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4
THIRTEEN DAYS IN HELL

I was taken to the FELCN building back down the hill in La Paz. FELCN stood for Fuerza Especial de Lucha Contra el Narcotráfico – Special Force in the Fight Against Drug Trafficking. There, I was introduced to the capitán who was to be in charge of the investigation. He undid my handcuffs, shook my hand and was very kind to me until he realised that I wasn’t going to cooperate. When he asked me to sign an official statment – known as a declaración – admitting my guilt, I refused. I said I wanted a lawyer. The capitán laughed.

‘This is not the United States of America. You are in Bolivia now, Señor McFadden.’

He asked me over and over again where I had bought the cocaine, who I’d bought it from, when, and how much it had cost. He told me he wasn’t after me. He wanted the sellers. If I gave him the information he needed, he would let me go.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I answered every time. He pointed at the suitcases, which had been placed on the desk in front of me. Most of my possessions, including my business papers, as well as the various items of women’s clothing, were spread out beside them.

‘But here is the evidence.’

‘Those bags aren’t mine,’ I answered. ‘I have never seen them before.’

‘Who is this man, please?’ he asked, holding up the business card Tito had given me. It had the colonel’s phone number on the back but there was no way I could dob in the colonel without admitting my guilt and getting Tito in trouble. I had stupidly forgotten to take it out of my briefcase the night before. ‘He is your principal, yes?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not mine.’