It was definitely her. She'd even dotted an "i" with a smiley face, one of her personal trademarks.
Then I looked down the form. What I wanted was the address she'd put down as a destination in Guatemala.
The answer: "Ninos del Mundo, Peten Department."
My hopes sank. Great. That was like saying your address
is Children of the World, lost somewhere in the state of Montana.
The home address was equally vague. Just "New York." So much for the high level of curiosity at "Inmigracion."
However, the carbon copy of the landing card, which you're supposed to surrender when you leave, was not stapled to it, the way it was on all the others in the box. Naturally, since she'd left in a medevac plane, half dead.
"What does this mean?" I got up and walked over to the woman's desk, carrying the card. Mainly I just wanted to get a rise out of her. "The carbon copy is missing. Does that mean she could still be here?"
Red alert. She glanced at the arrival date a moment and her eyes froze. Then, doubtless with visions of another CIA scandal looming in her consciousness, she brusquely announced that the office was getting ready to close for the day.
"You'll have to pursue any further inquiries through the American embassy, Mrs. James, which handles all matters concerning U.S. nationals."