Free The Twelve by William Gladstone Page B

Bolivian army guard remained seated outside their door to ensure that there would be no attempted escape.
    The following morning they were awakened at 6:00 and taken back to Section 5. After only a moderate wait of an hour and a half, General Anahola called for Max.
    He entered a small room with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling—exactly as he’d seen in the old movies he loved to watch. He was prepared for the worst, even torture, but the only element of torture was an old manual typewriter sitting on a desk that made an ear-splitting racket every time it was used.
    The general was sitting in front of the typewriter and started to ask him questions immediately.
    â€œHow long have you been a member of the NLF ? ” he demanded.
    â€œWhat’s the NLF ? ” Max responded sincerely.
    â€œLos banditos aquellos,” the general replied. “Those who support Che Guevara and his animals.”
    â€œNo, I’m not a member of that group. Until this moment, I didn’t even know what it was.”
    â€œThen you must be a member of the CIA,” the military man countered brusquely.
    â€œNo,” Max answered, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t think I am even old enough to join the CIA, and I wouldn’t anyway.”
    â€œWhat is your political party ? ” the man demanded.
    â€œI am too young to vote in the United States, but I would probably be a Democrat, if I were older.”
    The questioning continued for seven hours. Every movement Max and Rolf had made was questioned, every possible motivation was broached. Every person—from the first Bolivian official at the consulate in Arequipa to the bartender in Caranavi—was noted in the report.
    At the end of the seven hours, General Anahola produced a two-page, single-spaced document with forty-four points covered. Max read the document and then signed it, asserting that everything written was a true and authentic “confession.”
    It recounted exactly how Max and Rolf had slipped through security, how they had worked with Project Friendship, how they had decided to take the collectivo van from Puno, how they “bumped” into Archibald Benson on the street of La Paz, and every other detail of their improbable journey.
    Reading it in black and white, even Max found it difficult to believe, but he signed the document and—exhausted—returned to the waiting room where Rolf was waiting anxiously, holding his Minolta mini camera. He looked distraught and explained that it was because all of his film of the locals and animals in the jungle had been ruined.
    Max wasn’t overly sympathetic. He was exhausted from the seven hours of questioning he had endured. Now it was Rolf’s turn, and astonishingly he was gone less than five minutes, returning with a broad smile on his face.
    â€œWhat happened ? ” asked Max incredulously.
    â€œWell, you know my Spanish is not very good, so they just asked me if everything you said was true. I said ‘Max never lies,’ and signed the same confession as you.”
    ***
    Despite the signing of their “confession,” Max and Rolf were kept under military surveillance for seven days. They were allowed to spend their nights in the hotel, with the military guard waking them every morning at 6:00 and transporting them back to Section 5 for further questioning.
    The only one who was really being questioned was Max, but Rolf was now brought into the interrogation room with him.
    Every detail of their story was checked and double-checked. The hotel in La Paz was called and had no record that they had ever been there. Investigators were sent to Arequipa, to Copacabana, and to Caranavi to verify every detail, every name, every “coincidence.”
    At night they could go where they chose—since both had been vouched for by the Dutch and U.S. consulates—but always under guard. They went to the soccer match one evening,