Colombiano

  When the army battalion at Puerto Bontón stopped taking Alfa 1’s calls, he instructed Beta to give a new class to the junior commanders: what to do if caught by government forces.

  ‘If captured, don’t say anything!’ Beta instructed. ‘Just sit tight. We’ll find you and get you out.’

  Culebra added his agreement. ‘We’re in this together. And remember that this,’ he said, slapping two fingers against the anaconda tattoo encircling his neck, ‘is forever.’

  That night I turned my back to the mirror and looked over my shoulder at my own tattoo. Although it was permanent I didn’t want my life in the Autodefensas to be forever. If the government’s plan succeeded and the Guerrilla demobilised, it might be safe for Mamá and me to return to the finca. The problem was that I didn’t think the plan would succeed. And in the meantime, we were all stuck protecting our senior commanders rather than fighting the Guerrilla like we were supposed to.

  Over the next week, whenever I returned to base, I read newspapers, watched television and listened to radio reports, hoping to see or hear Santiago again. The country was awash with the news of the potential peace talks. The international community was showing interest in brokering the deal.

  According to Alfa 1, in thirty years of fighting, this was the Guerrilla’s smartest play yet. They’d convinced everyone that they were ready for peace and eventual participation in the democratic process. But we knew better. The communists’ power was growing, and if the President granted them their demilitarised zone – a land area the size of Switzerland – he might as well hand them Colombia on a plate.

  I cut out a photo of Santiago from the newspaper, enlarged it several times on the office photocopier and stapled it to a plywood target on the pistol range. Alfa 1 found me shooting at dusk. Rather than scolding me for wasting La Empresa’s resources, he’d brought his own rifle and box of ammunition.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, taking aim at Santiago. ‘Make me a hundred more copies.’

  We stood side by side, taking it in turns to shoot until it was dark.

  ‘You’ve come a long way, Pedro,’ he said to me as we gathered our empty shells and headed back. ‘And you hate the Guerrilla almost as much as I do.’

  ‘If we catch Santiago,’ I said. ‘Let me kill him myself.’

  ‘Fine.’ Alfa 1 sounded amused. ‘He’s yours.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  We’d reached the container, and in the overhead light he saw that I was serious.

  He nodded. ‘As a reward for your loyalty.’

  But I wasn’t as loyal as he thought. Inside the armoury, I now identified various spare parts from decommissioned Galils and readied them for assembly into a complete, functioning rifle – exactly as I had with the Taurus.

  This time it was easy. I knew my way around the container and spare parts box better than anyone. I outranked the new recruit assigned to the container – he had no right to question me.

  In fact, the next time I was sent on an errand to Puerto Bontón I walked out of the container carrying the assembled Galil in plain view of the commanders and placed it openly in the back of the Blazer next to mine. Culebra waved to me. I smiled back. The gate guards didn’t comment on the second rifle.

  But as I wrapped the Galil in plastic and buried it in the garbage pit, I realised why I didn’t feel as happy as I had when I’d succeeded in stealing the Taurus.

  This time I wasn’t breaking the commanders’ rules; I was breaking their trust.

  While the commanders fretted about being raided and arrested, my own greatest fear concerned Palillo and Piolín. At La 50 they were careful, but when we were patrolling they now did everything together. Veneno, in particular, paid close attention, perhaps looking for an opportunity to undermine my authority.

  One night Piolín had a headache and Palillo promised to do her guard duty for her without first requesting my permission. To make a point and not show favouritism, I refused to allow it. Around midnight, however, I was woken by her giggling. Palillo was sitting with her at the guard post, whispering. I took him aside.

  ‘I specifically said no.’

  ‘There’s no rule against doing voluntary guard duty. Two sets of eyes are better than one.’

  ‘Not if both sets of eyes are distracted.’ With Palillo completely unrepentant, I could no longer turn a blind eye. I needed to find out how far their relationship had progressed. ‘Palillo, have you slept with her?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I felt relieved – maybe he would listen to reason. But his next comment made my jaw drop.

  ‘Adriana isn’t easy like other girls.’

  ‘Adriana? Her name is Piolín. You need to call her Piolín.’

  ‘She doesn’t like being named after Tweetie. She’s not a cartoon character.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Palillo. You’re losing focus and it’s jeopardising everyone’s safety. I’m going to have to tell Alfa 1 about this.’

  ‘You can’t be serious! I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Then Piolín arrived from her guard post. She placed a hand on Palillo’s shoulder. ‘I’m free to choose who I want. And I’ve chosen Palillo.’

  Seeing the two of them standing there together, backing each other up, I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t risk Alfa 1 splitting them up simply because they were making my job difficult.

  ‘Okay, but this is your final warning. If either of you disobey me again, I’ll ask Alfa 1 what he thinks of your relationship.’

  ‘Fine!’ said Palillo. ‘We’ll be more careful.’

  However, four days later, still patrolling the perimeter of La 50, Palillo fell and landed hard on his back. Piolín rushed to offer him her hand.

  ‘Are you okay, mi amor?’

  At least six people heard those words – my love. Immediately realising her error, Piolín gasped and flushed. Palillo tried to cover for her by making a joke.

  ‘Do you mean the love of your life or the love of your week?’

  But the damage was done. Those two words had given Veneno all the evidence he needed.

  67

  AT FIRST, NOTHING happened. We continued our patrol, there were no more slip-ups, and we were granted two days of rest leave. Culebra was now the senior-ranking commander at La 50, while Alfa 1 and Beta remained hidden uphill at Trigeño’s personal farm.

  One afternoon, an army truck covered with a green tarpaulin – the same one that had been used to return the five deserters – arrived at the gates. Behind the steering wheel sat the same flat-faced man, Lieutenant Alejandro.

  Culebra told me that the lieutenant wanted to speak privately to Alfa 1 on a matter of national security. Culebra had sent for Alfa 1, but in the meantime I was to show our visitor to the commanders’ quarters.

  I climbed into the truck’s cabin and Alejandro drove around the camp’s outskirts before reversing up to the door of the dormitory. Without asking permission, he searched inside the room before returning and peeling back a tiny corner of the truck’s tarpaulin.

  ‘It’s clear,’ he whispered.

  I watched in astonishment as a wrinkled male hand emerged from the dark interior and gripped the wooden grill. Then the corner of the tarpaulin was thrust outwards to reveal a silver-haired man wearing an immaculate green officer’s uniform. His buttons shone and his black leather shoes were polished to perfection. My mouth fell open as the sun glinted off a row of medals pinned to his chest and the metal stars that graced his epaulets. Standing before me was a three-star general of the Colombian National Army.

  Even for a three-star general, there is no dignified way to climb out of the back of a truck. Lieutenant Alejandro offered his hand. The general waved him away and jumped down. Once on the ground, he preened himself like a fussy bird, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves and pulling down his jacket to straighten it. Then he removed his hat, tucked it under his arm and stepped into the dormitory, followed by Alejandro.

  I introduced myself and offered the general a cha
ir.

  ‘I’ll stand, joven,’ he stated defiantly. ‘Where’s Captain Murillo?’

  Alfa 1’s voice boomed from the doorway. ‘That’s Alfa 1, General Itagüí, now that I’m no longer under your command.’

  I realised who the general must be – Alfa 1’s former chief, the one who’d discharged him from the army for human rights abuses.

  ‘Good to see you, Alfa 1,’ said the general cautiously.

  Alfa 1 sauntered into the room, followed by Beta and Culebra. ‘It’s good to see you too, General, being smuggled around in the back of a truck. Ever heard of a phone?’

  ‘It’s this peace process. Our phone lines are monitored and I can’t be discovered communicating with the Autodefensas at such a critical juncture.’

  Itagüí told us that the President had forbidden the army from going after the enemy. Eighteen generals had already resigned.

  ‘But I’ve spent thirty years risking my life for this county. I have to keep fighting the Guerrilla in any way I can.’ The general nodded to Lieutenant Alejandro, who left the room and returned with two heavy cardboard boxes. ‘To that end, I’m providing you with our intelligence on the Guerrilla. Details of their command structure, transcripts of radio and phone intercepts, and satellite images from the North Americans.’

  I was stunned. My hopes of tracking down all Papá’s killers, not just Zorrillo, reignited.

  The general unfurled an aerial photograph of dense jungle with several rivers cutting through it. ‘Somewhere in this area, our analysts believe there’s an important base that may house up to five hundred guerrilleros. We’re under strict orders not to attack while peace talks continue, but you, on the other hand …’

  Since the Autodefensas didn’t legally exist, the peace process didn’t bind us. We could do the army’s dirty work for them while they obeyed the ceasefire.

  Itagüí had one condition for his offering: no copies were to be made. He’d already photocopied his originals and marked a green triangular stamp over the text in the middle of each page. If our copies fell into the hands of the Fiscalía – the Public Attorney’s Office – or the press, the general would know the leak had come from us.

  ‘If all goes well, you can expect more of this. One good thing might come of this peace process after all. For thirty years we’ve known next to nothing about the Guerrilla high commanders. But if the politicians grant them their demilitarised zone, they’ll have to show their faces. And we’ll be there recording every intonation of their voices, collecting each fingerprint left on a mug and storing every hair that falls from their heads. Anything we find we’ll pass on to you. Someone has to continue this war while we can’t.’

  The general extended his hand to be shaken. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  Alfa 1 paused, and I remembered how proud he was. His discharge from the army had scarred his life. ‘You come here asking for my help,’ he began, ‘and yet …’

  Itagüí’s hand became a fist. ‘I won’t beg, Captain Murillo, you son of a bitch!’

  Alfa 1 laughed and gripped his hand around Itagüí’s fist. ‘That’s what I like. A bit of the old fight!’ Their eyes met and they smiled then shook hands.

  Alfa 1 ordered Beta to fill two glasses with aguardiente.

  ‘To peace,’ Alfa 1 proposed, holding up his glass.

  ‘To peace and war,’ countered General Itagüí, clinking his glass against it. ‘Since one can only be purchased at the price of the other.’

  They drained their shots. Then Alfa 1 walked his guests outside to their truck.

  ‘I have one more present for you,’ said the general. He ripped back the truck’s tarpaulin. A man in camouflage uniform lay flat on his stomach with a blue pillowcase over his head. His wrists were bound and a long rope was tied around his neck. A soldier sat with a rifle trained on the prisoner and a boot on his spine.

  ‘We captured this hijueputa in Puerto Vallarta waiting for a food drop that we intercepted,’ explained the general. ‘He’s admitted to being a guerrillero, but hasn’t said much else. We think he might know about that big base, or at least a smaller, half-way base that supplies it.’

  The guard now ordered the prisoner out, jabbing him in the ribs with the muzzle of his rifle and forcing him to grope his way blindly over the back of the truck.

  The general nodded to Alejandro, who removed the pillowcase to reveal a blindfolded man in his twenties. He had a thick beard and smelled as though he hadn’t washed for several weeks. The general ripped off the blindfold.

  ‘He hates us taking this off. The Guerrilla have brainwashed him into thinking that if he sees our faces, we’ll have to kill him. But after thirty days, the law requires me to either hand my prisoner to the Fiscalía for charges or release him. Those thirty days are up.’ The general cut the man’s bindings. ‘I’m hereby releasing him from government custody without so much as a scratch on his face.’

  The general held the front page of that day’s newspaper under the man’s chin while Lieutenant Alejandro took a photo as proof that their prisoner was in good condition on the date they released him.

  ‘What do you mean I’m released?’ said the guerrillero. He opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly against the light.

  ‘I mean you’re free to go wherever you can!’ declared General Itagüí, patting him on the back. Then he climbed into the truck and drew the tarpaulin across.

  As the guerrillero heard the truck rattling towards the gate, his eyesight began to adjust. He squinted around cautiously, taking in the vast plains and rustic farm buildings. Joy spread across his face. He must have thought he’d been dumped on a finca in the middle of nowhere and could walk to safety. Then he saw us. When he spotted our black armbands with the white letters AUC, all colour drained from his face.

  Suddenly, the guerrillero bolted, sprinting after the truck’s dust trail, his rope leash swishing in the dirt behind him like a startled snake. Beta gave chase and stamped on the rope, jerking the prisoner to a halt by his neck. The man fell backwards, choking. Beta tightened the rope and forcibly marched him over to stand before Alfa 1.

  ‘What do we do with this one, jefe?’ he asked, drawing his serrated hunting knife. ‘I think he saw my face. Yours too.’

  But Alfa 1 shook his head. He didn’t go in for unnecessary cruelty.

  ‘Put that away! We phone Trigeño. If this man knows about their mother base, it could change everything.’

  An hour later, as Trigeño’s helicopter landed, the President was announcing the appointment of a High Commissioner for Peace who would ensure that negotiations were fair, transparent and free of corruption. But with the Autodefensas and army backed into a corner, the start of the squeaky-clean peace process signalled the beginning of an even dirtier phase of the war.

  68

  TRIGEÑO’S EYES WERE red-rimmed and his face looked haggard. On seeing the assembled junior commanders waiting outside the office, he frowned.

  ‘This had better be good!’ he said to Alfa 1, who beckoned him into the office.

  ‘It is, comando.’

  Five minutes later, Trigeño opened the door smiling and invited us inside.

  We crammed into the office, perching on chairs and desks, leaning against the wall or sitting on the floor. Trigeño stood against the far wall next to a large whiteboard. Alfa 1, Beta and Culebra were ranged alongside him.

  ‘I have exciting news,’ he began. ‘We’ve received new intelligence about the existence of a large Guerrilla base. With your help, I’ve decided to restructure La Empresa. Our aim is to expand operations, locate this base and launch an attack.’

  The junior commanders murmured amongst themselves – this was indeed big news. For the past month we’d been bunkered down. Now Trigeño was ordering us to go on the offensive.

  He asked us to call out suggestions and assigned a scribe to write them on the whiteboard. Then Trigeño catapulted into action – talking, pacing, questioning and spinning on his heel. It was hard not to get caught up
in his enthusiasm. We hadn’t even located the base yet, but his certainty made everything seem possible.

  To attack the base, we’d need more soldiers. Recruiters were to double their efforts – he’d pay fifty per cent more per boy delivered. Additional trainers would be recalled from patrolling remote villages since Trigeño required three more intakes to be trained by the end of the year.

  ‘Impossible, comando,’ protested Alfa 1. ‘It’s already June and each course takes four months.’

  ‘Then shorten the courses or double the intake sizes. Just get me more soldiers!’

  ‘Even fully trained soldiers will be useless without weapons.’

  To the list of suggestions were added rifles and munitions, more pistols for commanders and two additional shipping containers.

  ‘We’ll also need four new dormitories, piping and showers, hammocks, chairs and tables, uniforms, boots, two more SUVs …’

  Once Trigeño had started, he didn’t pause for breath and the scribe struggled to keep up. He leaped from one idea to the next like a monkey swinging through the high canopy, launching himself clear of one branch without knowing where his next handhold was, but with the supreme confidence that he would never fall.

  ‘And someone call my accountant! I need these expenditures approved.’

  Two minutes later, Silvestre relayed a message for Trigeño: his accountant wanted to know where the money for all this was coming from.

  Trigeño snatched the phone from his grasp. ‘Find it!’ he yelled into the handset. ‘I don’t care how! Call around for donations.’

  I’d never heard anyone talk like that. And I’d never heard of money just being ‘found’; Papá always said plata didn’t grow on trees. But for Trigeño, the word ‘no’ didn’t exist and the phrase ‘I can’t’ might be a man’s last. Within thirty minutes, he’d filled three whiteboards.

  From now on Alfa 1 would dedicate his energies to military strategy: analysing the army’s data, supervising reconnaissance to find the Guerrilla base and planning an operation against it. Culebra was appointed head trainer at La 50. Beta would become head of ‘intelligence gathering’.