The Embassy
Mr Getz was positively beaming as he explained that the article had been read by the wife of the president of Mexico and that she had contacted the embassy to apologize on behalf of the people of her country. Not only that, but she had phoned the Federal Police on behalf of her husband to strongly suggest that they make every effort to find Saskia’s son. “As reasonable people,” greased Mr Getz, “I’m sure you’ll want to cancel the press conference now that we know the Federal Police are involved.”
“No problem, Mr Getz,” I replied, clutching Saskia’s trembling hand. “As long as you change the official records to show that Mrs. Martin did not abandon her child, and that the child had been kidnapped after all.”
“Consider it done Mr Feigel,” offered the smiling diplomat with dead gray eyes.
“Oh yes,” I added as we got to the door. “One other thing. The press conference will only be canceled when both ourselves and the media receive official confirmation that Stefan has been found … and has been returned alive and well to his mother.”
The next few days passed as if we were in a dream. One of us had to always remain in the hotel in case there was a message. Thank God for the secondhand bookshop down the road.
Then two days before the scheduled press conference we received another summons to the Embassy. There was no hint whether the news would be bad, or good.
A decidedly chilly Mr Getz tersely informed us that the Mexican Army had tracked down Stefan and his kidnappers in the Yucatan. According to information received from the Canadian authorities, the couple and their children could now be identified as having come from Quebec, where the man – a French separatist – was wanted for stealing assorted weapons from a gun store and robbing two banks. The woman was his de-facto wife and the children were hers from a previous relationship. Why they couldn’t have discovered all of this a month ago was a subject that was not addressed.
Forming his pudgy, manicured fingers in an arch, our pasty little gnome went on to tell us that somewhere along their escape route to Mexico, the man appeared to have developed the belief that he was none other than Jesus Christ and that he must establish a new Jerusalem in the Yucatan jungle in preparation for his second coming. According to their sources, the children, one of whom had “hair like gold,” were his breeding stock.
Much of this startling information had come from an British archeologist who was working in that part of the Yucatan and knew the area well. The little group had been closely monitored by local Indians since their arrival. And as they made their way deeper and deeper into the jungle, a few of the Indians who worked as guides for archeologist, made a point of talking with these crazy gringos and keeping her apprised of their curious activities. When she heard that the authorities were looking for a blond child who had been kidnapped, she quickly contacted the police.
The only problem, according to Mr Getz, was that the ‘New Jerusalem’ was located so far back in dense jungle the Army was unable to land a helicopter and we would have to wait until a patrol returned with their quarry on foot.
“I am instructed, therefore,” intoned M. Getz in his frostiest officialese, “to instruct you that the Mexican Government insists that you return to Oaxaca immediately, and await further instructions.” Mr Getz stood up to indicate the matter was closed and glared at us as if we were carrying lice. “And since you won’t be here in two days time for your little press conference, may I suggest that you cancel it before you leave.”
Saskia looked at me as if to say, ‘So what do we do now?’ And for once I was almost at a loss for words. “Thank you, Mr Getz,” I said without meaning it. “You and your colleagues have been most helpful. But since we still don’t know when Mrs Martin will be reunited with her son, let’s just postpone the press conference for a week to see what happens.”
Saskia was staggering by the time we left Getz’s office. As she headed for the nearest bathroom I wandered over to a window and looked out on the smog smudged city. A few seconds later a hard looking man with a crew cut wandered over and introduced himself as the press attaché.
Hold on. This was not the man I’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Besides, his eyes had a cold malignant look that told me volumes more than his assumed title.
“Nice job,” he said – stringing out the words with a certain malice. “Nice job.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my face. “But ah … you know, ah … you’re still in Mexico Bobby boy. And in Mexico, people can either disappear or be ‘disappeared’. Like poof. No more. Zap. Bang. Gone …”
Now that he had my undivided attention the man paused just long enough to blow some more smoke in my face. “You know what it means to be ‘disappeared’, don’tcha Bobby old boy? Well … just think about it, dream about it, caress it … and don’t forget, you’ve embarrassed the hell out of the Mexicans and – more to the point – you’ve embarrassed the Government of the United States of America. So try not to forget, Mr. Robert Richardson Feigel, Passport number C0074700, ‘cause we sure as fuck won’t!”
| Kidnap in Oaxaca © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All rights reserved |
Pieces from a Puzzling Life 