by Rusty Young
‘The suspect is a civilian. And he denies knowledge of how the damage occurred.’
‘I didn’t see the boat driver’s face,’ Palillo said. ‘I only saw him from behind.’
‘But you saw the boat.’ Alejandro shone his torch onto a photo of a green lancha, which he handed to Palillo. ‘Is this it?’
Palillo studied it carefully. ‘It’s the same colour and size, with the same motor. And the repair is exactly where the bullet struck. But I can’t swear it’s the same boat.’
This meant that identifying the man would be solely up to me. Alejandro heaved open the heavy door and used his torch to lead us down a dark staircase that stank of urine. My hands slid along the cold handrail and my knuckles brushed slimy bricks. From behind me, Palillo squeezed my shoulder. He’d offered to look at the prisoner anyway, in case seeing him triggered recognition, but I knew he was really coming as a gesture of solidarity.
At the bottom of the stairs, one of the guards flicked on a light, illuminating a corridor with four metal doors. Alejandro slid back an observation hatch in one door and gestured for me to look through it.
Inside, a single bulb lit up a bare concrete holding cell. A man lay curled on a thin mattress under a brown blanket.
The two guards entered the cell, gagged the prisoner, lifted him by his armpits and dragged him to where I stood in the doorway.
‘Well?’ said General Itagüí, his hands on his hips. ‘Is it him?’
‘A simple yes will do,’ said Beta.
‘If you’re not sure,’ warned Alfa 1, ‘they’ll have to release him.’
The man was now only an arm’s length away and must have guessed why I was there, because he began begging me with his eyes and making desperate, inarticulate sounds into his gag.
I’d expected either an instant jolt of recognition or to be sure I’d never seen this person before in my life, but I experienced neither. Three weeks had passed. And I’d only seen the boat driver for a few seconds through binoculars.
‘Can I see his whole face?’
Alejandro sighed and then nodded for the gag to be untied. Immediately, I understood the reason for his reluctance.
‘I own five identical boats that I rent out,’ blurted out the prisoner. ‘I don’t remember who used that particular boat that day. I fixed the hole but thought nothing of it because my boats get damaged all the time—’
‘Cover his mouth!’ ordered Alejandro angrily before turning to me. ‘Well?’
‘I need a moment.’
I now wished that they’d never removed his gag. Knowing the facts for and against him, my mind turned to the likelihood of his guilt. If he’d rented out his boat only three weeks ago, wouldn’t he remember to whom? Wouldn’t he at least offer up a list of possible names?
On the other hand, if he were guilty, wouldn’t he have sold the boat? Or at least painted the vessel so the repair wouldn’t be obvious?
I stepped away to confer with Palillo.
‘I know you want it to be him,’ he whispered, ‘but tell the truth. That you don’t know.’ I understood Palillo’s reasons for siding with the boat driver. His own father had driven boats and was killed by the Guerrilla following a false accusation.
‘What if he’s guilty and they let him go?’ I whispered back. I turned to Lieutenant Alejandro. ‘Does his family know he’s here?’
‘He’s single and lives alone,’ said Alejandro. ‘No one knows he’s here.’
If I said yes and the suspect was innocent, he would spend thirty days isolated in this holding cell being interrogated by the army. But the fact that he didn’t have a wife and children at home worrying about his disappearance meant he’d be the only one affected by my decision. On the other hand, if the man was guilty, he might lead us to Santiago.
I later realised the significance of the choice I made that night, but at the time I was simply tired and hungry, stressed from the previous night’s fight with Camila and, most of all, frustrated at not getting Zorrillo.
‘It’s him,’ I said.
‘Good!’ exclaimed Beta. Then he barked at the guards: ‘Throw him in the Blazer.’
‘What?’
‘This guerrillero son of a puta is coming with us.’
It took several moments to process what was happening, and when I did, I froze in disbelief, my stomach sinking and my skin crawling. The boat driver would not spend thirty days with the army; they were handing him straight over to the Autodefensas.
‘But … why not keep him here?’
‘This investigation is time-sensitive,’ answered Alfa 1.
Alejandro clarified: ‘Once the Guerrilla notice his absence, they’ll flee and any information he gives on this case will be outdated.’
Beta was far blunter: ‘A proper interrogation needs to occur immediately.’
Alejandro called it a ‘case’. Alfa 1 used the word ‘investigation’. Beta said it was an ‘interrogation’. But my heart filled with dread at the events I’d just set in motion: what all three of them meant was torture.
88
ALL THE WAY back to La 50, I was reeling with shock. Palillo’s angry glare made it worse. He shook his head at me, as if to say I should recant my claim. But it was too late for that. I’d made my decision and couldn’t have taken it back even if I’d begged. Worse still, I had to listen to the thumping and kicking of the bound, gagged and blindfolded prisoner in the back of the Blazer.
When we arrived at 2 am, we were greeted at the gate by two members of Beta’s hand-picked ‘intelligence-gathering’ team. Beta drove us past the newly constructed dormitories, where Culebra’s one hundred and seventy fresh recruits were sleeping, and uphill to the new holding cell, which had also been completed in my absence.
The bunker jutted out of the hillside fifty metres from the dormitory where Palillo and I would sleep. Electricity wasn’t yet connected, but otherwise the bunker was ready to receive its first inmate.
I shuddered as Beta’s two assistants took hold of the prisoner’s arms and lifted him out of the Blazer. The boat driver thrashed as fiercely as a freshly caught fish. He had to be dragged over the last few metres of stony ground and into the cell.
‘Bring batteries and a voice recorder,’ Beta ordered a third assistant. ‘And fill that barrel with water.’
I headed downhill, my stomach queasy. What’s done is done, I told myself.
Palillo was no longer speaking to me. We were the only two in the dormitory but he lay in his hammock and turned his back.
It was a warm, still night, which allowed sound to carry. When I heard the first blood-curdling scream, I reached for the yellow foam earplugs that we used on the rifle range. Palillo rolled over, slapped the earplugs to the floor and finally spoke his mind.
‘You caused this,’ he said. ‘If you don’t want to go in and watch, you can at least have the fucking cojones to listen.’
‘I never meant for this to happen. I thought the army would keep him.’
‘That’s not the point. You lied. The Pedro I grew up with would never have lied like that.’
‘Then you’re saying I should stop them,’ I said, twisting out of my hammock. But Palillo came after me, grabbing my shoulder and jerking me back.
‘Don’t!’ he said as a second agonised scream pierced the air. ‘That’s a dead man you’re hearing.’
I stood with Palillo, leaning against the doorframe, listening. A dim light now shone from under the bunker door. I noticed several extension cords running from the kitchen. There were muffled moans, followed by wailing – ‘No, no, no!’ – and crying.
The prisoner’s screams echoed through my body. Were they applying electrical cables to his wet skin or holding his head underwater in that barrel until he sucked water into his lungs? Were they cutting him with a scalpel and then sewing up his wounds to prolong his agony?
I knew Palillo was right. Innocent or guilty, the boat owner would never be allowed to walk free. I’d condemned a man to be tortured to de
ath.
After two more hours and four more earth-shattering screams, Beta emerged from his bunker for a coffee break.
‘Has he confessed?’ I asked, striding across the grass.
Beta shook his head. ‘He’s a tough cliente. But some people take time.’
‘Then what’s happening in there?’
‘The Law of War is what’s happening.’
I was already familiar with the Law of Silence. Now I was learning how to break that silence, and it was called the Law of War. When Beta read the anxiety in my face, he splashed the dregs from his cup onto the ground.
‘Either come in and help, or go to bed. It’s too late to be developing a conscience, soldier.’
I returned to my hammock, but sleep was impossible. Instead, I prayed that the man was guilty. That was the only thing that could justify what I’d done. After another scream – by far the loudest of the night – there was a lengthy silence and I changed my prayer.
‘Please, God, let him die. End his suffering. Please!’
However, if I’m completely honest, it was more my own suffering I wanted to end.
When the first traces of murky light seeped through our doorway, I was delirious with tiredness. But at least the screams had stopped. I must have drifted off to sleep because I awoke to Alfa 1 shaking my foot.
I sat up in my hammock. ‘Is he dead?’
He smiled. ‘Put on your boots! I think you need to come and hear this for yourself.’
With Alfa 1 beside me, I entered the bunker. The only light inside came from early-morning rays streaming through the doorway behind us. The prisoner lay motionless on a stained mattress, covered with a blanket.
He was facedown with his limbs spread-eagled and four thick ropes tied to his wrists and ankles. Three of the ropes extended to heavy metal hooks embedded in the walls, presumably designed to limit his struggles. However, the prisoner’s convulsions must have been titanic because the fourth hook lay on the floor in a pile of concrete dust and brick chunks.
‘Lift the blanket,’ ordered Alfa 1.
If not dead, I at least expected the prisoner to be battered, bruised and bleeding. But when I slowly peeled back one corner of the blanket, wincing, he was snoring peacefully and there was no blood. Only then did I notice the half-eaten steak on a plate beside him. There was also an empty mug, and packets of painkillers and sleeping tablets.
‘He’s still alive?’
‘For the moment,’ said Alfa 1.
The man was wearing only boxer shorts. Clearly visible on his naked skin were six large, red triangular-shaped welts: two on the back of each thigh and two larger ones in the middle of his back containing tiny white dots. I smelled scorched flesh and looked around for what they’d used to burn him.
My gaze followed the extension cord to its end, where it was connected to an electric clothes iron. The tiny circles on the man’s skin mirrored the iron’s steam outlets.
Alfa 1 kicked the prisoner in the ribs. He wakened, propped himself drowsily onto one elbow and looked up at us. There were two more triangles – one on his cheek and one in the centre of his forehead.
‘I’m sorry,’ I gasped as the man blinked and recognised me from the barracks.
‘Don’t be,’ said Alfa 1. ‘He had a choice. He could have co-operated. But instead he chose to lie to us for over three hours.’ He booted the prisoner’s ribs again. ‘Tell him!’
The man’s eyelids drooped as he looked at me. ‘You were right. That was me you saw in the boat. I work for the Guerrilla.’
Alfa 1 filled the prisoner’s mug with water and led the way outside. There, he summarised everything Beta had taped on the voice recorder during the interrogation. As it turned out, the innocent civilian boat driver was not so innocent after all.
The boat driver wasn’t a Guerrilla soldier, but he drove riverboats for them and they paid him handsomely. He also ran a legitimate boat-hire business as a front, although he made little money from that, and he lived humbly, like the other inhabitants of Puerto Pescador, so no one would suspect.
Several times a week, he transported Guerrilla supplies to the camp. Mostly his cargo consisted of food and other provisions such as batteries, toiletries, oil, salt and medicine. There were tanks of diesel for powering the generators and barrels of outboard gasoline for the Guerrilla boats located further upriver.
Sometimes he transported bales of cocaine and garbage bags full of cash. And occasionally he carried passengers: a squad that needed to move quickly, or a mid-level commander travelling incognito. He’d delivered Proof of Life videos downriver and letters from the hostages’ families back to the camp. Once, he’d even transported five hostages – lying flat on the bottom of the boat under a tarpaulin – right past the army checkpoint.
The boat driver confirmed the existence of a large Guerrilla base belonging to Santiago near the Venezuelan border. It had been there for five years and, judging by the cement, nails and wire he’d delivered in the first twelve months, it had taken a year to construct.
‘Based on the weight of food delivered weekly, the camp must house at least three hundred soldiers,’ Alfa 1 concluded. ‘Possibly more if this man isn’t their only supplier.’
Although the boat driver had been close to the camp, he’d never been inside. On a map, he identified four locations where he parked on the riverbank. Each time, a team of guerrilleros would quickly unload his cargo then send him further upstream into smaller tributaries to fool the US satellites and spy planes.
‘That took five hours to tell?’ I asked Alfa 1.
‘Two. For the first three he resisted. Only after the second burn to his face did he confess.’
The man also gave up the names of men who drove trucks for the Guerrilla, a driver of gasoline tankers who siphoned off petroleum for them and companies that sold them food. He even offered to take Beta to some buried Guerrilla money – hundreds of thousands of dollars, proceeds from cocaine sales and ransom payments.
Alfa 1 patted me on the back, opened the door slightly, and we peered in at the boat driver. ‘I know you weren’t sure about this. But you did right, Pedro.’
The man was snoring once more. Knowing what he’d done, I no longer pitied him. True, he hadn’t killed anyone – he didn’t even carry a gun – but he’d betrayed his country for cash. And all around Colombia there were many more like him, profiting from other people’s misery. I was almost glad he’d tasted a few hours of suffering.
‘What will happen to him?’ I asked.
‘He’ll spend a few more days with Beta. After five years working with the Guerrilla, he must have plenty more to tell. Then, if his stories check out, he’ll live. When the time comes, he’ll be the guide to Santiago’s camp.’
‘When will we attack?’
‘It could be weeks, maybe months. This is only the first step.’
When Beta returned with his two assistants, Alfa 1 ordered them to get the prisoner antibiotics.
‘And maybe some magazines and a television,’ he added. ‘He has a long wait ahead of him.’
‘He’s a fucking guerrillero!’ Beta exclaimed. ‘Why give him privileges?’
‘Because we’re not tyrants.’
Alfa 1 didn’t see himself as a tyrant. Nor did I see myself as one. Nevertheless, bit by bit, I was becoming more like my commanders.
The previous night, by fingering a civilian for interrogation without being certain of his guilt, I’d stepped across a line. Now, after deciding the boat driver deserved it, I looked behind me and that line had vanished. And when I turned and looked to the future, I knew the lines ahead of me would be easier and easier to cross.
89
ALFA 1 WANTED ME to attend a meeting that was to be held as soon as Trigeño arrived by helicopter. In the meantime, I returned to the dormitory, where I found Palillo throwing movie punches and rehearsing lines in front of the mirror.
‘You still angry with me?’ I asked.
‘Was he guilty?’
‘Then, no, I’m not.’
‘So what’s wrong?’
Palillo nodded to a postcard he’d tucked into the folds of his hammock. It was from his eldest sister, who was twelve, and had been delivered while we were away. In it, she’d mentioned that his stepfather’s drinking was becoming worse.
Palillo threw another punch, flexed his muscles and then sized himself up in the mirror. ‘My mother will never leave him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Lack of money.’
Every time there was trouble at home, Palillo fantasised about being rich and famous. Money would buy him safety, comfort and the power to help his mother and five siblings. But what he really wanted was for his stepfather, Diomedes, to disappear from their lives.
‘I honestly think I could kill him,’ said Palillo, striking the wall. I guessed the only thing stopping him was concern over how his mother would live afterwards with so many mouths to feed. Otherwise, I was sure Diomedes would be top of his ‘to do’ list.
I knew that Ñoño also harboured dreams of saving his mother from his father and faced the same obstacle: money.
‘When I’ve saved up enough I’ll buy my mother a house far away,’ Ñoño had told me. ‘And if my father interferes I’ll know how to deal with him. Even the finest machetero is no match for a bullet.’
Palillo stopped throwing shadow punches and tossed me my cell phone.
‘This has been ringing constantly.’ There were several missed calls from both Mamá and Camila. I stepped outside and phoned Mamá first.
Mamá said nothing about my leaving town suddenly. Obviously, no one had told her about my storming out of the party or my argument with Camila.
‘I’m so glad you met Eleonora and talked to her sons. Javier asked me to tell you he’s sorry your conversation was cut short. He says that if you’re ever interested in working closer to home, he’d be happy to assist.’
Javier had at least been subtle, but after the disastrous fiesta I had no interest in further contact with him or anyone else from his family.
