Matías Celedón

 Matías Celedón
Translated from the Spanish by Samuel Rutter

The Braniff Clan

Zip Code

Bob and Bill meet in 1976 in the Foreign Department of DINA. On September 7, they get together in New York at Lombardi’s Pizzeria with Captain Armando Fernández Larios, who entrusts them with the mission of keeping an eye on the agent Michael Townley from the moment he arrives. The strike against Orlando Letelier requires precision and the highest care. Bob and Bill must confirm the contents of Townley’s reports to Santiago by tailing and observing him. Fernández Larios gives them the same notes he will give to Townley upon his arrival at the airport, meaning that Bob and Bill will be able to anticipate his every move.

Because of the practice of compartmentalization at DINA, Townley is unaware he is being followed, although he assumes someone is on his tail. That idea grows in his head as they begin to close in on him. On April 17, 1978, at the beginning of his first interrogation at Quantico, Townley interrupts the story of his arrival to try to clear up the diffuse nature of that shadow and to confirm the source of his suspicions about a hippie and a blond executive that he first saw in the offices of LAN Chile, and later hovering near him at all times inside Kennedy Airport. In the cell, the interrogators look at each other in silence: they have no idea what he’s talking about. Even Agent Eugene Propper, who thinks he’s tied all the loose ends together, has no idea what Townley is talking about. The Americans dismiss his suspicions while pretending to be hiding the answer, but both Propper and Lawrence Barcella, leading agent in the investigation from the FBI, are aware that Townley has accidentally opened up a whole new avenue of enquiry in the investigation. The tip of the iceberg has caused the first crack in the glacier.

Since May of that year, Bob and Bill have worked in the Mail Intake Department of the Chilean Postal and Telegraph Service, sifting through sacks of letters arriving from abroad that their section chief dumps on them without giving any indication of what they are supposed to be looking for. Months go by and the FBI begins to suspect that Manuel Contreras has access to the letters Townley sends to Santiago, after they intercept a letter in which Mike complains to his wife that the mail is being delayed in a very convenient manner. She understands straight away what’s going on.

In Santiago, detectives from the Third Judicial Precinct begin to investigate the case. Bob and Bill are sent abroad again, this time as messengers. During their first days there, they make sure an anonymous letter gets to Townley’s lawyers, which they then deliver to him in his cell in solitary on August 14: “You cut a deal with the FBI to save your own skin, motherfucker. You screwed up, buddy. You’re going to pay for this with your life. You’ll never live in peace anywhere again. I’m sorry for your wife and kids. Their blood will flow because of your betrayal.” Three days later, Bob makes an anonymous call to Agent Propper from a public telephone: “We’re gonna blow the legs off that goddamn judge and then we’re gonna go see his family. Then, if we have time, we’ll come for you too.” Bill calls the judge at home, and threatens him in exactly the same way.

Using postal packages as the means of delivery and remote detonators, two months later they blow the judges to pieces in Chile. The first bomb goes off on November 22 at the front door of Israel Bórquez, the judge overseeing the extradition proceedings for Contreras, Espinosa, and Fernández Larios. The second bomb goes off on December 3, at the home of Sergio Dunlop, the judge entrusted with the investigation into the first bombing.

In the face of this violent scandal, General Odlanier Mena, Director of the CNI, denies that his new intelligence organization is involved in any way. He blames the bombings on former members of the DINA who have remained loyal to Contreras.

Bob and Bill are officially dismissed from the team at Chile Post and Telegram Service without being charged in May of 1979, following the arrest of the head of the Mail Intake Department and five other employees for interfering with mail and repeated instances of theft. That winter, Bob and Bill travel together to Washington, D.C. and New York, sent along to accompany Rosa Mery Medina, an agent entrusted with a special task. Bob never asks any questions. Given the way the intelligence services work, he is never informed of the nature of Medina’s mission. It was said she was Gutiérrez’s lover, whoever this Gutiérrez guy was, the owner of the voice on the other end of the phone at the Foreign Department. The three of them enjoy travelling. They spend most of their time touring around the United States or visiting Medina’s friends, until they say goodbye at Kennedy Airport.

That’s when Bob and Bill go their separate ways. By order of Odlanier Mena, they each stick to one coast and live as embedded agents, moving around from time to time without much to report. For a while, they remain in contact through the airline and via phone calls, until slowly but surely, a distance grows between them. After several long silences, the calls fall off. Their days are reduced to signs and messages, postcards from radio hams indicating the station and frequency through which they can establish contact if necessary. They stick to themselves. In Chile, everything remains the same. After about a year, Bob returns home and loses himself in the nightlife of Viña del Mar. He is discharged shortly after. Bill, on the other hand, stays behind in Los Angeles. He starts studying at a university and marries Rosa Mery Medina.


Bob and Bill meet at the agreed-upon hour at Johnnie’s Coffee. They exchange documents and then get into Bob’s car and he drives them to Cheetah’s, a nightclub on Hollywood Boulevard. He parks out front, where Bill tells him to. They leave again around 10 p.m. and Bob suggests they go back to Bill’s apartment. Bill lives at the foot of Mt. Washington, in a rental complex on Via Marisol full of students, single or divorced men, retired couples, and a few self-sufficient pensioners (only on the ground floor). Bill belongs to the category of single men, or lonely men, as he says. He figures he’ll be stuck there for a good amount of time. His condo has three floors and expands outward in an L shape. Bill lives on the third floor in a small studio situated in the armpit of the two wings. In just fifteen square meters, he has everything he needs: a bed, a desk, a chair, two side tables, and a shelf above the head of the bed.

Bill talks about his apartment, but all Bob sees is a room. The bathroom is behind the closet door, in an awkward spot, and in the closet there’s less space than in his suitcase, which is why it has to be stored next to the desk. Bill says there’s plenty of light. You can’t deny he has a beautiful, uninterrupted view of the street.

“What’s up with your beard?” says Bob.

“Here it doesn’t mean anything. Everyone has one.”

“And what about the kitchen? Where is it?”

“The condo has common areas, but in general I eat out.”

Bob notices the way Bill says “condo,” but lets it slide. Bill hurries to close the door, protecting himself from the hallway. Perhaps it’s a personal tic, but it could also be for safety. Bill lowers his voice.

“Well,” he says. “I suppose you already know?”

Bob holds back and lets him talk, watching him closely.

“They became very insistent,” continues Bill, “calling me into the consulate, until I had no choice but to go in. They were very friendly, the whole time. I knew what was coming though.”

Bob listens intently. Bill has slowed the rhythm of his breathing.

“We met up in a restaurant in Chinatown.”

“So, you went,” says Bob, clarifying.

“What could I do? They were sitting opposite each other and they said to me, ‘Look, Bill, we have reason to believe you two were involved in the attack on Letelier. This is very, very serious.’”

“What did you say?”

“I told them Letelier deserved it. That’s what I told them. But that, in any case, I for one had nothing to do with it.”

“What?”

Bob observes Bill. He notices the way he’s choosing his words, pays close attention to if he hesitates or reveals whether he’s lying or telling the truth.

“I made a mistake, Bob. I’m sorry. I swore to them that you weren’t involved either. They told me we’d have to swear to that in court, because even if they were communists or whatever, we were implicated in a murder in which two people died from a bomb blast and that that was a really rotten way to do it.”

“That’s what they said? Rotten?”

“No, Bob. They said it was a dirty trick. Cowardly.”

Bob tries to hide his worry. Bill watches how he reacts.

“Last night an agent called me again and said they were going to summon me before a Grand Jury in Washington.”

“Will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to turn yourself in over one fucking call from an FBI agent? You’re going to go to jail for a piece of paper? After all this?”

“I don’t know, Bob.”

“It could have been anyone, man, it could have been a joke.”

“I don’t know. They left me their card and they said: ‘if you can help us prove you weren’t involved, or that you weren’t there at all, I promise that I can help you.’”

“They don’t know a thing, Bill.”

“They know we were tailing Townley. He didn’t say that, but he suggested it. Maybe we should go in and try to negotiate with them, I don’t know, get some kind of deal, or immunity.”

“Maybe we should,” says Bob sarcastically. “But in exchange for what?”

“They want the names of everyone who was in the room at the Chateau Renaissance Motel.”

Bob looks Bill in the eyes. Bill shrugs. It makes him doubtful.

“What should I do? What should I tell them? Whatever we tell them could help us.”

“Whatever we tell them?”

Bob calibrates. It’s a polygraph test.

“Keep your mouth shut, Bill, that’s what you should do. Now pour me a drink.” Bob lowers his guard and Bill starts laughing as he closes the curtains.

“Do you have anything to drink here, or do I need to walk three blocks to the kitchen?”

“I nearly got you, Bob. You nearly fell for it.”

“Yeah, Bill. Yeah.”

“Don’t take it like that.”

“I’ll take it however I like. Have you got anything to drink?”

“I have gin.”

“Pour me one.”

Bill has left notes, papers, and traces of unproductiveness on the desk. It’s clear he’s developed some new hobbies. Bob resists his initial impulse and avoids looking at the papers, the same way he avoids looking at Bill when he talks to him from the bathroom. He holds forth and pisses with the door open, as if the space weren’t intimate enough already. Bob stays busy looking around the apartment. He notices four photographs displayed on a shelf, copies of the official portraits of the members of the Military Junta.

“Where did you get these?”

“Will you believe me if I tell you?” says Bill, interrupting his stream.

“Stop doing that.”

“Women appreciate it, Bob. Did you see that woman with Von Arnswaldt?”

Bob leans closer to look at the photos, then diverts his attention to the books. “Tejas verdes?”*

“You know what? You’re mentioned in it.”

“No. No way.”

“Relax, Bob. There are no microphones here, no telephones, nobody knows where you are. You know why?”

“No. Tell me.”

“Because here, nobody knows who we are. What’s more, if they need to find me, they have to call the front desk here. If someone comes for me, the concierge lets me know, which would give me plenty of time to escape through either of the stairwells. I’ve taken precautions, Bob.”

“Taken a few beers, too.”

“All done now,” says Bill, giving it a shake. He doesn’t flush, but at least he closes the toilet lid. He rinses a couple of tall glasses in the sink, where he keeps a box of teabags next to some detergent. He serves two large pours of cheap gin from an open bottle he keeps in the closet, which is also his pantry. Bob is still enthralled by the photos.

“Are you going to believe me or not?”

“Cheers, Bill. I don’t know, those photos look like originals.”

“They’re original replicas.”

“Ah. So, they’re copies.”

“No, Bob, they’re real. They’re the photos everyone had in their offices until last year. They’re copies, obviously, but originals.”

“Either they are, or they aren’t. Don’t get ahead of yourself just because you live here.”

Bob looks at the bedroom Bill calls an apartment.

“They’re official. They were given to me by the photographer himself.”

They were four colour lithographs developed from photographs taken by Leopoldo Víctor Vargas, Second Sergeant (NCO) of the Chilean Air Force, and which had been put up in every government office after the Military Coup in recognition of the new authorities. Vargas was almost mythical amongst the students at the Specialties Academy who were given to photography. He belonged to the first generation of Aerial Photographers who had graduated in Chile. He was assigned by his superiors to serve without uniform as the President’s official photographer during the last months of Arturo Alessandri’s mandate, throughout the whole Eduardo Frei Montalva era, the three years of Salvador Allende’s government (until his death), and then for the first months of the Military Junta. Vargas was a silent type and never bragged. Along with the official photos of the commanders-in-chief, he had also taken the official photo of President Allende—captured on the day he took his oath in the Red Room, sitting on a sofa against a backdrop of stars that were later eliminated in the darkroom—as well as a photo of his last signs of life, taken on the morning of September 11, 1973, when he was being bombarded from above in the La Moneda Presidential Palace by his former schoolmates.

Bob knows the story firsthand. That day when Vargas arrives at La Moneda the streets are empty except for troops taking up combat positions. He walks down Teatinos and is greeted by a Captain, Lieutenant, and Second Lieutenant from inside their respective tanks. They know him because he’s been working for the Presidency for years. On Moneda, he knocks on a smaller door inside a large gate that has remained locked since the assassination of General Schneider. A lieutenant from the Palace Guard opens the door.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to work.”

“Don’t you know what’s going on?”

The lieutenant has been confined to barracks. From inside, a .30 caliber machine gun is trained on him. The floor is littered with shells. Vargas walks quickly over to the Presidential Office of Information and Radio Broadcasting. He walks into the photography lab. The room is empty. He’s the first one to arrive, like always.

The phone rings and Vargas doesn’t know whether to answer. The phone rings insistently; its echo haunts him to this day. Even now, when he hears the phone, he feels his ears shrink as if by instinct, like an animal’s sphincter. He fears that if the sound continues, it might burst his eardrum. The phone rings and his own silence becomes unbearable. Vargas answers just to shut it up. He’s summoned to see the President.

“Comrade,” the President says to him. “You should be carrying a machine gun instead of your camera.” It was the only thing the President said to him that day.

By 10 a.m. nobody can enter La Moneda. Shortly beforehand, Allende instructs all uniformed troops to return to their barracks. Vargas goes back to the lab. He hands his camera and the freshly-taken roll of film to the assistant so it can be rewound and sent to the studio at 21 Amunátegui. There he shares an office with other photographers who work as independent photo journalists for newspapers and news agencies from Chile and abroad.

Vargas manages to slip away from La Moneda at the very moment a Sherman tank aims its turret at the Presidential Office. He runs toward the Ministry of Defense. In the distance he sees the Naval Aide-de-Camp and his chauffeur running. The chauffeur is felled by a gunshot. Vargas and the Aide-de-Camp take cover and wait. There are wounded people, everything happens very quickly. When he reaches the building’s surroundings, he finds himself in the middle of a shootout. The shots stop when a tank fires on the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Then, from inside the building, they respond with a volley of gunfire.

At the Ministry, Vargas reports for duty to the Commander-in-Chief of the Air Force. He is received by Colonel Eduardo Fornet, who was his professor at the Specialties Academy at the Chilean Air Force. He’s told to man the phones. The only call he receives is from Aurelio Celedón Palma, an uncle of Allende’s Air Force Aide-de-Camp, who wants to know how his nephew is. Vargas has no information. It’s dangerous to get too close to the windows, or to open the curtains. He waits alone by the telephone until night falls. He doesn’t call his wife until Colonel Fornet comes back and gives him permission. He tells her he’s fine, he tries to calm her down. The Colonel advises him to be discreet and to keep himself strictly to family matters.

After a decade in civvies, in the early hours of September 12, 1973, Vargas is issued a uniform, helmet, and Garant M2 submachine gun. He spends the night in the building and is assigned to the National Stadium the next day. In the photo known as “Registering the Prisoners,” Leopoldo Vargas is captured in action by the Dutch photographer Koen Wessing when, eleven days after the Coup, the Military Junta authorizes the first press visit and the first Red Cross visit to the National Stadium. The photo appears in the glossy middle pages of the books Chile, September 1973 and Photography: The Art of Making the Question Visible.


“When did you see Vargas?”

“At the consulate. I don’t know why, it seems like people think they have to go and report whatever it is they’ve been doing.”

“It’s incredible.”

“Until last year, he was studying infrared photography and remote sensors at the University of South Dakota. Now he’s gone back to Chile and he’s working in sales for the Aerial Survey Service. He gave the photos to the Consul as a gift, and the Consul asked me if I wanted them. Imagine that. Right in front of Vargas.”

“I thought he was dead,” says Bob.

“He’s been sick, it seems.”

“Yeah? I never heard about him again.”

“He remembers you well.”

“Did you talk about me?”

“I have something to confess, Bob.”

“What?”

“I had no idea what to say to him, so I told him I used to be his student.”

“You get yourself into trouble by talking too much.”

“I remembered some of your stories about him. You know, I knew them all.”

“But you’d never met him, Bill. How could he remember you?”

“That’s what I thought. How many people do we remember, Bob? Some good people, obviously the bad people, but what about the rest? We could have seen each other without either of us remembering. I absolutely could have been one of his many students.”

“That makes sense.”

“That’s what I thought. So, I gave him your name, because I thought it might work a little better. Turns out he remembered you. And then he wrote some really nice messages on the photos for me.”

“I don’t get it. Are they for me?”

“No, Bob, they’re really precious to me. I wouldn’t give them away for anything in the world. Vargas gave them to me that day and we’ve been writing to each other ever since. Sorry, Bob, I passed myself off as you. In any case you should thank me, because at this point, he really likes you. Cheers!”

“Cheers.”

“There were many things he no longer remembered. He really enjoys it when I tell him the stories you told me. You see why it worked? He doesn’t remember so well anymore, he’s old now. But he knows so much about photography.”

Bob resents being replaced like that. Vargas was someone he admired. He’s the one who went to his classes. Bob told Bill all those stories during the endless hours on stakeouts. If Bill felt anything when he picked up a camera, it’s because Bob showed him how. All his techniques, all his advice: if Bill knew anything about Vargas, it was because he’d heard it from Bob. If Bill wanted to follow in his footsteps, that wasn’t the same thing: Bob had bigger boots to fill.

“Thanks to a letter from him I was able to study film directing.”

“I don’t believe you, Bill. Seriously? You, a film director?”

“It’s just a few classes. I don’t know how you feel about it, Bob, but it seems to me like photography is becoming a bit stale.”

While he was taking photos of the prisoners to register them, the camera couldn’t protect Vargas. He feels dangerously overexposed and asks to be relieved from his post at the National Stadium, for personal reasons. The Colonel in charge says he understands, without knowing what it’s really all about. Vargas fears that something bad will happen to his family. He goes back to get the negatives taken on September 11 and hides them in his house in Maipú. He is reassigned as official photographer of the Presidency, which is now based in the Diego Portales Building, where the four members of the Junta run their government. Thirteen years ago, he worked directly under the mandate of Gustavo Leigh after the earthquake in Valdivia, in a special operation to contain the waters of the Riñihue River. At that time, Leigh was the commander of a helicopter squadron dedicated to support and search and rescue missions. Now, he was General of the Air and Commander-in-Chief of the Chilean Air Force. Vargas worked principally for Leigh, with whom he had maintained close and friendly relations since the disaster relief operation.

The presence of the undeveloped negatives in his house torments Vargas day and night. The potential danger they pose takes him back to that dark labyrinth every time he closes his eyes. He can’t stop replaying that moment—the gunshots, his inability to do anything, the camera in his hand instead of a machine gun. He’s drowning in what those negatives hide. One afternoon General Pinochet calls him in to his office. Vargas is paralysed. The chill running down his spine draws him into the banal abnormality of a nightmare. His skin breaks out in goose bumps, as if a ghost had just escaped his body. Vargas arrives at Pinochet’s office with his features as soft as a lamb.

“Sit down.”

Pinochet signs a letter from behind his desk. He doesn’t look up until he’s finished the signature. When he does, Vargas is unable to hold his gaze.

“So, you’re the photographer.”

Vargas fixes his eyes on the portrait of Diego Portales hanging behind the General. The fluorescent lights illuminating the new building create a sheen that hides the painting’s detail. Pinochet looks at Vargas while he folds the letter. He rests it on the table and presses over the folds again with his thumb, which seems bigger than his other fingers by a full bone. He pulls an envelope from the drawer and licks the sticky edge. Vargas draws back; from the corner of his eye he concentrates his gaze on the painting. He manages to remain distant while he’s interrogated. Pinochet asks him if it’s true that he has been a photographer for the past ten years in the President’s Office.

“I couldn’t say the opposite,” says Vargas.

“So it’s true, then.”

“It’s true.”

“So, you’re part of the furniture here,” says Pinochet. He puts the envelope in the drawer, which he leaves open. “Is it true what they used to say about Alessandri?”

“I don’t know what they used to say.”

“What did they used to say?”

“I don’t know, General. What did they used to say?”

“Huh? I don’t know what they used to say, that’s why I’m asking you. You were there, you tell me what they said. Is it true what they used to say about him?”

“I don’t know what they used to say about him, General. I only spent two months with him, I saw nothing.”

“You’re saying you saw nothing.”

“Nothing.”

“You were the photographer and you saw nothing.”

“Nothing at all, General.”

“Nothing at all. Good. And is it true what they used to say about the others?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything, General.”

“But is it true or is it not true?”

“I couldn’t say, General.”

“So, you’re saying it’s not true.”

“I don’t know for a fact, General. People say a lot of things. Maybe they’re true, maybe they’re not.”

“Best to hope they’re not true, right?”

“If that’s the way it is, best to hope they’re not.”

“But are they true or not?”

“Let’s hope not, General.”

“I believe you,” says Pinochet. “Let’s hope not.”

After a pause, Pinochet closes the drawer, stands up, and comes around behind Vargas. He asks Vargas why he hasn’t taken a photo of the four of them, when by this stage he’d taken photos of Frei and Allende. Perhaps he didn’t agree with the way they were running things? Vargas nearly loses all his hair, right there in the office. Pinochet places a hand on his shoulder.

“Come over here,” he says.

Pinochet guides him over to the door to show him the angle he thinks would be best for the photos. Soon they’d be publishing a declaration of the government’s principles, and the commanders-in-chief wished to accompany their words with some portraits. Pinochet was worried the others would try to impose their own ideas, which is why he wanted to know beforehand if Vargas thought his ideas about composition were good and not some kind of joke.

In black and white, from the entrance to each of the offices, Vargas takes the first official photos of the members of the Military Junta. These are the master copies from which the coloured lithographs were made and distributed to every government office in the country, and which Bill has on display above his bed. The night they were developed, Vargas finds an opportunity to make the first copies of the negatives he’s been hiding. Locked away in a darkroom in the basement, alone in the photography lab in the Diego Portales Building, he watches an intimate timeline develop of the events that transpired that morning at La Moneda. He thinks: these are the last moments of President Allende’s life.

He reveals the negatives in two different sizes and hangs the photos next to the others. They hang from a wire dripping with chemicals. Time drags on for an eternity; the paper dries. A shiver runs down the cable. He thinks: these are the last moments of my life. In his hands, the photos become dangerous. Days later, Vargas confides his secret to a colleague at the Photographer and Photojournalist’s Union whom he met working during Allende’s presidency. A few days later, the man tells him he’s found a buyer for his photos.

At the agreed time he arrives at a house in Vitacura. They bring him through to the living room, where a man from the United States is waiting for him. Vargas hands over the negatives and six 20 x 25 cm printed copies of the photos in exchange for three thousand dollars. On January 26, 1974, two of the photos are printed on the front page of the New York Times. In the Netherlands, one of them wins the prize for the best press photo of the year. The prize is awarded to an unknown photographer. In the meantime, Vargas continues working closely with the Junta and is involved in all the military government’s new publications. Shortly after, he asks for a transfer, for personal reasons, to his original unit in the Air Survey Service, based at the Cerrillos airport.

“I’m glad he’s still alive,” says Bob as he puts his glass down. “I didn’t think things would go well for him after General Leigh’s downfall.”

“Do you think I should tell him?”

“If he confused the two of us, it’s obvious he doesn’t remember me.”

“Don’t say that, Bob. Give me some credit.”

“Would you recognize me if I had a beard?”

Bill stops and looks at him for a moment. He realizes all of a sudden that time has passed. Bob is skinnier, his skin has turned hepatic and gray.

“I don’t know, Bob, it depends where you are. Why are you here?”

“For work,” he says. “I need you to arrange a meeting for me.”

Bill looks at his glass and raises an eyebrow.

“With Javiera?”

“I’m being serious. I need to meet with the Colombian courier. They sent me to the consulate with your photo. Do you have the key?”

“I understand what you need, Bob. I’ll sort it out with Franklin Barandyca, don’t worry.”

“Do you know him well?”

“I know him. He’s married to a Chilean.”

“Good.”

“Are you in a rush, or do you want a nightcap?”

Bob goes over to the window and leaves his glass on the table. He has a perfect view of his car, which is parked under the streetlight. The light illuminates the night through the curtains. There’s no one outside this late.

“Bill, you weren’t being serious, were you?”

“About what?”

“I’m asking you,” says Bob, “if you were joking?”

“What do you think, Bob? The photos are signed. You want to see them?”

Bob has to leave.

“I believe you, Bill.”

“One for the road?”

Bill holds up the bottle. There’s less than a third of the bottle left, although there’s plenty of ice in the machine down the hall.

“Thanks, Bill, but I have to get to work.”

*Tejas Verdes (Green Tiles) was a first-person account of Chilean concentration camps published in 1974 by Hernán Valdés.