The
late afternoon of October 24, 1999, had, as it did during that time of the year, turned
nasty. A cold mountain hailstorm fell and clattered over the Spanish tile around the
entrance to the American Embassy in Bogotá, Colombia. The white marble-size pellets
hammered the US Marine gate-house's corrugated tin roof, drowning it in noise and blinding
it from the outside world for six minutes, then ceased abruptly, leaving behind only the
cold and the melting hail.
The embassy, known to bogotanos as The Compound, is
an appropriate description. It is an imposing structure on Avenida Séptima. The huge
concrete multi-storied building rested on anentire metropolitan square block, in what is
regarded as the most expensive real estate property in the city. It is also quite
windowless and everyone's first impression of it was that it looked like an updated
American prison.
To enter one had to walk past the US Marine
gate-house and into Fortress America. The fluorescent bulbs inside the building managed to
splash a harsh light into the most remote corners and even seemed to brighten the faded
colors of the American flag that hung over the lobby's entrance, which hadn't been
replaced since the early seventies. In the lobby of the architectural monstrosity that was
the embassy, framed pictures of the American President and Vice-President hung on the
lily-white walls as well as some other forgettable bureaucratic leaders of the present
age. The attendant secretaries, sitting behind the protective bullet-proof glass window,
lent an air of respectful industry and conveyed a message made clear by its artifice: Here
serious business is conducted.
At any rate, people walked in and out of the place
with metronomic regularity. Americans, Colombians, rich people and poor people alike --
gaining access only after demonstrating proper identification to the Marine guards
standing at the front gate -- entered the building to obtain the much valued entry visa
into the United States of America, or, in the odd case, to ask for political asylum. Yet,
once people were inside they were not really inside. They were in a front lobby that was
really a huge white room whose far wall was really bullet-proof glass where two
administrative assistants sat in cinema-looking booths and tookenquiries and visa
applications through small portholes.
It was at this moment that a woman entered the
lobby. There was something about the woman that suggested danger, many would think later
on when they viewed the embassy's video security film. Nevertheless, at that moment no one
had taken a full measure of the woman.
There was no doubt the woman was a Colombian, an
educated Colombian, at that. Only a Colombian woman would have been able to walk in out of
a hailstorm looking like a million bucks and not miss a beat. The woman wore a black
oversized raincoat with high-heeled shoes. She seemed to study the area as if to make up
her mind how to walk across it. "She was class," they would say about her later
on. "Come the angels with doom on their lips, that woman was never going to lose
sight of that fact."
In any event, the woman walked up to the furthest
right handed booth, one of six and watched as the adminstrative assistant leaned closer to
the video screen as a last measure of avoidance. But the Colombian woman was not deterred.
"Good afternoon, ma'am",
the Colombian woman greeted.
"Yes?" the administrative assistant
replied rudely and without even looking up or breaking the rhythm on her keyboard. She had
planned on avoiding the woman altogether, but the woman had spoken English and that had
peaked a measure of interest. "How can I help you, ma'am?"
"I am looking for Mister John Whitney,"
the woman said. "I have a letter for him."
"I'm sorry, but Mister Whitney has been called
away from hisdesk. I could make sure he gets the letter, if that's what you're worried
about."
"You are very kind, thank you." The woman
opened her pocketbook and retrieved the envelope, which had the words, For Mr. Whitney's
eyes only written on it. Then she passed the letter through the porthole in the glass
booth and smiled.
"Who may I say it's from?"
The woman hesitated. "Liliana. Liliana
Santander."
"You're going to have to sign for it, Ms.
Santander."
The woman was stunned and the assisstant began to
get a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, even though as the moment unfolded she
could not say why.
The woman was stunned and Miles knew by her reaction
that she had done the right thing, even though as the moment unfolded she didn't know why.
"Why?" the woman asked.
"Embassy rules, Ms. Santander."
The woman nodded and the assistant handed her a
paper and a pen, which the woman used to sign her name, address and telephone number. It
was during this time that the assistant took a good measure of the woman.
She was not only beautiful, but intelligent. It was
obvious, the assistant told herself. There was something about how her eyes sparkled, like
an old Bette Davis movie she'd seen long ago. It was at that moment that she wondered if
John Whitney was having an affair with her, but the idea faded when she noticed the
wedding ring on the woman's finger.
Then the woman handed back the paper where she had
signed for the letter she was dropping off and said, "Thank you. It is very urgent
that he read it soon, please." The assistant nodded but didn't believe it, because in
Colombia everything had to be done the day before yesterday and was rarely done the day
after tomorrow. The woman then took one last look at the letter in the assistant's hands
and left...
