Colombiano

  97

  IMMEDIATELY, ALFA 1 phoned Trigeño, who entrusted him with devising an operational plan. The location of the base inside Venezuela would, of itself, preclude the army from attacking. However, the presence of hostages made their open involvement impossible.

  The Guerrilla’s stated policy was to execute all prisoners in the event of an attempted rescue. They claimed that the army ignoring this policy made them responsible for the loss of innocent life during government assaults on their bases. But Trigeño argued that buying into this cynical reasoning allowed the Guerrilla to use kidnap victims as human shields, effectively holding a nation of forty million people to ransom. The Autodefensas would take all possible steps to evacuate the hostages as part of our attack plan, he said, but their presence wouldn’t stop us from going in.

  Alfa 1 ordered the erection of a life-sized reconstruction of Santiago’s camp in a mountain forest upriver from La 50 to serve as our training ground for simulated attacks. To maximise our chances of approaching the camp undetected and successfully negotiating the river crossing, he studied rain charts from the previous ten years, as well as moon charts for coming months. The mission would proceed in April, he decided, when the river would be at its lowest.

  We’d need to time the attack carefully. Waiting until the first rains fell would reduce our visibility and muffle the sound of our boots crunching over dried leaves and twigs. But too much rain would cause the river to rise, making the crossing treacherous.

  According to Alfa 1’s battle plan, our troops would circle wide around the base and assault it from the east, the least fortified flank, at 3 am when the guerrilleros were asleep. The army would monitor all radio signals emanating from the camp using US spy planes circling high above the clouds. This would allow us to confirm that Santiago was present on the attack day.

  Meanwhile, Trigeño struck a deal with General Itagüí. If the Guerrilla fled during our attack and crossed back into Colombia, Itagüí would have soldiers positioned to cut them down and Air Force planes ready to bomb them. However, if they stayed in Venezuela and defended the camp, we were on our own.

  Alfa 1 assigned specialised tasks to different teams. The first priority – assigned to Team A – was rescuing the hostages. Team A would cut open the cage and extract them to a nearby safety point. As the first into the camp, Team A soldiers faced the greatest risk of death. For this task, Alfa 1 selected his bravest, most experienced soldiers who were experts in close-quarters battle.

  The second priority – assigned to Team B – was destroying the communications tower. Team B would sever the power supply to the antenna or deliver a heavy explosive to the battery source. This would prevent the Guerrilla from radioing the Venezuelan army for backup and also weaken the signal between their hand-held radios, severely diminishing their commanders’ ability to coordinate a defence.

  ‘In other words,’ said Alfa 1, ‘our aim is to arrive undetected, penetrate their perimeter, catch them unawares and sink them into deep confusion.’

  Teams C, D and E were tasked with securing the base’s munitions store and taking out the M60 machine guns along the eastern flank to allow the main body of troops to storm across the dry riverbed safely.

  Finally, Team X, of which I was a member, was tasked with taking down Santiago. Exact details of how were given later, during a private briefing since the ordinary troops weren’t to know our target’s identity.

  Team X was comprised of three two-man sniper teams. Palillo and I were the first. We’d cover Santiago’s escape hatch from a camouflaged position across the Jaguar River. Palillo would observe the hatch using night-vision binoculars. I’d line up the shot through a night-vision scope. But I was not to fire until Santiago and his bodyguards were five metres clear of the hatch – that way, if I missed, I’d have time to line up a second shot before they scrambled back into the tunnel.

  If I couldn’t get a clear shot, however, I was to leave Santiago to the second team, which was covering the canoes. If the second team could not get a clear shot, a third team embedded to the north would cover the canoe’s predicted landing spot.

  Of course, there were no guarantees, but three teams covering three separate points of Santiago’s likely escape route would maximise our chances of success.

  This plan assumed we were not detected during the five-day jungle trek across the Venezuelan border. But if the enemy did detect us, Alfa 1 believed they’d storm across the Rio Jaguar to fight. Either way, we’d have a large-scale battle on our hands, which was precisely what Trigeño wanted.

  At last, we were attacking the Guerrilla where they’d least expect it – within their safe haven. No matter what, Santiago would flee. And that was when the snipers from Team X would take him out.

  98

  DURING THE SIMULATED attacks on the replica Guerrilla base, I was finally able to apply the skills I’d learned during advanced training.

  To represent enemy soldiers, Culebra ordered hundreds of human-shaped figures to be sawn from plywood. Beta divided the troop in two – while one team attacked, the other defended. Then everyone swapped teams. Everyone, that is, except me and the other snipers.

  My role was always the same: shoot Santiago in the chest.

  To simulate his escape through the hatch, five of our new recruits crouched in a ten-metre long trench, holding five plywood cut-outs nailed to broom handles. To distinguish him from his four bodyguards, the cut-out figure of Santiago had a black moustache and green epaulets. At various points during the main assault these recruits would suddenly raise the five cut-outs. While the figures danced about, my task was to quickly identify Santiago, line up a shot, then fire.

  Each day I repeated this exercise under varying conditions. I shot Santiago from different angles and distances. I shot him during the day. I shot him at night. I shot him partially obscured by his bodyguards and I shot him through trees. I shot him under moonlight and then under the light from flares launched skyward by Palillo. During an uncharacteristic dry-season storm, I even shot him through wind and rain.

  And the more I repeated the exercise, the more confident I became that I’d get Santiago and the more faith Alfa 1 had in my abilities.

  ‘You’ve come a long way since that day at the obstacle course,’ he said, ‘comando.’

  Calling me ‘commander’ was the closest he’d ever come to expressing approval of me. He was not like other commanders who freely dispensed praise to their juniors like candy to children. In fact, by withholding his approval, he made you want it more. And now that I finally had it, it felt like I’d climbed a tall mountain.

  Alfa 1 looked into my eyes. ‘I’m trusting you, Pedro. Don’t let me down.’

  Alfa 1 wasn’t the only one observing me closely. Trigeño and I now fished together regularly after Sunday prayer. In my company, he was always friendly and calm.

  ‘Maybe you don’t see it now, Pedro, but you and I are very much alike – even though you didn’t tell me the whole truth.’

  ‘About what, comando?’

  ‘About how close your family is to the Díaz clan.’

  Suddenly alarmed, I didn’t know how to respond. Trigeño had obviously been checking up on me. It wouldn’t take much for him to discover that Javier was a cocaine trafficker, especially if he’d read the intelligence files. I didn’t want him knowing about Mamá living with Javier, or even that I’d attended their fiesta. But neither did I want to tell a lie.

  ‘We were neighbours. Growing up, I had little to do with them,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘The two sons, Javier and Fabián, were ten years older than me and went to school in Bogotá.’

  ‘Your mothers are close friends,’ countered Trigeño. ‘She laid flowers on Humberto’s grave on their behalf. You chose not to mention those details.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that you knew the Díazes. And I didn’t think it right to mention another family’s grieving.’

  ‘Very modest of you. Very discreet,’ said Trigeño with
out sarcasm.

  ‘Is anything wrong, comando?’

  ‘We’re trusting you with an important mission, Pedro. I like to know about the men I’m trusting.’

  As for Palillo, he now recognised the benefits of us being snipers. During the attack, we would not risk our lives crossing the riverbed to enter the camp. In fact, we’d be concealed at a safe distance from the main action; our only task was to take an accurate shot at Santiago and then retreat.

  Using his influence as a commander, Palillo persuaded Piolín’s superior to ensure she would be in the third wave to cross the river, removing her two steps from the front line. Of course, he was frustrated that he couldn’t tell Piolín what was in store, but at least she’d be safe.

  The shared responsibility of keeping the battle plan a secret also brought Palillo and me closer.

  ‘I know how badly you want this, Pedro,’ he said one night as we walked back towards the dormitory after dinner. ‘And I want it for you too. I was against you killing Ratón in Villavicencio because it was stupid and dangerous. But I guess if I’d known who murdered my own father, I’d have gone after them too.’

  He lowered his voice to a whisper.

  ‘I’ll help you with this, hermano. But once it’s over, it’s over. You understand me? No more promotions. No more special courses. Santiago was the one who gave the order that day. Once he’s dead, you need to let go of this obsession and we need to find a clean way out of the Autodefensas.’

  It was early March and the launch of our offensive was approaching rapidly. Our troops were almost ready.

  When I’d joined, Trigeño’s branch of the Autodefensas had numbered a mere three hundred soldiers. Since then our numbers had increased to eight hundred. The Autodefensas had expanded rapidly, perhaps too rapidly. Recent training courses had been rushed. The majority of soldiers were ‘green’, with only three months training and hardly any experience. The recruits currently training were due to graduate in late March. They’d go straight into battle.

  On March 12, Mamá phoned to wish me a happy birthday. I rarely checked a calendar and was so busy that I’d forgotten. Afterwards, I stood in front of the same mirror as when I’d turned sixteen, looking over my shoulder. I’d grown two inches and my chest had filled out. It was exactly a year since I’d graduated as an Autodefensa, a year since I’d got my tattoo, and almost a year since I’d committed my first murders. I was now seventeen, but felt much older.

  Camila phoned too.

  ‘How’s Llorona?’ I asked.

  ‘Worse than ever.’

  Because the President had ended the peace process, the Guerrilla were exacting their revenge – committing atrocities and increasing their recruiting and training. Further pressure was mounting on Colonel Buitrago because a low-flying plane had been detected by US satellites dropping crates attached to parachutes into the jungle south of Santo Paraíso. The crates contained thousands of Kalashnikov rifles destined for the Guerrilla.

  An El Tiempo journalist asked, ‘Will you resign over this?’

  Buitrago responded tersely. ‘I don’t control the skies. I’ve been posted here for four years to do a job. And I’m not leaving until it’s done.’

  Attendance at Camila’s school was down by fifty per cent, but she’d triumphed in the recent scholarship exam at the Universidad Nacional, making her dream of leaving Llorona a near certainty.

  ‘I start next February. Andrea’s going to help me find a decent place to live and a job. I’ve been watching her on TV. She’s amazing and so beautiful.’

  She reiterated her plan for me to leave the Autodefensas and come with her.

  All this gave me more reason to hate the Guerrilla and train even harder for the coming battle. The pressure from Camila and Palillo to end my obsession didn’t work – it only made me want to speed things up. I didn’t care about the trust Trigeño and Alfa 1 were investing in me. And I didn’t care about obeying their instructions.

  My fantasy about Santiago was far stronger than any direct order they could give.

  On the night of the attack I shoot Santiago in the stomach – an excruciating wound, but one that takes a long time to cause death. I dispense with his bodyguards and walk coolly but purposefully across the dry riverbed. Santiago lies writhing on the ground. I kick away his pistol, crouch down and calmly tell him who I am and my father’s full name. He begs me to spare him. He can give me anything I want.

  ‘The only thing I want is something you can’t give me – my father back,’ I say.

  I remind him of the propaganda he has spread, of the farce that his long-promised revolution has become, of the children he has recruited as canon-fodder and the eleven-year-old boys to whom he outsources his extortion racket.

  He tries to justify himself with arguments about the greater good, equality for all, and the courage and beauty of the peasantry’s struggle against the oligarchy.

  ‘Was my father a wealthy oligarch?’ I ask. ‘No! He was a humble, hardworking farmer whose land provided food for us and employment for our workers. And I would have followed in his footsteps, had you not given that order. Death is what you have sown, not revolution. You, with your charm, your educated façade and your plethora of well-meaning ideas. But it has all been for nothing. Because now, you too must die.’

  I can see in his face that he knows his cause is lost and he was indeed wrong to have murdered Papá. I order him to face death like a man and, finally, after all these years of cowardice – of hiding behind a female radio operator while guarded by an army of brainwashed children – Santiago pulls himself to his knees. I shoot him once in the head. He slumps forward then falls sideways.

  And as I look down at his corpse, I know that, although the war is far from over, the forces of good, which for so long have appeared weak, will now begin to rise.

  99

  THE FIRST RAINS of the season, which would signal our departure, were late in arriving that year.

  La 50 was packed beyond capacity with eight hundred Autodefensa troops – two-thirds of them Trigeño’s, the other third ‘on loan’ from other Bloques – many of whom were sleeping in tents, hammocks slung between palms or simply on the ground. My own platoon knew very little about the mission. However, those from other Autodefensa units knew even less. From the replica base they could guess why they were here, but they had no idea where they were going or what they’d be confronting.

  In mid-April, Mamá phoned me.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mamá? Why are you calling me at work?’

  ‘That nice man. Jerónimo. The one who drives the taxi. They killed him! Right in front of Uncle’s hardware. There was blood everywhere. It was horrible …’

  I was stunned. With his jovial nature and sense of humour, Jerónimo had somehow seemed disconnected from the violence. Later, I learned that after dragging him from his taxi and shooting him before horrified onlookers, his killers spray-painted DEATH TO FASCISTS on the side of his car. Someone must have tipped off the Guerrilla about his work for the Autodefensas.

  ‘When was this?’ I asked, saddened and wondering what would now become of his two daughters.

  ‘Yesterday.’ She sniffed. ‘They also torched one of Javier’s buses. He’d really like to speak to you, Pedro.’

  ‘Mamá, I can’t. I’m very busy.’

  ‘He’s right here. It will only take a minute.’

  ‘I said I’m busy.’

  ‘Pedro,’ she said in a quiet but stern voice – the one she’d employed to reprimand me as a child. I heard footsteps. I imagine she’d been standing next to Javier and was now walking away so he wouldn’t overhear. ‘The servants are packing up the finca. I think Javier and Fabián are fleeing for Bogotá. I don’t know what to do. I’ll have nowhere to live. I could go back to Uncle’s, but—’

  ‘Don’t! It’s not safe. What about Buitrago? Can’t he help?’

  ‘Impossible! Today they exploded a car bomb outside his garrison gates. Two soldiers were killed.’


  ‘Let me speak to Javier.’

  Javier’s voice came on. As always, he laid on the charm, thick as guanábana juice.

  ‘Pedro. How are you, my dear amigo? A thousand apologies for interrupting your work, but it’s an emergency. Zorrillo demanded a million dollars in return for allowing us to keep our bus route. When we refused, he blew up one of our buses. But if we do pay, the same thing will happen to us as to our father.’

  No bus route was worth a million dollars. More likely it was a cocaine trafficking route.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I need you to vouch for us to Trigeño.’

  ‘Can’t help you, sorry.’

  ‘Wait! We can pay. We’d rather give the million to Trigeño than to the Guerrilla.’

  My answer to Javier Díaz would always be no, but since Mamá needed his protection, I had to be diplomatic until I could find her somewhere safe to live.

  ‘Now’s not a good time, Javier. I appreciate you looking after my mother. I promise I’ll get back to you within two weeks.’

  I hung up before he could beg anymore, but Trigeño never missed a beat. He was beside me in a flash, his face half-concerned, half-inquisitive.

  ‘You look worried. Bad news from home?’

  I nodded. I was extremely anxious about Mamá but didn’t want to mention the Díaz brothers or their offer.

  ‘The Guerrilla killed Jerónimo the taxi driver.’

  Trigeño gaped at me and turned pale.

  ‘You know him?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s my cousin.’

  This news was almost as much of a surprise as Jerónimo’s death itself. I’d had no idea about their kinship. Both men had kept it secret for obvious reasons, but it made sense – Jerónimo needed extra money and Trigeño needed someone trustworthy to ferry new recruits to La 50. Who better than a family member? It also explained how Trigeño knew so much about Llorona and Garbanzos.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a very decent person.’