I hardly slept that night. My mind buzzed with possibilities, churning over the new information Rafael had imparted. His first-hand depictions of Buitre and Caraquemada made them seem real, and that meant the possibility of capturing them suddenly felt real also. Knowing now how much Buitre loved his family, Rafael’s plan to use Ernesto seemed plausible.
At breakfast the following morning, the atmosphere remained tense. The only one to break ranks was Iván, who remembered Rafael from when the Guerrilla would pass his father’s shack. ‘You used to give me sweets!’ he exclaimed.
Everyone else ate in subdued silence, interrupted only by the clinking of cutlery and occasional grumbling. Rafael rose and confronted their misgivings head-on.
‘Yes, I was a guerrillero. And I know you hate what they have done to your fallen comrades, your families and your villages. But I also hate the Guerrilla now. Their commanders killed many of my compañeros too, and they killed a person very dear to me. Trigeño promoted me to commander, but if you still don’t trust me …’ He removed the cartridge from his rifle and handed it to Palillo. ‘Please return this when you do.’
That night, Rafael played his guitar, a melancholic communist ballad, deliberately strumming the final chord out of tune.
‘Anyway, that’s the romantic bullshit they brainwashed us with,’ he said.
Now that he had their attention, Rafael began regaling them with stories about his life in the Guerrilla, which made our own brutal organisation seem much better by comparison. He also reminded us who the real enemy was. According to him, the Guerrilla commanders were hypocrites.
‘Maybe when the insurgency first formed, our commanders had ideals. I know Santiago still does; I’ve heard him speak at the annual assembly. But he’s from the old guard. For the younger commanders, war is a business. It’s about money and cocaine.’
At this, Palillo pricked up his ears. ‘So, is it true what Zorrillo said about the caletas?’ he asked. ‘Is there really cash buried out there in the jungle?’
Rafael grinned. ‘It’s true, amigo, every word.’
Palillo laughed. ‘Then we definitely need to talk.’
Over the next few days, the others in the camp learned Rafael’s sad story one by one. He would always choose his moment. Not because he wanted anyone’s sympathy but because he needed them to understand. It was a strange quality in a supposedly hardened soldier. I found it unsettling at first but nonetheless entrancing.
Quickly, the initial scepticism faded. The men thought he was funny. The girls thought he was cute. They felt sorry for him, with his sad eyes and melancholic ballads. Three days after his arrival, it was agreed: Palillo should return Rafael’s rifle magazine.
Rafael achieved what I had failed to do – he made the others resolute about our prisoner. Once Beatriz’s horrific death at the hands of Buitre was common knowledge, Rafael’s vitriol towards him and his determination to fight the Guerrilla became infectious. The mood of my soldiers shifted. Ernesto’s arrival had mired our camp in secrecy. Those assigned to guard him hadn’t approved. Of course, they still didn’t know exactly what was planned, but Rafael inspired trust and his presence gave Ernesto’s imprisonment a purpose.
Despite all this, I wasn’t yet ready to introduce Rafael to Ernesto. I’d developed an attachment to Ernesto. I was worried that since the brothers looked so similar and Rafael’s hatred for Buitre was so overwhelming, he might lose control.
After all, Rafael did not need to meet Ernesto to advise me on how to use him to get to Buitre. I declined his request several times until finally he confronted me in my office.
‘Comando, I was sent here for one reason and one reason only – to help you get Buitre. I want exactly what you want – to avenge the person I loved most in the world. I can’t do it on my own. And neither can you. Now, where is Buitre’s brother?’
Finally, I relented. It was time for Rafael to meet Ernesto.
130
WHEN RAFAEL FIRST laid eyes on Ernesto, his face changed completely. He stood stock-still, hands on hips, appraising him.
‘You even have the same green eyes.’
‘Please,’ said Ernesto. ‘I’m Kiko’s brother, but I’m innocent. I have a girlfriend.’
‘So did I,’ Rafael replied coldly. ‘And she was innocent too … until your charming brother killed her.’
I shot Rafael a sharp look. This was precisely what I’d feared.
‘Who are you?’ asked Ernesto. ‘And what do you want?’
‘I’m Rafael. And I’m here to help you understand.’
Rafael sat on Ernesto’s bed and patted the mattress so Ernesto would sit beside him. Then he began explaining why Ernesto had been kidnapped and what his brother had done to make it justified. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t raise his voice. Instead, he clarified patiently and compassionately the many reasons his brother had to die.
When Ernesto tried to interject, claiming that Kiko had always been a good person until circumstances changed his life, Rafael cut him off.
‘He’s different now to the brother you knew. You haven’t seen him for seven years, so I know him better than you do.’
After we returned to my cottage, Rafael outlined his plan to reel Buitre in.
‘Buitre is ruthless and he’s experienced,’ he warned me. ‘If we don’t prepare, he’ll run rings around us.’
Beta had already briefed Rafael on our phone call to Buitre’s mother two weeks earlier. It would soon be time to make the follow-up call.
‘Just remember,’ Rafael said, ‘any hint of weakness and Buitre will sense it immediately. Keep all conversations short. You make the demands. You set the time limits – he is to call us back at midday tomorrow, then you give him three days to surrender. And that’s it! Don’t let him speak to Ernesto. Don’t allow him to distract you. If you let Buitre string this out, we completely lose our position.’
I nodded. All this sounded completely logical.
‘But here’s the hard part. Your most important leverage is the threat to Ernesto. In fact, the threat is all we have. I’ve heard you’re fond of Ernesto, but for Buitre to hand himself in, I’m sorry, Pedro … you need to threaten to kill Ernesto. And you need to mean it.’
No way, I thought. I will never kill Ernesto. I’d rather let Buitre get away. But I could pretend if I had to.
Rafael picked up on my hesitation. ‘If you don’t have the stomach for it, I can handle the calls.’
His suggestion had merit. I was no kidnapper whereas he’d seen firsthand how it was done. However, I couldn’t predict how he might react talking to the man who’d killed his pregnant girlfriend. He might become emotional and derail everything. Besides, I wanted Buitre to know it would be my hands meting out his justice.
‘I’ll do it. You can listen and signal if I go wrong.’
‘Fine. But Buitre needs to believe you, one hundred per cent. And to maximise the pressure, we need Buitre’s mother to believe it too.’
It was now up to me to phone Ernesto’s mother. After only one ring she answered.
‘Ernesto?’
My stomach tensed immediately at the sound of her plaintive voice. ‘No. The Autodefensas. Did you pass on our message?’
‘I did,’ she said shakily. ‘Kiko tried to phone me, but I could hardly hear a word he said. Please don’t hurt Ernesto!’
‘Write this down.’ I read out my number. ‘And here’s the next message: Kiko is to call Pedro at precisely noon tomorrow. If you value your younger son’s life, señora, make sure your older son complies. The choice is his. Right now, I believe Ernesto is still alive …’
I hung up. My hand was shaking. What the hell was I doing?
That afternoon I was sitting in the shade of the jacaranda tree with Palillo. Rafael had gone to Garbanzos to buy our weekly supplies. Ñoño was helping Iván practise on the monkey bars, and Piolín had driven down to Llorona to pick up Camila on one of the Yamahas. Palillo and I were relaxing with a cup of tinto, surveying
the broad sweep of dry fields surrounding our base.
My guard was completely down when a call came in from a blocked number. Buitre wasn’t due to phone until tomorrow, and I answered it without thinking.
‘I believe you know who this is,’ came a cool, calm voice: Buitre’s.
I leapt off my chair, adrenalin rushing through my veins. I intended to follow Rafael’s advice – remain composed, use short sentences, control the conversation and not let Buitre get under my skin. It all sounded so simple. In theory.
Palillo mouthed, ‘Is it him?’ I nodded.
I focused my concentration and tried to take slow, deep breaths. ‘Ah, yes. How could I forget the voice? Kiko Fuentes, murderer of elderly motorists and kidnapper of schoolgirls. The man who held me down and forced me to watch my father be executed. I bet it feels different now that the pistol’s pointed at someone from your own family.’
‘Killing my brother won’t bring your father back.’
‘But it will make you suffer. And the only way you can prevent that is by surrendering to us.’
‘So you can slaughter me like you did Ratón and Zorrillo?’ He chuckled and his tone was condescending. ‘What makes you think I’d do something so stupid?’
‘Because you’re phoning me.’
‘I’m a communist, not Jesus Christ. I haven’t seen Ernesto in seven years.’
‘And yet you care enough to pay his tuition and buy him and your mother a house. You care enough to steal from Caraquemada and murder one of your best friends to cover it up.’ I paused to let that sink in. ‘Rafael told me everything.’
‘¡Hijo de puta! Tell him he’s dead! I should have shot him the same day I killed his crazy bitch. He’s a dead man. I saved his fucking life.’
‘By executing his pregnant girlfriend. He sends his regards. But that doesn’t change your only option: hand yourself in or Ernesto dies.’
‘To you, never. To the army? That, I might consider. At least your friend Buitrago understands the principle of surrender. Accepting defeat doesn’t result in cold-blooded murder. But first I’d need to speak to Ernesto – to know he’s alive.’
‘We’re holding him a long way from here. And besides, Buitrago isn’t an option. It’s me you’re dealing with. You have three days to surrender at our highway checkpoint in Puerto Galán.’
Buitre laughed again. ‘Listen, Pedro, there’s no way I’m handing you my head on a plate. But there’s a head I know you want more than mine. And he has a girlfriend. A civilian girlfriend. You arrange for me to speak to Ernesto, and I’ll send you a photo of her … with Caraquemada.’
I knew I’d already lost my cool and talked for way too long. My heart had been beating fast, but now, at the mention of Caraquemada, it nearly burst out of my chest. This was exactly what Rafael had warned me of: Buitre would try to play me and negotiate. But I’d never expected this, that he might offer something on Caraquemada instead. And my pause told Buitre he’d thrown me.
‘That’s right,’ he continued. ‘Caraquemada. Your war is with him, not me. That day he executed your father I had no idea what he was going to do. You’ve got it all wrong, Pedro. I’m innocent here, as is Ernesto. So it’s very simple. You let me speak to him and I send you the photo.’
Again I paused. In reality, he was offering next to nothing. Nevertheless, since it was Caraquemada, next to nothing was tempting.
‘What would a photo prove?’
‘That I’m not lying. That she can be tracked and lead you to Caraquemada.’
‘The photo first then. If I’m satisfied, I’ll let you talk to him.’
‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’
‘It’s the word of one kidnapper to another.’
Buitre swore under his breath but realised he was in no position to bargain.
‘Log into this email.’ He spelled out a Hotmail username and password. ‘I’ll call back in five minutes.’ And then he hung up.
Palillo, meanwhile, had been listening to my side of the phone call intently. ‘What did he say?’ he demanded.
‘He’s going to email me a photo of Caraquemada’s girlfriend.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Didn’t Rafael tell you not to bargain with him?’
I knew Palillo was right, but I brushed off his concerns and strode towards the command centre, angry at myself for even being tempted. Of course, I knew a photo alone would never lead me to Caraquemada, but it might prove it was possible. If this girl could be located, her phone tapped and we could somehow track her …
I dismissed Coca-Cola from radio duty. Trembling with anticipation, I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop and entered the login details. The Hotmail account must have been new – its inbox showed only one email with no subject heading or text. I clicked on it and saw it contained an embedded jpeg, which took shape painfully slowly until the full image resolved on my screen.
The first thing I saw was the sculpted back of a young woman, completely naked apart from a lacy black G-string. Her face, turned in profile, was obscured by a mane of blonde hair. She was straddling a man who was leaning back on a chair with his shirt off, holding a half-full bottle of whisky, and her arms were draped around his neck. I recognised his face immediately. It was unmistakable. Caraquemada.
My chest constricted painfully. I hadn’t seen that hellishly scarred face since the day of Papá’s death, and seeing it now brought everything back to me. According to Santiago, Caraquemada was the one who’d planned and requested the execution. Not that my own memory needed Santiago’s words as further proof. The picture in my head was flawless as a photo. It was the picture in which Caraquemada was pulling the trigger.
I right-clicked ‘save’ on the image and watched anxiously as the blue ‘percentage complete’ bar inched across the screen, but before it finished saving the photo disappeared and the email closed itself, leaving an empty inbox. Hotmail was shut down, and when I tried to log back in I couldn’t.
My phone vibrated, its sharp ring piercing my thoughts.
‘Satisfied?’
‘You deleted it.’
‘You saw what you needed to see.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I stole it from the laptop of a man called Baez. He’s Caraquemada’s head of security. I’ve kept my end of the bargain. Now let me talk to Ernesto. Before this discussion goes any further I need to know he’s alive.’
I tried to think quickly – difficult when I had the feeling Buitre was right there, watching me. Letting Buitre speak to his brother was a small risk provided I didn’t give away Ernesto’s location. Besides, if Buitre was playing me, the situation wouldn’t change; we still had Ernesto. In the desk drawer we kept a bundle of new, untraceable SIM cards, each in an envelope with the phone number on the outside. I took one out.
‘Here’s the number where you can reach him. But wait ten minutes; I have to let them know to expect your call.’ Then I read out the phone number of the new SIM.
I radioed Palillo while fumbling to insert the new SIM into a phone that we’d never used before. When he arrived in the office, I instructed him to take Buitre’s call and pass it briefly to Ernesto.
‘I don’t like it at all,’ said Palillo. ‘I don’t want any part in this.’
But I persuaded him, and we raced upstairs to Ernesto’s cell. When Buitre phoned back, Palillo said ‘Wait!’ then held out the phone on speaker. ‘Tell your brother you’re alive.’
‘I’m here, Kiko,’ said Ernesto. ‘But don’t—’
I snatched the phone from Palillo and hung up.
My own phone rang again two minutes later.
‘Did you talk to him?’ I asked innocently.
‘Yes,’ said Buitre, sounding resigned and much calmer. In fact, he sounded almost smug, which puzzled me.
‘I told you. He’s fine.’
‘Very well. I’m not handing myself in, but I’ll help you get Caraquemada.’
‘And why would you do that? Why s
ell out your commander?’
‘I think we both know the position you’ve put me in.’
I would never let Buitre off the hook – not in a million years – but every photo, every clue he gave me on Caraquemada might be useful. And when I finally did force him to surrender in return for Ernesto’s life, I would extract every tiny bit of information he possessed. However, to do that I needed to know how much he knew, so I played along.
‘How do I know your information about his girlfriend will help me track Caraquemada?’
‘Because that photo wasn’t taken on a Guerrilla base. She isn’t a local. Caraquemada takes risks and goes off base to see her. I know her name and phone number. With that information your army friends can put her under surveillance and track her to their rendezvous points.’ Buitre paused. ‘If you want to know more, I’ll trade the information, instead of my life, for Ernesto’s freedom. You have twenty-four hours to think about it. I’ll call back tomorrow for your answer.’
Then he hung up, leaving me completely convinced that I was now hot on the trail of not one, but both of Papá’s remaining killers. Convinced, that is, until Rafael returned to base.
131
RAFAEL RETURNED LATE in the afternoon in the pick-up truck with Mona, Tarantula and Montoya, who’d just closed our highway checkpoint for the evening. They parked by the milking shed next to the Mercedes and began unloading the week’s food supplies. I was sitting at the wooden table under the jacaranda tree with Camila, soaking up the last rays of sunshine as she excitedly discussed her university plans and how much I was going to love Bogotá when I joined her.
Once the sun had set, Camila left to help Mona in the kitchen, and I called Rafael over. I was eager to update him on Buitre’s pre-emptive call and knew he’d be disappointed to have missed it.
Rafael was concerned that Buitre had defied our instructions by calling a day early. He thought I’d made a tactical error by allowing Buitre to change the rules.
‘Why did you take the call? You should have waited.’