Colombiano

  This was the truth according to Palillo: ‘The alternator was repaired early, so you didn’t think Alfa 1 would mind if you took the vehicle to visit your sick mother. You paid for the gasoline yourself and you’re sorry for the scratch – you’re happy to pay for it.’

  My first conversation with Alfa 1 went exactly as Palillo predicted.

  ‘Welcome back, Pedro,’ he said, slapping me on the back. ‘Nice vacation?’

  Seeing the commanders’ faces, I realised Palillo was right – I’d gotten away with it. I’d gotten away with murder.

  With my anxiety gone, I had time to reflect clearly on what I’d done. Of course, I didn’t regret killing Ratón – not for a single moment. Nor did I regret killing his bodyguard – he was a guerrillero and deserved to die. But I didn’t feel satisfied. I hadn’t killed Ratón the way I’d planned – the same way the Guerrilla executed Papá. I hadn’t performed my ritual. And Ratón had died too quickly. There had been no chance for him to acknowledge the wrong he’d done or to accept that he needed to die for justice to be served.

  Even worse, I’d been unable to extract information on where to find Papá’s remaining killers.

  Now, as the others started returning to base, it occurred to me that in my search for Caraquemada, Zorrillo, Santiago and the blond-haired boy I was back at the very beginning. I knew their names but little more. However, I knew where the Taurus was buried. And I vowed next time not to make the same mistakes.

  PART FOUR

  WORKING FOR THE COMPANY

  61

  ON SUNDAY EVENING, I watched truckloads of returning troops pour onto base. It was late March – the final month of the dry season. The earth was brown and hard and dry, and the water level at La Quebrada was low enough for heavy trucks to cross.

  Soon we’d form our squads and start patrolling the countryside, but in the meantime the base was being expanded to accommodate a larger intake of recruits. A forklift was unloading a blue forty-foot shipping container from a semi-trailer. It contained an industrial deep-freezer, gas cookers, toilets, washbasins and bags of cement. But my work provisioning the camp was over and a new boy had been assigned as Culebra’s assistant.

  While ordinary soldiers helped construct two new dormitories and another toilet block, we junior commanders would complete a ten-day crash course in pistol handling. After that, we’d receive the rest of our advanced training during breaks between patrols.

  Commanders now treated us more civilly. We no longer had to salute them constantly or say comando twice per sentence. Gone also were their punishments. Alfa 1 was almost polite.

  ‘Please form up!’ he yelled on Monday morning after breakfast. ‘Commanders out the front.’

  I lined up with the other newly promoted soldiers – seven from our course and five who’d been promoted from existing ranks. We stood expectantly, facing the troops.

  ‘Attention!’ yelled Alfa 1. ‘Eyes to the front! Salute!’

  The salute was for Trigeño. He’d come by road, accompanied by fifteen bodyguards. As he strode onto the parade ground, I remembered him on his first visit, weaving between lines of recruits and shooting boys to punctuate his speech.

  Today, however, Trigeño was not the crazy-eyed lunatic who had forced Tango to shoot his own brother. He was light-hearted, even jovial, shaking hands with each of us junior commanders in turn.

  Then he leaped dramatically onto a crate to address the assembled troop.

  ‘An army without leaders is like a headless snake,’ he announced, his voice carrying easily across the still, dry air. ‘It will thrash about wildly, but eventually die. These men will guide you and, in return, you must obey their orders and be willing to sacrifice yourselves in their defence.’

  These words had a profound effect on me. Surveying the rows of fierce-looking soldiers, I felt completely safe for the first time in months.

  ‘Can anyone tell me a man’s greatest weakness?’ asked Trigeño.

  Silvestre raised his hand. ‘His carotid artery.’

  Trigeño shook his head.

  ‘His pressure points,’ guessed Pirata.

  ‘His testicles,’ cried Palillo from the safety of the back row.

  ‘No,’ Trigeño said, smiling and holding up his hands until our chuckles subsided. ‘A man of war’s greatest weakness is also what he values most – his family. Every Guerrilla commander hides behind a chapa and an alias. But if we discover his full name, it will lead us to his date and place of birth, to his parents and his friends. Maybe he has an ex-wife he phones at Christmas. Maybe he writes to his children who attend university in Mexico.’ Trigeño scanned our faces to ensure we were following. ‘Family is your enemy’s greatest weakness. But it is also yours.’

  Trigeño continued his speech, exalting the virtues of loyalty, courage and service to the nation, but I was only half listening. His words about family had struck a nerve, and I couldn’t stop thinking of Mamá, and of the mess I’d left behind in Llorona. I’d upset a Guerrilla nest and run off, leaving others to suffer the consequences.

  Of course, the Guerrilla had no proof against me. One of Buitrago’s patrols might have discovered their weapons. The graffiti might have been painted by the Autodefensas recruiters from Garbanzos. Nevertheless, my presence in Llorona and sudden disappearance made me a suspect. And if they’d killed Papá simply because I’d spoken to Paramilitary recruiters, what might they do to Mamá if they deduced I’d stolen their weapons?

  After Alfa 1 ordered the troop to fall out, Trigeño led the twelve new commanders on a walking tour of La 50.

  ‘This farm is where I grew up,’ he began. He pointed to one of the boys’ dormitories. ‘That was the milking shed.’ Then he pointed to the girls’ dormitory and the trainers’ quarters. ‘That was where farmhands slept, and that was the stable. And here …’ He stopped on the bank of La Quebrada and his face became grave. ‘Here was where the Guerrilla shot my father. They’d come to kidnap him, but he and my brother saw them and fled. They were running through this creek when the Guerrilla opened fire. The bullet struck my father in the spine. Gracias a Díos, he died instantly and my brother escaped, hiding in scrub over that hill. But they left my father’s body in the dirt like that of a dead dog.’ Trigeño’s voice faltered. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.’

  None of us said a word. But after hearing this I felt we had something in common. Every time he crossed that creek, he must have relived his father’s death, just as I relived Papá’s.

  ‘I had two choices,’ continued Trigeño, regaining his composure. ‘Stay here and fight, or flee. The land and house had been in our family for generations. How could I turn it over to men who would rather steal at gunpoint than do an honest day’s work?’

  Trigeño suspected some of his own farmhands had tipped off the Guerrilla about his father’s movements. He hired loyal men to infiltrate them and identify the culprits. Meanwhile, he convened a meeting of local landowners and asked them to join his fight against the communist subversivos. Trigeño paid farmhands double wages to risk their lives as armed security guards. He enlisted the army to assist with military training. Word reached the Guerrilla, making him a target. However, Trigeño found the traitors one by one and drove the Guerrilla out of the region. He didn’t specify how he achieved this, merely saying that one led to another and the region was cleansed of communists.

  ‘I was protecting not only my family’s land but the entire community. Witnessing my success, many landowners sent me money, rifles and men. There was no shortage of volunteers, especially among those who’d lost relatives to the Guerrilla.’

  I now found myself admiring Trigeño. Starting with nothing except anger and willpower, he’d formed his own private army. When I’d joined, it had numbered only five hundred soldiers but was growing rapidly. Of course, all around Colombia, other landowners were building similar militias to defend themselves against Guerrilla incursions. However, Trigeño’s real genius was not in multiplying h
is own forces but in uniting these disparate, independent armies under one single banner: The United Self-Defence Forces of Colombia. He was doing exactly what I wanted to do, only on a far grander scale. Trigeño’s pursuit of justice was not personal. It was national.

  That night, I called Mamá from my new cell phone: each junior commander had been issued with one, together with an untraceable SIM card. From these we were allowed to make personal calls, provided they didn’t clash with our duties.

  ‘With privilege comes responsibility,’ Culebra stated as he handed them out. ‘So please, be discreet.’

  I rang Uncle Leo’s number and felt relieved when Mamá answered.

  ‘Pedro?’ Her voice sounded small and hurt, and my relief turned to guilt. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mamá. There was an emergency at work. They needed the truck.’

  The lie tripped uneasily off my tongue. After discovering her glassware on Leo’s doorstep Mamá must have known I’d visited the finca. Possibly she’d heard about the graffiti I’d written. Remembering, however, how she’d failed to tell me about the damage rekindled my anger.

  ‘You got your glassware?’ I asked coolly. ‘Everything else was destroyed, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, hijo. I should have told you. But I knew you’d do something foolish.’

  ‘So you heard about my tidying up at the finca?’

  Mamá paused, perhaps wondering whether this was a conversation she wanted to have. If she acknowledged my graffiti, she’d be openly recognising that I’d joined the Autodefensas. And then she’d either have to agree to support me or try to stop me.

  Her sigh of resignation told me she preferred to continue feigning ignorance.

  ‘Just as long as you’re safe, Pedro. That’s all I care about.’

  Camila was not so easy to pacify. It was worse than last time. Last time I’d had good reason to leave. Last time I’d at least written her a note. This time, I’d driven off in anger and without making up for our fight. When I phoned, Camila’s father told me she was out, even though it was a school night. She was also ‘out’ when I called the following afternoon, and again after dinner.

  Finally, I told Señor Muñoz I wouldn’t take no for an answer. When Camila came to the phone she was angry, but there was no question that we were still together.

  ‘Why did you lie to me, Pedro?’

  ‘Why did you lie to me?’

  She, too, had known about the Guerrilla vandalism and kept it from me.

  ‘I was afraid of how you’d react. I was trying to protect you.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  That helped her understand. We’d both lied. We were both trying to protect each other. Deep down she’d always known that I’d joined the Autodefensas with Palillo.

  ‘I thought that after you spoke to Colonel Buitrago …’

  ‘Buitrago’s useless.’

  I told her how the Guerrilla had used our finca as a lookout post – probably in order to bomb the police garrison and kill the police boy – and about their weapons cache hidden in my bedroom that could have been used for further attacks against our town. When Camila heard how I’d resurrected Papá’s cross because they’d shot it up, she had no further argument.

  ‘This is something I have to do,’ I told her. ‘It’s not going away by itself.’

  Camila understood. With Guerrilla power growing in Llorona and starting to affect the whole population – not just landowners and businessmen – something had to be done. She just wished I wasn’t the one to be doing it.

  Of course, things would be difficult for us. I had only two weeks leave every four months. But we reached an agreement that was the opposite of the one I had with Mamá.

  ‘No more lying?’

  She sniffed her acceptance. We’d wait for each other.

  ‘But, Pedro, aren’t you worried about the cross? They might guess it was you.’

  ‘It’s done now. Anyway, I’m here. They’re over there. They can’t touch me.’

  Uneasily, I remembered Mamá but quickly quashed the thought.

  ‘Be careful. And call me whenever you can. I need to know you’re alive.’

  With forgiveness from Mamá and Camila, perhaps I, too, should have forgiven. But I couldn’t forgive. Neither Papá’s killers, nor myself.

  62

  AFTER TALKING WITH Camila, I felt very alone. Hearing her voice at the end of a phone line reminded me that I was again hundreds of kilometres from the people I loved, and it took little time for my mind to turn to the men responsible for that separation.

  Ratón was dead, but the other four were still breathing. There was the blond-haired boy who’d tackled me and forced me to watch my father’s death – I’d recognise him if I saw him but knew nothing else about him, not even his name. Santiago, the commander who’d ordered my father’s execution, bore the ultimate responsibility, but to me he was merely a name relayed through Ratón’s radio.

  My most intense hatred was for Caraquemada, the man with the glass eye and half-burned face. With a single shot, he’d stolen Papá from me, and I would make him pay. But I hated Zorrillo, Caraquemada’s second-in-command, with almost equal ferocity. It was Zorrillo who, from sheer spite, had forbidden Papá’s burial and banned us from our finca. He was responsible for my having to flee. And he was the reason Mamá was living in poverty, sleeping on her brother’s sofa.

  I loathed Caraquemada and Zorrillo with every lungful of air and every painful throb of my heart. During Beta’s first pistol-shooting class I superimposed mental images of both men’s faces onto the life-size plywood targets at the shooting range and dedicated alternating bullets to each of them.

  ‘Your pistol will be of no use during battle,’ Beta instructed us. ‘But keep it on you at all times. Never get caught alive by the Guerrilla. They kill ordinary soldiers on the spot. But if you have one of these …’ He pushed up his sleeve to reveal his python tattoo. The implication was obvious. If captured by our enemy, my viper tattoo would guarantee a protracted and painful death.

  I fired three times in rapid succession. Bang! I shot Caraquemada in the wrist. Bang! I shot Zorrillo in the knee. Bang! I shot Caraquemada in the shoulder.

  ‘No! No! No!’ screamed Beta. ‘You’re doing it wrong.’

  But I’d hit where I’d aimed. The wrist. The knee. The shoulder.

  I’d learned from my mistakes. In future, I’d shoot to immobilise Papá’s murderers until I could drag them somewhere quiet and deliver my speech. Unfortunately, without the information I’d expected from Ratón, I had no leads on where to find them.

  My only hope was that there might be something on Caraquemada or Zorrillo in the Autodefensa intelligence files. After all, that was how I’d found Ratón.

  That night, I checked the safe. Since my promotion, I no longer had to ask permission to enter the office. The commanders trusted me – I was one of them.

  I removed the pile of manila folders, laid them on the table and flipped through them one by one, slowly at first, and then with increasing desperation. There was nothing on Zorrillo or Caraquemada. It shouldn’t have surprised me. They operated well outside Trigeño’s protectorate. In Ratón’s case, I’d been lucky: since he travelled to Villavicencio for supplies, he’d appeared on our radar. I replaced the files, slammed the safe shut and slumped into a chair, holding my face in my hands.

  It was only a week since I’d shot Ratón, but already I was brimming with frustration. And that frustration continued to mount as I was told to choose half of the squad that I was to lead into the remote regions of Los Llanos – hundreds of kilometres in the opposite direction from Papá’s killers.

  63

  ALFA 1 INSISTED THAT each squad contain a mix of new graduates and more experienced soldiers. He’d already chosen four members of mine. Ñoño had been selected before my leave – since I’d saved him during the obstacle course, he was now my responsibility.

  Fortunately, Ñoño had forgiven me for
shooting him. Palillo’s explanation that I knew about the blanks made sense. Ñoño even seemed embarrassed to have believed a witch’s spell could stop bullets.

  ‘So we’re good?’ I asked Ñoño, feeling guilty about lying.

  ‘You saved me then you shot me,’ he joked, ‘so I guess we’re even.’

  Alfa 1’s other picks for my squad were Yucca – a boy from our course who was slow to learn and kept mainly to himself – and Giraldo and Veneno, who I’d yet to meet. They were older than me and had already been patrolling for three years.

  When it came to my own choices, the first two were easy. Palillo I could count on without question. He was in good spirits as he helped construct the new dormitories, flirting and joking with Piolín.

  ‘Did you miss me?’ he asked her.

  ‘Why would I miss you? I hardly even know you.’

  ‘If you knew me, you’d miss me. I’m addictive, like chocolate,’ he said, sliding a Snickers bar into her breast pocket, which made her smile.

  MacGyver was my second choice. Before joining the Autodefensas, he’d served two years in the army, so he had experience with weapons and had a few battles to his credit. MacGyver had no leadership aspirations and wasn’t envious of my promotion. He simply wanted to keep a low profile and stay as far away from the senior commanders as possible. I still didn’t know what he’d done to be sent back to basic training, but it must have been serious. All he’d said was that repeating four months of your life was better than losing it altogether.

  My third choice was Coca-Cola. He was my age, and ever since his El Volteo punishment on the first day, he’d obeyed every command.

  I hesitated over my fourth and final pick. I needed a team player who was intelligent and capable and wouldn’t flout my authority. Finally, having made my decision, I went to see Alfa 1 and had my choices approved.

  At lunch I fell in step with Palillo as we walked towards the mess hall.