Tuesday, October 20th
The stairwell echoed, as stairwells do, with the scuff of leather soles on cement steps. The repetitive sound triggered images in Svoljsak’s mind of a ride taken years ago aboard a Peruvian prison train. He pulled deeply on his cigarette remembering the bitter taste of the ones he had shared in a cramped, fetid, boxcar as it was pulled higher into the Andes by a labouring steam engine.
Chuff. Chuff. Chuff.
The images merged into a cohesive memory. One of mountain passes, revolution, and corruption. He expelled the smoke and started up the next flight.
Hustlers, rustlers, and every other type of opportunist have been drawn to the natural resources of Central and South America ever since Hernán Cortés plundered the Aztec Empire in 1520. The attraction for Stanislaw Svoljsak had been the drugs.
Born in Warsaw, Poland, and raised in Point-St-Charles, one of Montreal’s poorest neighbourhoods, Svoljsak’s environment had never fostered trust or respect with regard to authority. His father’s heavy-handed guidance did little more than temporarily push him off the street into a fight club, and like many young males in that demographic he found that gangs were a means to an end and boosting a car was how you got around town.
Ten years of small time extortion, truck hijacks, and break-ins had kept him solvent. It had even supported a wife and baby for the eighteen months they stayed together. It was a life, that was all, and Svoljsak had harboured loftier aspirations.
It was the week after his thirtieth birthday that he made a five thousand mile lunge for the elusive brass ring. The plan was to supply South American cocaine to the overpaid toxicomanes of Montreal, and it started with a flight to Jorge Chávez International Airport in Lima, Peru.
From the initial vantage point of a bar stool in Quebec, it was hard to see that his scheme would fair no better than the ice in his whisky glass. Peruvian networks run through governments to every corner of the planet, and cartel gatekeepers have little use for gringos that try to splash in their pond. His clumsy efforts only managed to net a couple of minor-league contacts, and he would soon find that trolling for a top predator and actually reeling one in are two different things. In their world Svoljsak was a guppy, a small fish with a big mouth, so they used him for bait.
On a sleepy Tuesday afternoon the Policia burst into his apartment above the jewellery shop and practically plucked him off the jeweller’s wife. She screamed and they laughed. Then they beat Svoljsak in the kidneys with truncheons. A narcotics dog found a quarter kilo of high-grade heroin taped to the bottom of his bed frame. It was a blatant plant, as he had yet to make a score of his own, but the evidence was damning and Peru is not the place to be convicted of drug trafficking.
His trial got fast-tracked and the sentence of fifteen years hard labour, and unmentioned deprivation and torture, was essentially a writ for a slow and painful execution. He had only to look about the cattle car of the prison train to see confirmation etched on every face swaying with the rhythm of the narrow gauge rails.
Chuff. Chuff. Chuff.
The nightmare of Yanamayo, the high-altitude prison near Lake Titicaca, was but a few hours distant when an unexpected pardon arrived, courtesy of the Moviemiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru.
The MRTA were a Cuban-based rebel group waging a war of insurrection against the Peruvian government. Their explosive ambush blew the ancient locomotive off the tracks and killed the guards in a short exchange of gunfire. Organized and efficient, part of the attacking party liberated those prisoners significant to their cause while others ransacked the supply car. They occupied the site just long enough to complete the mission then, like the smoke from their powder, dispersed without a trace.
In the ensuing silence, shock quickly gave way to a communal surge for survival. Left with the sentry’s keys the remaining prisoners frantically disposed of their shackles. Two unfortunates had been caught in the crossfire. They could not be buried in the barren terrain but their fetters were removed and Last Rites hastily given. The dead guards were kicked, spat on, and relieved of their boots. Finally, the train was searched for anything of value though little had been left by the rebels.
Those with some sense of the geography estimated they were on a plateau midway between Arequipa and the ridge junction of Juliaca. At ten thousand feet above sea level, the wind sliced through cotton like a razor and ravaged exposed flesh like a wolf. A more immediate problem for the lowlanders was altitude sickness brought on by the lower oxygen density. The nausea and disorientation that Svoljsak felt were the first symptoms.
Limited options made their plan of action an easy decision. The escape route for most of them was downhill towards the coast, and the easiest most direct path was back along the rail line. The prisoner that Svoljsak had shared cigarettes with returned the favour and motioned for him to follow. For the immediate time it was a good way to cover distance but Svoljsak soon surmised that every mile spent on the tracks increased the risk of recapture and, after a while, he’d suggested cutting off onto one of the intersecting paths.
Before long the sun dropped and they were in shadow, and then near-total darkness. Without cloud cover and only a thin layer of atmosphere above the temperature dropped rapidly, but the stars were multitudinous and so bright that the fugitives could continue to pick their way along the mountain trails. Svoljsak had lost track of time when his companion finally led him into a small settlement of huts. They were met with wary silence from the few men that stood in the doorways. The villagers were only mistrustful, though, not hostile.
Since the MRTA, or the larger and more sinister Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path), conscripted support from the highlanders with intimidation and displays of cruelty, and Government crackdowns with closed-door trials also swept many an innocent into tortuous incarceration, there was fear and hatred of both President Fujimori’s regime and the violent groups that opposed him.
Fugitives from one were often fugitives from the other, and the mountainfolk had a particular empathy for those out on the fringe. With a few words, Svoljsak’s companion was able to arrange for some food and shelter for the night.
The simple meal of puchero de garbanzos y arepas, chickpea casserole and corn bread, did much to restore ‘the gringo and his guide’ as did a few shivering hours of restless sleep at the lower elevation. They set off again when it was just light enough to see their breath. They walked the winding mountain paths in single-file, without talking, stopping occasionally to listen or reconnoiter from cover when open terrain had to be crossed.
Attempts by the militia to round up the fugitives were half-hearted at best. The occasional low-flying aircraft appeared to be the only visible threat and with each downward step Svoljsak’s hope for freedom rose. Soon the paths became roads and other travelers more frequent. By the following afternoon the pair were able to assume the mantle of locals going about their business. To his credit, Svoljsak’s guide waited until they’d skirted Arequipa—also a prison town—to decide his tobacco debt had been paid in full.
Before letting Svoljsak fend for himself, though, the Peruvian located a telephone from which they could each make calls. For his help, Svoljsak wanted to give the man a small golden amulet that he’d managed to conceal. The jeweller’s wife had given it to him ‘for protection and luck’, but with typical South American graciousness his comrade bade him to keep it for the journey ahead.
“Vaya con Dios, Amigo!”
Svoljsak echoed back, “Go with God, my friend,” and the Peruvian vanished into the marketplace like a ghost into a tapestry.
His telephone contacts eventually provided a forged passport, an exit visa, and transport, all acquired with wired funds that emptied his accounts. By way of Moquegua and Tacha, and several greased palms, the would-be drug czar from Quebec finally managed to quit Peru via the Chilean border.