control; helicopters of the armed forces had not stopped taking off for San Vicente since our arrival. If Pastrana refused again, we simply needed to go by road as originally planned and not waste any more time.

The president's plane landed, a red carpet was unfurled on the tarmac, and the staircase was placed at the aircraft door. But the door remained closed. Faces appeared at the windows, then quickly withdrew. I stood there, stuck between the row of soldiers on guard and the horde of journalists behind me. I had only one desire: to slip away.

Relations hadn't always been easy with President Pastrana. I had supported him during his campaign on the condition that he implement major reforms against political corruption, in particular by amending the electoral system. But he'd broken his word, and I had crossed over to the opposition. He turned against my team and managed to fracture it by luring away two of my senators.

Nevertheless, I always supported him in his peace process. We met up again earlier that month at a c.o.c.ktail party at the French emba.s.sy, and he thanked me for my unfailing support of the peace negotiations.

Finally the aircraft door opened. It was not the president who stepped out first, but his secretary. I suddenly remembered an incident that had slipped my mind until this moment. During the televised meeting with the FARC commanders nine days earlier, I had supported the idea that both parties needed to show consistency between their words and actions to establish trust between the government and the FARC. There was no doubt that my criticisms of the FARC had been sharp, but no more so than those aimed at the government. In particular, I had explained that a government complacent about corruption lacked credibility in the peace process. And I mentioned a scandal in which the president's secretary had been accused of insider trading, and I said he should resign. But the two men were close friends. To make his secretary disembark first was a clear message to me from the president: He was furious with me for what I'd said. He made his secretary go first so that I would know that he had his full support.

What happened next confirmed my suspicions. The president brushed past me, not even stopping to shake my hand. Taking the snub without a word, I spun around, biting my lip. More the fool me. I shouldn't have waited.

I walked over to my group, who waited for me, perplexed.

"We need to get going. We're already really late!"

My captain was as red as a lobster. He was sweating miserably in his uniform. I was about to cheer him up with a kind word, when he said, "Madam, forgive me, I have just received a peremptory command from Bogota. My a.s.signment has been canceled. I can't go with you to San Vicente."

I stared at him, incredulous.

"Wait. I don't understand. What order? From whom? What are you talking about?"

He stepped forward stiffly and handed me the paper he was nervously crumpling in his hands. It was indeed signed by his superior. He explained that he had just spent twenty minutes on the telephone with Bogota, that he had tried his best, but that the order came "from the top." I asked him what he meant by that, and letting out a long, almost labored sigh, he said, "From the president's office, madam."

I was flabbergasted as I began to grasp the implications. If I went to San Vicente it would once again be without protection. It had happened before, when the government had refused us an escort while we were crossing the Magdalena Medio, the banned territory of the paramilitaries. I looked around. The runway was now almost deserted, the last journalists of the presidential committee were boarding a half-empty helicopter, and three other helicopters, blades rotating, remained on the ground with no pa.s.sengers to transport.

The general came up to me and in a loud, patronizing voice said, "I told you!"

"Okay, so what do you suggest?" I asked him, irritated. After all, if I hadn't been offered transport in one of those choppers, I would have left for San Vicente long before and would already be there by now!

"Do as you originally planned! Go by road!" he retorted, and I watched him and all his military stripes disappear inside the terminal.

It wasn't that simple. We still needed armored vehicles. I walked over to my security personnel to find out what the local team had arranged for our transport. They all faltered, not knowing what to say. One of them had been sent to find out what was happening and came back looking contrite. "The guys of the local team have gone, too. They were ordered to abort the mission."

Everything had been orchestrated to prevent my going to San Vicente. The president probably feared that my appearance in San Vicente might reflect badly on him. I sat down for a moment to think things over. The heat, the commotion, my emotions-my mind was a blur. I wanted to do what was best.

What would become of our democracy if presidential candidates had to accept that for security reasons their campaign strategy needed the government's approval? If we agreed not to go to San Vicente, it would mean accepting suicidal censors.h.i.+p. We would lose the freedom to express ourselves on war and on peace, lose our ability to act in the name of the marginalized populations who did not have a voice. Whoever held power could quite simply appoint his successor.

One of the security men had managed to establish a good relations.h.i.+p with officials from the airport's security division. There was a vehicle at the airport that might be made available to us for the trip to San Vicente. He went off to obtain more details and came back with the authorization.

It was a small, four-by-four pickup truck. There was room for only five people; it was a far cry from the armored car we'd been counting on. I turned to the group. Some laughed, others shrugged. My logistics manager, Adair, stepped forward, offering to drive. Without hesitating, Clara said she would come, too. Our press officer declined. He wanted to leave room for our cameraman and one of the foreign journalists covering the campaign. Two French journalists were deep in discussion. Finally the young female reporter decided not to come. She did not feel safe and preferred that her older colleague go with us, since he would be able to take some good photos.

A member of my security team took me by the arm and asked if he could speak to me in private for a few minutes. He was the longest-serving member on the team and had been protecting me for more than three years.

"I want to come with you." He looked nervous and uncomfortable. "I don't like what they're doing to you."

"Have you spoken to your superior?"

"Yes."

"If you come with me, won't you risk losing your job?"

"It's bound to cause problems."

"No, listen. This is not the time for more difficulties."

Then, seeking his advice, I asked, "What do you think about the road? Do you think it could be dangerous?"

He smiled sadly. And, with a resigned look on his face, replied, "No more than anywhere else."

Then, as if to tell me what he was really thinking, he added, "There are soldiers everywhere. It's almost certainly less dangerous than when we crossed the Magdalena! Call me as soon as you get to San Vicente. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that the return goes more smoothly."

My team had plastered the vehicle with improvised signs spelling out my name and the word "Peace." We were about to leave when the man from the security division who had secured the pickup for us rushed back over, visibly agitated. He was brandis.h.i.+ng a set of papers and panting as he said, "You can't leave until you have signed a discharge form! It's a government vehicle, you understand, and if you have an accident, you'll have to cover the costs!"

I closed my eyes. I felt as if I were in a slapstick Mexican movie. Clearly they wanted to do their utmost to delay our departure. I smiled, mustering some patience. "Where do I sign?"

Clara took the form. "I'll take care of it," she said kindly. "Hopefully, my years in law will serve some purpose!"

I laughed and let her handle things. It was already noon. The heat was becoming suffocating, and we couldn't wait any longer.

We hit the road, the air-conditioning on full blast. Just the prospect of spending two hours in this small metal oven breathing artificial air was excruciating.

"There's a military checkpoint at the exit to Florencia. It's purely routine," I said.

I had made this journey many times. The military cordon was always a rather tense moment. We reached it very quickly. Cars were lined up one behind the other, waiting patiently. Everyone would be searched. We pulled over, parked the truck, and got out.

At that moment my cell phone rang. I rummaged in my bag to retrieve it. It was Mom. I was astonished that her call had gotten through to me. Usually there was no network once you left Florencia. I brought her up to date with all the details of our journey. "My escort received an order not to accompany me. It seems it came from the president himself. I still have to go, though. I gave my word. I wish I were with Papa. Tell him I send my love."

Mom had been a senator and knew well how demanding an electoral campaign could be. "Don't worry, darling, I'll tell him. And I'll be with you every second. Every step of the way, I'll be with you. Be careful."

While I was talking to Mom, the soldiers had taken our vehicle and were meticulously examining the carpets, the glove compartment, and our bags. When I hung up, I refrained from calling Papa. Instead I walked over to the officer who was standing a short distance from all the activity and who seemed to be in charge of operations, to inquire about the traffic situation.

"Everything is normal. Up to now we haven't had any problems."

"What is your opinion?"

"I have no opinion to give you, madam."

"Very well. Thank you anyway."

We took to the road behind a bus and alongside a small motorcycle being ridden at top speed by a young woman, her arms bare, her hair flowing in the wind, her eyes glued to the asphalt. She was in full throttle but having a hard time keeping up with us; she looked like she wanted to race us. The scene was rather comical, and we laughed. But the noise of her engine was unbearable. We picked up a little more speed to get ahead of her and arrive more quickly at the fuel station at Montanitas, an unavoidable stop-off point. Every time I'd been along this road, I would stop there to fill up with gas, get a drink of cold water, and chat with the owner.

As usual, she was at her post. I greeted her, happy to see a friendly face.

"I'm so relieved they've gone!" she confessed. "Those guerrillas moved into the region as if it belonged to them. They gave me a lot of problems. Now the army has cleared the zone. They have done a good job."

"What about the control posts the guerrillas set up along the road? Are they still there?"

"No, no. The road is completely clear. I am the first to know, because any car that is forced to return stops here to give the alert."

I got back into the car, feeling satisfied, and shared with my companions what the owner had to say, before confiding bitterly, "I'm convinced they don't want us to go to San Vicente. Too bad. We'll get there late, but we'll get there all the same."

We headed off, and fifteen minutes later we noticed some people up ahead, sitting in the middle of the road. When we got closer, we saw that a bridge was being repaired. On the previous trip, we'd had exactly the same problem on the way back from San Vicente. That was during the rainy season; the river had burst its banks, and the force of the water had weakened the bridge's structure. Then, as now, we'd had to bypa.s.s the bridge and drive through the river. Today the water was no more than a trickle, and it would mean just a small detour from our route. Two people stood up to show us which way to go. We veered left and drove down the embankment.

In front of us, a Red Cross vehicle was heading down toward the water on the same course we were about to take. Once it reached the top of the opposite bank to rejoin the road, it disappeared from view. We followed suit.

As soon as we crested the embankment, I saw them. They were dressed in military garb, rifles slung across their shoulders, and they had gathered around the Red Cross vehicle. Instinctively I looked down at their shoes. They were black boots, the sort often worn by peasants in the swamps. I'd been taught how to identify boots. If they were leather, it was the army; if they were rubber, it was the FARC. These were rubber.

One of the guerrillas, carrying an AK 47, noticed our arrival and jogged over.

"Turn around!" he ordered. "The road is closed."

Our impromptu driver looked at me, not knowing what to do. I hesitated for a moment, two seconds too many that would prove fatal. I'd been stopped at FARC checkpoints before. You talked to the group commander, he radioed for authorization, and you were allowed to pa.s.s. But that was during the era of the "demilitarized zone," when peace negotiations were taking place in San Vicente. Everything had changed in the last twenty-four hours. There was a tension in the air I had never experienced before.

"Turn around, quickly!" I ordered Adair. It was not an easy maneuver. We were stuck between the Red Cross vehicle and the embankment. He began to make the turn; the pressure on him was intense.

"Quick, quick!" I shouted. I had already spotted the gun barrels trained in our direction. The guerrillas' leader issued a command and yelled to us from a distance. One of his men came running over, looking menacing. We had completed three-quarters of the maneuver when he caught up with us and put his hand on the door, motioning at Adair to lower the window.

"Stop right there! The commander wants to talk to you. Don't make any fast moves."

I had not reacted fast enough. We should have turned around and retraced our path without hesitating. I was angry with myself. I looked behind me. My companions were white with fear.