This meant Felix was completely jodido, but it also meant he didn’t hide his hatred for the Guerrilla. In fact, from the way he talked so openly and angrily about them, I figured he might be prepared to take risks. And luckily, since he’d never married, he had no family to worry about.
I leaned forward and lowered my voice. ‘Zorrillo needs to go.’
He leaned forward also. ‘How would you do it?’
‘One man: me. One shot: from a distance. No risk to you.’
‘But exactly how and where?’
‘You’d phone him and set up a meeting.’
‘I’d call that a risk. If you fail, he’ll know it was me. If you succeed, his commanders will investigate.’
‘Then tell me when and where he comes to collect the money.’
‘He no longer does. They phone me to say how much I need to have ready. A courier comes to collect it – usually a kid.’ Felix reached under his desk and lifted a shoebox. He flicked open the lid to reveal wads of small denomination bills wrapped in rubber bands. ‘Stick around for a while and you’ll see for yourself.’
I spent the next twenty minutes with my forehead pressed against the interior window of Felix’s darkened adjoining office, peering through a narrow slit between the venetian blinds. I was disappointed that Don Felix couldn’t help me set up an ambush for Zorrillo, but curious to see what would happen next. Finally, I heard a knock and one of the bodyguards opened the door. The vacuna collector was a boy of about eleven, wearing ripped jeans. Felix’s bodyguards frisked him, but he was unarmed and far too small to be a soldier.
I doubted they’d send a child without someone at least watching over him. Through a gap in the curtains of the office’s external window, I scanned the bus terminal wondering where his senior was. Another boy of about thirteen was standing back against the far wall, sipping a can of Fanta.
Don Felix handed over the shoebox. The boy was so confident and cheeky he even shook hands and said gracias. The whole process took less than thirty seconds. Felix and his bodyguards watched him go. It disgusted me. Three grown men – two of them armed – defenceless against a little boy. Felix shook his head wretchedly.
Later he explained everything. The Guerrilla had refined extortion to factory-line efficiency. One squad conducted intelligence on a business – watching its offices, counting customers and estimating turnover. Another squad phoned the owner to quantify the payment amount. A third squad collected, although the Guerrilla’s urban militia were too shrewd to do the collection themselves – they outsourced it to children. And a fourth squad did ‘enforcement’ in the event of default.
Felix could do nothing in response. Informing the authorities or shooting the collectors would only get his offices bombed, more of his buses torched or Felix himself assassinated. Even in Garbanzos, where the Guerrilla weren’t as strong, he still had to pay. It was a clever system. Striking at any one of the independent parts of the chain – particularly a child who wasn’t even part of the Guerrilla – would have little effect and yet would have severe repercussions.
Witnessing this from the neighbouring office was like being trapped behind steel bars watching someone slowly drown. Only it wasn’t a person drowning. It wasn’t even a family business. It was an entire country. And I felt powerless to stop it.
I followed the boy with the shoebox, hoping he might lead me to Zorrillo. He cut around the corner behind the bus terminal and squeezed through a gap in the crumbling wall of an abandoned lot. Then he must have sprinted into the trees, because when I reached the gap he’d vanished. When I returned, the boy in the terminal was gone also. I knocked on Don Felix’s door, figuring he’d been helpful and hoping he might know more.
‘Where else can I find Zorrillo?’
‘Try Santo Paraíso. The cocaine markets operate there every Saturday at Flora’s Cantina. You’ll probably find Caraquemada too.’
‘Too risky,’ I said, recalling my abortive attempt on Ratón.
‘Then I can only suggest you follow the dirty money trail.’
‘Which dirty money trail?’
‘The one that flows to and from the region’s most illustrious businessmen.’
And for the second time that day, Don Felix tilted his head towards the neighbouring office belonging to his competitors – Javier and Fabián Díaz.
83
ALL ROADS, IT seemed, were leading me to the Díaz brothers’ door. Mamá was living with them. Camila wanted me at their party. Don Mauricio had recommended I speak to them. And now Don Felix had too. Even the southbound bus heading towards Camila’s house that I signalled bore the brothers’ surname – TRANSPORTADORES DÍAZ.
I boarded the colectivo, but after travelling three blocks it braked suddenly. Through the window, I saw the boy in ripped jeans sprinting to catch up. With him was a boy of about twelve, whose T-shirt stretched over the bulge of a concealed pistol.
Tensing, I felt for my Smith & Wesson. As the boys took seats directly in front of mine I flicked it off safety. They peeked in the shoebox then tapped knuckles like Palillo and I often did. I couldn’t believe it. Two little criminals working for Zorrillo were sitting right in front of me, laughing.
Gripping the pistol, I stood, sliding it up the back of their seat towards their necks. Once you’ve killed a person, you know how easily it is to repeat.
‘Stop!’ I called. ‘Driver!’
I’d take the next bus to Camila’s house. I had to. Otherwise I’d shoot those boys.
I knew I’d done the right thing; I couldn’t have followed them – they were heading south, probably through the Guerrilla roadblock to deliver the money to Zorrillo. Beta would have disarmed them, taken them off the bus and tortured them. But I wasn’t Beta. I didn’t torture people, or even send them to be tortured.
Nevertheless, that night back in the hotel, I was more depressed than ever. How on earth had Trigeño convinced an entire community to assist him in hunting down his father’s killers? He’d made it sound easy, but I couldn’t persuade even a single man.
As I was drifting off to sleep, my cell phone rang. It was Padre Rojas.
‘How are you holding yourself up there, prodigal son?’
‘With two feet and a shovel. You?’
The priest laughed. ‘Cheap communion wine and a stack of Bibles.’
I felt complicit with Rojas. He, too, had paid heavily for defying the Guerrilla.
One day I would tell him how I’d caused Papa’s death by drinking with the Autodefensa recruiters. From the priest’s friendliness towards me, I was certain he didn’t know.
‘Pedro, you’re doing a marvellous job of looking after your mother. I know Mario Jesús is proud.’
We shared that too – Papá existed for us both in the present tense.
‘I saved your pocket Bible, Padre.’
‘Keep it! One day we’ll swap them back.’
‘One day when?’
I was sceptical he’d ever return. If events over the past nine months hadn’t spurred the government into action, then what would?
But Rojas was philosophical. ‘God works in mysterious ways. Things won’t always be this bad.’
I no longer shared his faith. What I’d seen of life convinced me God was no more in charge of the planet than extraterrestrials. No sane being would permit what was occurring. However, Padre Rojas’s conversation inspired and motivated me, although probably not in the way he’d intended.
I threw back the sheets, swivelled out of bed and knelt, although not to pray. Instead, I lifted the floorboard. When skimming through the files at La 50, I’d seen several pages about Humberto Díaz’s kidnapping. And since I’d decided to attend Javier’s party in two days’ time to request his help setting up an ambush against Zorrillo, I wanted to know exactly whom I was dealing with.
As soon as I began reading the file on Humberto Diego Uribe Díaz, I regretted not doing so earlier. It contained a wealth of information, but certain facts stood out as being more signif
icant than others.
For one thing, Díaz may not have been solely a cattle rancher and businessman. He was on DEA and Colombian National Police watchlists. The army file stated:
Díaz is suspected of transporting and/or supplying ether, sulphuric acid and potassium permanganate found in barrels at a jungle laboratory raided by Colombian Anti-Narcotics Police and traced via airway bill back to a vendor in Florida, USA. Suspected links with Alias Zorrillo, former member of Medellín cartel, currently finance commander for Guerrilla’s southern block.
For another thing, Díaz was not ultimately killed over the failure to pay a million dollar ransom, as I’d believed. As soon as his wife reported the kidnap Colonel Buitrago had requested intercepts on every phone line used by family members. Eleonora had consented, although Javier and Fabián had refused to have their cell phones monitored, claiming the kidnappers had told them not to speak to the authorities.
The Guerrilla had contacted Eleonora by phone on the day after the kidnap. The call had been recorded and transcribed, and a copy placed in the file. Voice recognition software had confirmed the caller’s identity: Zorrillo.
MONDAY 7.02 pm – Call to Díaz Property in Llorona – Duration: 9 seconds
Zorrillo:
‘We need a million dollars.’
Sñra Díaz:
‘I’ll get it ready. But I want to speak to him. How do I know he’s alive?’
Zorrillo:
‘Tell your son, Javier, to be at the Garbanzos hacienda in one hour.’
[END CALL]
MONDAY 8.07 pm – Call to Díaz Property in Garbanzos – Duration: 1m 15s
Javier Díaz:
‘Papá?’
Zorrillo:
‘I’m passing him to you.’
Humberto Díaz:
‘Hijo, I want you to listen carefully. I need you to look in the office floor safe. You remember where, right?’
Javier Díaz:
‘I’m running upstairs now …’ [sound of footsteps] ‘I’m with Fabián. We’re here at your desk!’
Humberto Díaz:
‘The combination is 7812B.’
Javier Díaz:
‘7 … 8 … 1 … 2 … B … It’s open.’
Humberto Díaz:
‘Now look inside. There’s a small white book. A man will arrive in an hour to collect it and the money.’
Javier Díaz:
[sound of rustling] ‘There’s no white book in here.’
Humberto Díaz:
‘Look harder! My life depends on it.’
Javier Díaz:
‘I am! I’m looking.’
Humberto Díaz:
‘It’s a little book. A book of names.’
Javier Díaz:
‘There’s no book.’ [sound of scraping] ‘And there’s nothing white.’
Humberto Díaz:
‘You’re as useless as your puta mother. Pull everything out, you idiota!’
Javier Díaz:
‘I have. There’s no white book.’
Zorrillo:
[sounds of struggle] ‘It’s me again. Find it or your father’s dead.’
Javier Díaz:
‘I’m telling you it’s not here.’
Zorrillo:
‘Then we’ll kill him.’
Javier Díaz:
‘Then kill him, you hijo de puta. Because I haven’t got it.’
[END CALL]
That must have been the second-last time the brothers ever heard their father’s voice. A day later, Zorrillo phoned again, and this time Fabián answered.
TUESDAY 6.03 pm – Call to Díaz Property in Garbanzos – Duration: 12 seconds
Fabián Díaz:
‘Papá?’
Zorrillo
‘No, it’s me. Did you find it?’
Fabián Díaz:
‘No.’
Zorrillo:
‘You’re lying.’
Fabián Díaz:
‘I’m not. Put my father on.’
Zorrillo:
‘Last chance. You’ll never even find the body.’
Fabián Díaz:
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Humberto Díaz:
[screams] ‘No. No! Please.’ [sound of gunshot]
[END CALL]
I dropped the pages, unable to read on. I could almost hear that gunshot, ringing as loudly as the one that killed my own father. I could only imagine Javier and Fabián’s reaction upon hearing it, followed by the dial tone when Zorrillo hung up. It must have roused in them the same feelings I’d experienced, seeing Papá fall to the ground – fear, disbelief, powerlessness and anger. And afterwards, guilt.
Like me, they’d been impulsive and aggressive under extreme pressure from Zorrillo – but I bet Javier and Fabián had later regretted their words. It was a small mercy they hadn’t witnessed their father’s execution like I had.
One thing that surprised me was the mention of a separate finca at Garbanzos where Humberto had his office. I presumed this was the home Javier and Fabián now occupied, but I’d never known that our miserly neighbour owned another property.
Resuming my reading, I found that although Colonel Buitrago had respected the sons’ wishes not to have their personal phones intercepted, he had requested a list of their call logs from Telecom.
These records revealed that Javier received five calls on his cell phone from the same number used by Zorrillo. Each call lasted approximately three minutes. They occurred during a six-month period after his father’s death. No conclusions were drawn from this in the army file.
The end of the file contained a handwritten addendum, presumably penned by Colonel Buitrago:
A five-day search for Díaz’s corpse was conducted by the army. The search was suspended when two soldiers were killed during an ambush on the western bank of the Llorona River. Rumours from multiple sources claim Díaz’s body is now in an unmarked grave in Llorona Cemetery, buried by persons unknown.
[END FILE]
I finished reading with a mixture of shock, curiosity and sadness. The fact that, officially, Humberto had been buried by persons unknown meant that no one had ever discovered that Papá and I were responsible. However, I was astounded that we’d buried a man involved in the cocaine trade. Papá must have known about Díaz – what else could explain his deep-seated disapproval of our neighbour? He detested cocaine traficantes; he said they’d corrupted the entire country and that profits from trafficking fuelled the war. But why, then, had Papá risked our lives to bury such a lowlife? After further reflection, I decided that Papá’s decision was proof of his deep principles and immense bravery. At great risk, he had done his religious duty – even sinners like Díaz deserve a decent burial. And he’d also stood up to the Guerrilla on behalf of the man who least deserved it. That took courage.
At the same time, I was curious about the phone calls Javier had since received from Zorrillo. Why would he speak to the man who’d murdered his father? Perhaps he’d had to negotiate the family’s safe return in order to operate their businesses. Although Javier was forced to rub shoulders with cocaine traffickers like Don Miguel in Santo Paraíso, there was no evidence the mother or sons were involved in the cocaine trade themselves. The companies they now ran – cattle, transport, fertiliser production, and construction – were legitimate.
Javier, Fabián and I were all victims of the same despicable killers. I’d imagined an ulterior motive behind the Díaz brothers’ attentions towards me where none existed. Besides, those phone calls demonstrated that Javier had direct contact with Zorrillo. Potentially, that made him my perfect ally. But then what had Don Felix meant by follow the dirty money trail?
I wanted desperately to phone Colonel Buitrago to quiz him. I figured he owed me in return for tipping him off about the weapons crate. However, if he discovered the Autodefensas possessed copies of his files, word might get back to Itagüí and Alfa 1.
On Wednesday, I met Camila after school in Garbanzos plaza and we b
oarded a colectivo headed towards her house. Camila was in a good mood. However, I was still distracted by what I’d read about Humberto Díaz and debating whether I should confide in Camila and ask her opinion.
After several bus trips to and from her home, I’d also become complacent. And seven kilometres into the journey, I would pay for that complacency when disaster struck.
84
WHEN WE BOARDED the Transportadores Díaz bus it was half full. Old Man Domino and his wife were sitting on the right-hand side towards the back. Although I hadn’t spoken to them since the day Papá died, I hadn’t forgotten what they’d done for me, or my vow to repay their kindness.