The Twelve (8 page)

Later that evening, over one of the most delicious meals Max had ever eaten, with pleasant conversation from the general's wife, the lieutenant told them where they stood.

“Section 5 doubts the veracity of your story,” he revealed. “They have asked me to send you to La Paz tomorrow morning, so they can question you properly. As long as your story checks out, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Well, we certainly aren't spies,” Max confirmed anxiously.

“I know that,” the lieutenant acknowledged. “I will be sending Raul with you as your guard, on the 6:00 a.m. bus to La Paz. The bus will be free, but you will have to buy your own food along the way.”

With that, he rose.

“I have enjoyed our dinner together and hope all goes well in La Paz,” the lieutenant said.

As they left, Rolf shot Max a wry look.

“Wow, this is even cheaper than the $2.00 we paid to get here,” he commented. “You can't beat a free ride!”

Max was less certain that this ride was really going to be free, but he smiled and remained in good spirits.

He found it difficult to sleep, however.

***

The bus ride proved to be much more comfortable than the banana boat had been, and there was a small town where they stopped and had lunch. They were given an opportunity to choose from baby mountain trout swimming 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.

“Max, 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.”

“Señor, 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.

“Let 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.

“The 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 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.

“How long have you been a member of the NLF
?
” he demanded.

“What's the NLF
?
” Max responded sincerely.

“Los banditos aquellos,” the general replied. “Those who support Che Guevara and his animals.”

“No, I'm not a member of that group. Until this moment, I didn't even know what it was.”

“Then you must be a member of the CIA,” the military man countered brusquely.

“No,” 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.”

“What is your political party
?
” the man demanded.

“I 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.

“What happened
?
” asked Max incredulously.

“Well, 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, much to the delight of their guards, all nine of whom showed up at the same time—despite their rotations—just to make sure Max and Rolf would not attempt to escape.

And, coincidentally, they were able to enjoy the big match against neighboring Peru.

At the end of the week, unable to find any holes in the amazing-though-improbable declaration of the foreign detainees, Max and Rolf were told that they would be free to go the following morning. They would be taken to the bus station and driven to Tiahuanaco, the ancient mystic site, and from there to a boat that would take them back to Puno in Peru.

Their passports would be returned to them in Puno when they debarked. Two Bolivian army officers were provided to accompany them on the final leg of their Bolivian adventure.

Both guards were pleased to have such an easy assignment, and took extra time while Max and Rolf visited the ancient Incan ruins in Tiahuanaco. Now that the worst of their “adventure” was over, Max felt a sense of comfort at the ruins, as well as a sense of wonder. He had read about the ancient sun god, Viracocha, who was believed to have come out of the waters of the nearby Lake Titicaca and created the civilization of the first indigenous people.

The ruins in Tiahuanaco were monuments to this great teacher and leader, and the legends spoke of his arrival and departure. There was a magical quality to the ruins, as if the rocks themselves were still breathing and communicating the ancient lessons of the mythical Viracocha.

The guards confirmed their own beliefs in the ancient legends, and the local belief that Lake Titicaca with its rejuvenating waters was the birthplace of humanity. There were those who believed that in the times to come the lake would once again become the center of spiritual power for the entire planet, ushering in a new era of humanity.

***

Upon reaching the immigration control offices in Peru, Max and Rolf were greeted by two smiling officials who already had their passports.

“We have been waiting for you. Welcome back to Peru.” They handed over the passports and in large, red letters on the page where the Bolivian stamp had been placed were the words PERSONA NON GRATA. Beneath lay other words in Spanish that made it clear that these were suspicious individuals who were not acceptable visitors to Bolivia, under any circumstances.

Persona Non Grata

April 1973

W
HEN MAX WAS TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD, HE GRADUATED FROM
Yale and began working for his father's book publishing company, his Bolivian adventures just an exciting memory.

The job allowed him to support himself and learn the ropes of the publishing world. And his father had recently suffered a minor heart attack, so his new position allowed Max to stay in close touch with him as well.

He had worked for his dad for nine months when he took on a special assignment rewriting and updating the test preparation title, How to Score High on the Medical College Admission Test, carrying on his father's successful tradition of helping students on their road to success. Max knew nothing about medicine and hadn't even taken a science course since high school, but he knew how to research, and he knew a lot about creating tests.

He was now living in Westport, Connecticut, and every morning would make his way over to the public library to start his work for the day.

By noon he would be ready for a break.

Since the YMCA was next door, and the paddle ball league was looking for new players, Max signed on. That's when he met George Hardy, an independent film producer and writer. Although more than twenty years his senior, George was a fit and competitive player and he and Max became regular opponents and partners in doubles matches.

Max always looked forward to his time at the Y with George. After a game they often spent time talking, and Max shared his passion for Latin America, the culture, the people, and the language. He glowed with excitement as he recounted his experiences and George, who wasn't easily impressed, was caught up in Max's youthful enthusiasm.

George had agreed to produce a film for Ralph Cohen Productions entitled In Search of Ancient Mysteries, and was looking for someone to scout locations in South America. He liked Max, thought the young man had a good work ethic, and was impressed that he could speak Spanish and knew the Latin American culture.

“What the hell,” he said one day, “It's not brain surgery.” So there in the locker room, after a particularly challenging game, George offered Max the job.

“Ever heard of Erich Von Daniken and his book In Search of Ancient Astronauts
?
” he said as they sat over a cup of coffee.

“No,” was Max's honest reply.

“He's the guy who thinks that astronauts from outer space colonized the Earth thousands of years ago, and created some of the unexplainable mysteries from ancient civilizations. Rod Serling narrated an NBC television special based on his books. It was a huge success, and now they want to create a sequel. A lot of the locations he's mentioned are in South America, and I thought you might be a good choice to help select the location list for the film.

“Do you think you would be interested
?
” George asked.

Without hesitation, Max jumped on the opportunity.

“Sure, sounds like fun,” he replied.

***

The next day George handed Max a fourteen-page outline of the film, together with a preliminary list of locations that included Tiahuanaco in Bolivia, Cuzco in Peru, and other exotic places that boasted unexplainable mysteries that might be indications of the presence of ancient astronauts.

George was quite blunt about the shakiness of the film's concept.

“It could just be all smoke and mirrors,” he admitted. “There's no telling if Von Daniken is right, or if he even believes it himself.”

“Well, after you told me about his theory, I checked out his book from the library and I have to say that much of it seems far-fetched, to say the least—if not outright fabrications,” Max confided.

“Well then, I guess this project doesn't interest you,” George said with a tone of disappointment.

“No, exactly the opposite—I find this a fascinating project and would be delighted to help you out. I love exploring ancient myths and ancient civilizations. Working with you would be a blast.”

“Great!” George responded. “Your initial salary will be $125 a week, and I think you'll do a great job. In addition to fleshing out and adding to the location list, I need you to figure out how we get our crew and equipment into each of the countries where we plan to film. Do you think you can handle that
?
”

“Absolutely,” Max replied confidently.

So he took a leave of absence from his father's book publishing company and threw himself into the project with intensity and enthusiasm. He began with basic research and within four weeks had read every issue of National Geographic ever published and had a location list that encompassed mysteries and ancient sites from Bolivia to England, Syria, Israel, Greece, India, and Japan.

When next they met, George was impressed with the job Max had done thus far, and offered him the position of production coordinator on the project, which meant he would be involved in the everyday aspects of filming in all of the countries. George also bumped Max's weekly salary up to $150.

Suddenly word came down that the shoot dates for In Search of Ancient Mysteries had been moved up. They would be forced to scramble in order to meet the new dates and be prepared when the crew arrived.

“Can you get down to Peru in the next two weeks
?
” George asked Max.

In fact, Max was ready to go—but there was a problem. The necessary permissions hadn't been received from embassies around the world, allowing the filming to take place in the various countries.

To Max's surprise, George didn't seem too concerned, and he expressed confidence that everything would fall into place. Max wasn't so sure, but within days he was on his way to Lima, Peru, where he checked into the Sheraton Hotel, the tallest and most luxurious hotel in Lima.

It turned out that George always traveled in style—five-star hotels and the best restaurants wherever he went—and he expected his crew to be treated the same way. Years in the entertainment business had taught him that a content film crew made for a happy film set, he told Max.

Since Max was now a member of the crew—the advance guy—he also reaped the benefits of deluxe accommodations. Yet he still had a Herculean task ahead of him: The rest of the crew would be arriving in five days, and he had to make sure that all their needs were met.

The first step was a meeting with the Undersecretary for Peruvian Cultural Affairs, Señor Altamontana, and it did not go well. Altamontana, a short, bespectacled man moved with intense energy, and as he greeted Max he revealed that he knew nothing about the film production.

Max was stunned, but he recovered quickly.

“But didn't you get my letter
?
” he asked. “I sent it more than two weeks ago.”

The undersecretary replied that he had certainly not received the letter, and even if he had received it, along with the application to clear equipment through customs and film in the country, the turnaround for such approvals was at least twelve weeks.

As Max became increasingly concerned, Altamontana explained calmly that a new law had been created just that year to protect the Peruvian film industry. In accomplishing its mandate, it was making it impossible to secure permission any sooner.

“There will be no exceptions,” the undersecretary told Max in a matter-of-fact tone.

Max was stumped.

Now what
?
he thought, his mind racing.

At that moment the undersecretary's assistant entered the room with a small stack of envelopes perched on a silver tray—the day's mail.

There, on the top of the stack, Max spotted a familiar object. The letter he had sent with extra postage for speedy delivery

“There's my letter,” Max cried jubilantly. “Please, just open it. You'll find everything you need right there.”

Though wearing an expression of doubt, the undersecretary opened the envelope and read the letter typed under the Future Films banner.

Although impressed at the timing of the letter and having confirmed the validity of the project, the undersecretary was adamant that it was impossible to grant permission on such short notice. He explained to Max that the special committee for cultural affairs would need to review the shooting script and petition. He reiterated that the soonest they could process the requests would be September.

It was now June.

“But my crew arrives in five days,” Max protested.

“Be that as it may, neither they nor their equipment will be permitted to enter,” Altamontana responded firmly. “So you'd better tell them not to come.”

The meeting was at an end, and Max left dejected. His meteoric career in show business seemed to be ending before even getting started.

George was scheduled to join him in Lima, but he couldn't wait for him to arrive. He immediately called one of the producers and his point person, Dan Brandon in Los Angeles, and told him “there is a problem.”

“Don't worry,” came Dan's cheerful response, and Max's brow wrinkled with confusion. “We anticipated that when the schedule had to be accelerated, we might have a problem with the Peruvian officials. Fortunately, one of Ralph Cohen's close friends from USC is Julian Jasper.”

When Max didn't recognize the name, Dan continued.

“Julian was on the swimming team and competed in the Olympics. He's a good guy and runs the film industry in Peru. He even owns the main bus company in Lima and several other businesses. He's agreed to meet with you.

“He lives in Miraflores and is expecting you for lunch.”

As cheerful as Dan was about all this, Max still had strong doubts when he hung up the phone. Julian may have been a “good guy” and a powerful film producer, but the undersecretary had been quite clear—approvals were required, sample scripts had to be submitted, twelve weeks minimum.

Still, Miraflores was the Beverly Hills of Lima, so at least Max would have a nice lunch.

When he arrived at the Jasper estate, he was greeted by an immaculately dressed house servant who escorted him to the garden, where Julian, his wife, and daughter were sitting down to an elegant lunch. The table was set with flowers and fine china, and the garden itself was full of fruit trees and myriad flower beds planted in exotic shapes.

Julian was a large and cheerful man. He rose and gave Max a hug and introduced him to his family.

The food was excellent and the conversation was light and full of suggestions for sights they thought Max should take in while in Lima. Despite his concerns over the imminent arrival of the film crew, Max actually began to relax.

It wasn't until after lunch, when they retreated to a gazebo in another part of the garden, that Julian finally brought up the main topic.

“You don't need to worry,” he said cheerfully. “I have taken care of everything. Your crew and equipment will not have any problems getting permission to shoot.”

Max was stunned.

“But how can that be
?
I left the undersecretary's office only a few hours ago and was told that the new law will not allow for any exceptions.”

Julian revealed that he had written the film code and laws himself, and they were basically written to protect him and his friends. Since Richard Cohen was a friend, they had agreed that In Search of Ancient Mysteries would be a coproduction with Jasper Productions.

It was therefore now a Peruvian production, and would not be subject to the new laws. He added that there might be a minor problem with the customs issues because it was a national law that all such equipment must remain at least one week in quarantine, as protection against unscrupulous smugglers.

However, Julian had recently been awarded a medal as Honorary Mayor of Lima for providing bus service as part of the public works. The medal entitled him to exemption from all laws governing city employees, and since some of the custom officials were city officials, he felt certain that his honorary position would get the equipment through.

Julian was correct on all points, and the day was saved.

***

With the Peruvian situation well in hand, the next stop on Max's location schedule was Bolivia, and it was time for Max to tell George of his Persona Non Grata status that would prevent him from heading south to La Paz, where he was supposed to set up the filming for Tiahuanaco and Lake Titicaca.

George arrived in Lima, and they met in the lobby of the Sheraton. Before long George was imbibing from a pitcher of Pisco Sours, the indigenous Peruvian hard alcohol, so the meeting went better than Max had expected.

“Well, as long as you have people there to meet us, and the schedule set up, I guess it will work out,” George said between sips. “This does give you an extra day or two here in Peru. Why don't you go up to Trujillo to survey the pyramids and see if there's anything we might film, or anyone we might interview.”