The words were in Spanish but even with my fragmentary knowledge of the language, I could understand them. ‘Quiet,’ the harsh voice said, and then with a short gesture of the pistol: ‘When we get where we are going, I will kill you with this.’ It was May 12, 1982, and in the jargon of the Argentine secret police, I had been ‘swallowed’ and ‘walled in’.As the car rolled forward at a deliberately steady pace, I lay constrained and helpless on my back in the rear footwell, a cloth over my head blocking almost all vision, a man’s knee jammed against my neck, pinning my head against the back of the seat in front and a hard, tanned hand holding an automatic pistol pressed against the side of my head.One thing was very clear: the three men who had seized me and who now held my life in their hands were professionals in the art of kidnapping.
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