by Rusty Young
‘What are my new responsibilities?’ Beta asked Trigeño.
‘You can start by telling me where you’re holding this guerrillero son of a bitch.’
‘In the container.’
Trigeño opened the office door, signalling for his three senior commanders to follow. I raised my eyebrows questioningly at Culebra and he nodded that I could come.
It was mid-afternoon and baking hot outside. As the soldiers stationed at the door unlatched the bolts and opened the container, I wrinkled my nose at the sour smell that poured out on a wave of stagnant air.
Inside, two sweat-drenched soldiers were guarding the prisoner, who was tied to a chair with his hands and ankles bound. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, and his neck was already ringed by a purple bruise from the rope Beta had stomped on. His eyes were closed, but he licked his cracked lips.
Trigeño unholstered his Colt .45, pressed the front sight into the man’s throat and used it to lift his chin.
‘I need you to open your eyes and look at me.’ He spoke softly and gently, like a nurse ministering to a disoriented patient.
The man blinked his eyes open. When he saw the gun at his throat, his knee began trembling.
‘There are two ways we can do this,’ Trigeño said. ‘One: you give us full, truthful answers that we can crosscheck. That way, you earn a quick death. Or, two: you play tough or tell us a story that doesn’t check out. In that case, you’ll die slowly, like a snail in salt.’ He bent down so he and the prisoner were eye to eye. ‘So … whose camp were you supplying?’
The prisoner spat in his face. A gob of saliva stuck to Trigeño’s nose and began to ooze downwards.
Perhaps he’d hoped to provoke Trigeño into shooting him immediately. But Trigeño simply stared at the man and shook his head.
‘Wrong answer, comrade.’ He removed a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and raised it, as though to wipe his nose, but instead he swung his fist swiftly and powerfully, striking the guerrillero across the face.
The blow knocked the man sideways, capsizing the chair and slamming his head against the metal floor. He lay there unmoving.
Trigeño doubled over in pain, cradling his fist in his left palm. He stamped on the container floor. ‘¡Hijo de puta! I think he broke my fingers,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I’m getting too old for this. Fetch that strange boy you told me about – El Psycho. And prepare a truck for the Palace of Truth.’
‘Already done, comando,’ replied Beta, proud to have pre-empted Trigeño’s wishes. ‘I’ve radioed his squad. He’ll be here by tonight.’
Trigeño crouched beside the fallen guerrillero, who was lying on his side with the chair still attached, groaning. His cheek was cut and blood trickled from his mouth. With his white handkerchief, Trigeño dabbed at the blood.
‘I do apologise,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I lose my temper.’
Trigeño wedged his boot against the chair leg and hauled the guerrillero upright.
To my amazement, the prisoner looked defiant. ‘It’s easy to hit a man with his hands tied,’ he said, slurring and forming the words with difficulty.
‘You’re absolutely right.’ Trigeño bent down and began untying the man’s bindings. Alfa 1 shot him a look that said, Are you sure that’s a good idea? But Trigeño hoisted the prisoner to his feet.
‘Hit me!’ he said. ‘Go on! I deserve it.’
The prisoner looked around the container – sizing up the guards, measuring the distance to the door and even taking in Trigeño’s two pistols.
Trigeño stepped closer. ‘¡Vamos! This might be your last chance to punch an Autodefensa.’
Finally, the prisoner clenched his hand into a fist and drew back, readying himself to strike. But then both arms dropped by his sides, limp and defeated. Trigeño smiled, and I saw the sinister genius behind what he’d done. By giving the man the freedom to strike, he’d forced him to accept the futility of any type of resistance.
‘Okay. I’ll talk.’
‘No, you’ll sing,’ said Trigeño viciously, shoving him back down into the chair. ‘If you think you’re suffering now, wait until you get to the Palace of Truth.’
He turned to leave.
‘Wait!’ the guerrillero called after him. ‘I’ll tell you everything right now. Why take me elsewhere?’
Trigeño paused at the door. ‘Because I’m a very busy man. And because everything can take a very, very long time.’
69
AS TRIGEÑO’S HELICOPTER lifted off, a renewed energy swept through the camp. Since the peace announcement, we’d been mired in fear and uncertainty. But with the army back on side, Alfa 1 announced we were no longer in lockdown.
Culebra phoned the recruiters with a message: the cancelled training course was back on, commencing in three weeks. Culebra wanted twice as many boys as before and offered recruiters incentive payments for reaching their quotas.
Meanwhile, the guerrillero remained imprisoned in the container, although Beta was already planning the construction of a concrete holding cell embedded in the hillside.
The boxes of intelligence files were still locked in the office with Alfa 1, who stayed up all night studying them. The next morning, he summoned me to the office. Manila folders were arranged in neat piles on the desk.
‘I need your help, Pedro. You’re a better reader than I am. But this stays strictly between us.’
‘What am I looking for?’ I asked, trying to hide my excitement. I was convinced the files held the key to trapping Zorrillo and Papá’s other killers.
He slid across a piece of paper on which four words were written: Jader Sebastian Fuentes Murillo.
‘That’s my real name,’ he said. ‘If there’s a reference to the Autodefensas or an informant, photocopy it and place it in this folder. If there’s a reference to me or my warrant, tell me immediately.’
Alfa 1 wanted the investigation against him quashed and any informants silenced. Of course, it was a long shot that I’d find anything. The investigation was being conducted by the Fiscalía and the police, whereas these were army files.
The folders contained a mix of unconfirmed intelligence data, analysts’ compilations, witness statements, security incident reports and Executive Security Reports compiled by battalion commanders. The Guerrilla then numbered approximately 20,000 soldiers, and there were personnel dossiers on about 500 commanders, listed by their real names. I only knew Zorrillo and Caraquemada by their aliases and political names, but luckily many of the files also contained a photo in the top right corner. Surely Caraquemada’s horrifically scarred face would be instantly recognisable. The blond boy’s lighter hair colour should also be easy to distinguish, and I had a clear mental image of Zorrillo. Skimming quickly through the files, however, I saw none of them.
Finally, I located a report from the Garbanzos Battalion compiled by Colonel Julius Orlando Buitrago on April 15.
INTRODUCTION: Over the past 12 months, major security incidents include the bombing of the Llorona police station, multiple kidnaps and murders of local citizens, 43 engagements with the enemy, ambushes of our patrols resulting in the death of 17 troops, and the destruction of two vehicles via remotely detonated explosive buried under the unsealed highway.
LLORONA: In March, weapons cache (15 AK47s, 18 grenades, 5 MGLs and 1000 rounds of 5.56mm) discovered during a routine patrol hidden in the residence of a murdered cattle farmer. Threats and intimidation against local businessmen continue, including micro-business owners previously ignored by extortionists.
PUERTO GALÁN AND PUERTO PRINCESA: Intensified recruitment drives and troop build-ups. Letters and pamphlet drops to citizens demanding compulsory attendance at Community Meetings hosted by communist political commanders.
SANTO PARAÍSO: Narco-traffic activity continues with weekly open-trade cocaine markets protected by Guerrilla.
CONCLUSION: Readers are referred to previous quarterly reports containing requests for more troops, vehicles, mine
detectors, radio handsets, VHF repeater towers and increased aerial surveillance as well as cash funds to pay intelligence sources. If these requests are denied or deferred, a continued deterioration in the security situation is highly probable.
I noted that Buitrago had reported that the weapons crate was discovered inside our house during a routine patrol. Camila had told me that my AUC graffiti had been whitewashed by the army shortly after she took down Papá’s bullet-riddled cross. I presumed the colonel had ordered these measures to protect me and prevent retaliation by the Guerrilla, and I felt grateful. Perhaps there would be no further consequences for my impulsiveness after all.
Next in the file came specific ‘Incident Reports’. Of course, I longed to analyse each page meticulously, but that was impossible with Alfa 1 sitting opposite. If I didn’t flip the pages regularly, he’d look up and ask me what I’d found. So I skimmed ahead in search of what I most wanted – information on Papá’s execution and his killers.
It felt strange to see events that I’d lived through and seen with my own eyes described in dry, factual documents devoid of emotion.
A copy of the threat letter to Padre Rojas was on file, although there was no mention of how our beloved priest had been torn away from long-standing friends or of the upheaval within the demoralised congregation.
There was a lengthy report on Farmer Díaz’s kidnapping, but I skipped over it since its ten pages contained only dates, times and transcripts of phone calls.
The file on the church bombing in Llorona the previous October reported it as follows:
Army response time:
17 minutes
Property damage:
minor
There was no mention of the thunderous noise and ground-shaking explosions of the mortar bombs waking thousands of families and causing them to cower in terror.
Finally, I came to the report on Papá. It felt slightly surreal reading my own witness statement:
He fired and my father’s head jerked then he fell to his knees and collapsed face-forward onto the dirt.
It was also horrific to realise someone I loved was now referred to by a case number and called simply el difunto − the deceased. However, it seemed that Buitrago had kept his word. Correspondence with the Fiscal prosecutor’s office showed he’d succeeded in securing convictions against Zorrillo and Caraquemada in absentia. An orden de captura – an arrest warrant – had been issued for each man. Unfortunately, all warrants against Guerrilla commanders had been temporarily suspended to facilitate the peace talks.
It made me furious. By what right could politicians declare convicted murderers temporarily not to be murderers, just so they could sit down with them to talk peace?
If you want justice in this country – real justice, I mean – you can’t wait for the government to do its job. You have to pursue justice yourself. I slammed the file shut and retrieved the original folder containing the personnel dossiers.
‘Find anything?’ asked Alfa 1, looking up hopefully.
‘Not yet.’
However, my witness statement and Buitrago’s diligence had in fact served for something. From their warrants, I now had Zorrillo and Caraquemada’s real names, which allowed me to locate their personnel dossiers.
Zorrillo had been born EDGAR ROBERTO HURTADO JUNÍN. As a minor, he’d been arrested for car theft and aggravated assault. Later, he’d worked as a bodyguard, driver and assassin for the Medellín cartel, led by Pablo Escobar. Then, at the age of twenty-five, he was convicted for possessing fifty kilograms of cocaine concealed in the spare tyre of a vehicle he was driving.
By losing the cartel’s merchandise, Zorrillo fell foul of them and in La Picota prison was forced to seek protection in the Guerrilla-controlled wing. Upon his release, he raised funds for the Guerrilla by turning against his former organisation.
From his years as a driver, Zorrillo knew the names and faces of mid-level traffickers, their accountants and political associates. With Guerrilla backing, he phoned former colleagues and demanded they pay vacunas. Anyone who refused was kidnapped, ransomed and, while in captivity, forced to reveal trafficking routes, the location of laboratories and the names of chemical suppliers.
The Medellín cartel put a price on Zorrillo’s head and fed the Colombian authorities information on his whereabouts. However, each time the authorities closed in, the Guerrilla moved him to a different part of the country with a changed identity. His current field of operation was Santo Paraíso and Puerto Galán, where he was the ‘Commander of Finances’ under Caraquemada.
In addition to his extortion of cartel members, Zorrillo was suspected of masterminding thirty-two kidnaps. He was believed to have ordered forty-two homicides and issued countless extortion demands. Ten of his most recent extortion victims were cattle farmers and businessmen in Llorona and Garbanzos, including Humberto Díaz’s sons, Javier and Fabián.
In the file were photocopies of four ID cards and two passports belonging to him, all of which carried different names. In successive photos he had short hair, long hair, no hair, a beard and a moustache.
I’d always thought of Zorrillo as a local, small-time vacuna collector, not much different to Ratón. But ‘Zorrillo’ was simply the latest of his many aliases designed to conceal the extent of his criminal enterprise, the amount of money he’d stolen and the incredible damage he’d caused around the country.
The report ended with a psychologist’s profile:
The subject’s major weaknesses appear to be greed and vanity. Photos and receipts seized from his penthouse in Medellín at the time of his arrest reveal a predilection for designer clothes, prostitutes and sports cars. Hostages report that he continues to wear a gold Rolex even while sleeping in the jungle. He carries a Gucci wallet filled with cash that he displays in front of field workers and wears leather shoes. And, while his rank-and-file soldiers trudge through the mud, he travels by car whenever possible.
In the opinion of this analyst, the subject manifests symptoms of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, characterised by a long-standing pattern of grandiosity, an overwhelming need for admiration and a lack of empathy towards others. The subject is unlikely to be a true communist. His relationship with the FARC is one of mutual self-interest.
I remembered how Zorrillo had referred to my father as ‘the traitor Gutiérrez’. But he was the one who’d repeatedly betrayed his friends.
Zorrillo’s demise could not come quickly enough. I only hoped I could reach the Puerto Galán markets before his superiors relocated him again. But whatever the case, I was certain of one thing: the key to trapping Zorrillo was money. Extorting money was how he lived. Extorting money was how he’d die.
When I began reading Caraquemada’s file, however, I knew immediately he’d be much harder to track.
Caraquemada had no legally registered name or date of birth and no record with government entities – the Department of Births, Deaths and Marriages, the police, schools or even hospitals. The reason for this was bizarre: his parents had been Guerrilla commanders and their son was born in a mountain camp in the early 1970s. I’d located his file under ‘A’, since the name on this arrest warrant was ‘Son of Alvaro Alvarez’.
Alvarez had been a dynamite technician in an emerald mine in Arauca in the late 1960s when, as a union leader, he was targeted for assassination by the mine’s owners. After hiding his wife in a remote village, he joined the recently formed Guerrilla, who prized him for his organisational skills and expertise with dynamite and soon made him a commander.
During a secret visit to his wife, the army tracked him down. Husband and wife fled back to camp, with one complication: she was pregnant. The Guerrilla did not allow infants in their camps – they made noise, required feeding and took a fighter out of action. Normally, women who fell pregnant in the ranks were forced to abort. But for the partners of important commanders, exceptions could be made.
When the child was born he was not given a name, instead being referred
to as Sardino, a common nickname for young boys. Campesino sympathizers raised the boy until the age of eight, after which he lived in the camp as an ordinary revolutionary. Sardino cleaned weapons, attended communist classes and learned to shoot. He committed his first murder at the age of eleven; the victim was a landowner who’d laughed at him.
According to the file, by his early twenties the man I knew as ‘Caraquemada’ was a fearless commander and an expert in military tactics, masterminding and leading several raids on remote police garrisons.
As to the cause of his horrifically scarred left cheek, there were three competing versions: a jealous lover who poured acid on him while he slept, a 40mm army grenade that also killed his socia, or an accidental explosion while he was wiring a landmine.
After this incident he became even more committed and vicious. His alias changed to Caraquemada – meaning ‘Burned-Face’ – and, since he was now highly recognisable, he rarely left the mountain camps, from which he launched increasingly violent and successful campaigns against the army.
He became expert at moving large numbers of troops undetected. He trained junior commanders from other bloques to emulate his tactics. He also mastered the art of escape. During several battles he was the only member of an entire troop to return alive. Because of his face and these escapes, rumours circulated that he’d made a pact with the devil and could not be killed. Local campesinos and his own men feared him. When attacked, they claimed, he could change form, becoming a pig or a chicken or simply vanishing into thin air.
Caraquemada was ruthless. He was disciplined. The jungle was his home, the Guerrilla was his family and the revolution was his life. All this would make capturing him difficult.
