Free The Twelve by William Gladstone Page A

in natural holding tanks among the rocks along the river, and once chosen, the fish were barbecued. The taste was exquisite, and the guard—Raul—was very happy, since this assignment had generated an opportunity for him to take a quick three-day leave to La Paz, where he could visit with his fiancée.
    All was well until the bus reached La Paz and Raul introduced them to Juan, their new guard, who would take them the rest of the way to Section 5. Juan was proper enough, but clearly he wasn’t buying the Mexican sombrero, brightly colored blanket “lost gringo” routine. He led Max and Rolf to a military jeep with a driver and an armed guard.
    At 4:00 in the afternoon the two “gringos” were inside Section 5, the headquarters of Bolivia’s security organization. Rolf pulled out his Minolta mini camera and began snapping pictures. A guard grabbed it out of his hands and before he could protest, ushered them into a large room. They were told that a General Anahola would be meeting with them as soon as he was able.
    By 9:00 p.m., they were hungry. They asked Juan if they could eat and were surprised when he instructed a guard to accompany them to the officers’ club, where he told them they could order a meal—though they would have to pay for it themselves.
    After a short walk from the holding area, they stopped at a nondescript military building. Once inside, the elegance of the officers’ club amazed both Max and Rolf. It resembled an English country pub, with dark, wood tables and tasteful decorations. There were only eight tables, but with four waiters the service was flawless. Three of the tables had other diners, but neither of them thought it wise to strike up any conversations under their present circumstances.
    During the meal, Juan was replaced by a new guard, Jorge. At the end of the meal, Rolf still seemed to think this was nothing more than a playful, military exercise, and suggested that Max explain that they were “guests” of General Anahola and that the general would pick up the tab. Against his better judgment, Max offered this explanation, and the waiter smiled as they enjoyed their free meal before being taken back to the holding area by Jorge.
    It was close to 11:00 p.m., and still, no sign of the general.
    ***
    As the night dragged on and fatigue set in, Rolf’s ever jovial c’est la vie attitude was replaced with agitation and concern. His Dutch accent became heavier and harder to understand.
    â€œMax, ask Jorge if we can call the Dutch and U.S. consulates and see if they can help us,” he said, the strain apparent in his voice. “We don’t want to spend the night in jail. There has to be a way out.”
    â€œSeñor, nos permite una llamada ? ” Max asked Jorge. The guard sat at a desk in the waiting area where they had been held for the last several hours. There was a phone in plain view.
    â€œLet me check with Captain Morales and see if that would be allowed,” Jorge responded.
    Five minutes later permission had been granted, and Max was on the phone with a clerk at the U.S. Consulate.
    â€œThe consul went home hours ago,” he was informed. “I will bring your situation to his attention first thing in the morning, but there’s nothing I can do this evening.”
    With that, the clerk hung up the phone.
    When Rolf called the Dutch Consulate, however, he was immediately put through to the diplomat at his home. The Dutch consul spoke with the head officer on duty at the holding facility, Captain Morales, and arranged for Rolf and Max to be transferred to the responsibility of the Dutch Consulate. He also said that he would guarantee that neither would attempt to leave Bolivia until their case had been resolved.
    Within forty-five minutes—just before midnight—the Dutch consul himself arrived at Section 5, signed the necessary documents, and Rolf and Max were escorted to a modest hotel, where a