Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  Next, I phoned Camila. I explained my work ‘emergency’ and apologised for my overreaction, expecting her to do the same. However, at first she was completely unrepentant.

  ‘What got into you, Pedro, dragging me out by the wrist like that? You’ve never laid a hand on me before.’

  ‘You were drunk. I was trying to protect you.’

  ‘Protect me from what? Fabián was the host. Nothing happened.’

  ‘What do you mean nothing happened? They were giving you cocaine, Camila. Do you know what that shit is doing to our country? Where do you think the Guerrilla get their finances from?’

  ‘It was only a little bit. Besides, I don’t need a jealous boyfriend embarrassing me in public. I’m fifteen. I can do what I want.’

  Until then, I’d taken her reprimands and insults patiently, like a boxer trained to absorb body punches. But now I lost my patience and lashed out.

  ‘Not if it’s dangerous. And not if it makes you rude and selfish. What if your father had found you taking drugs, not me? You’re completely in the wrong here, Camila. You should be apologising to me. You invited me to that party. Then you disappear into a locked room with Fabián without telling me. How do you think that made me feel?’

  Finally, after a long silence, Camila softened. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that. I should have come home with you. And I shouldn’t have said the horrible things I said. I was angry, but it was totally wrong of me.’ She sniffed. ‘It’s just … after what happened at the roadblock the day before … I wanted to forget everything …’ She sniffed again. ‘I do love you, Pedro. I’m sorry.’

  I softened also. ‘Gracias, amor. Please promise not to get angry. But I need to ask one thing: did you give him your number?’

  ‘He asked, but I refused. But I did give it to Andrea – the newsreader. I might need contacts or a place to stay when I’m in Bogotá.’

  ‘Bogotá?’

  ‘You never asked me how I did in my exams, but I came top of my class. My teacher says I should apply for an early admission scholarship next year. The Nacional university has places for students from rural areas. Please understand, Pedro. I don’t know anyone else from the city.’

  I was silent. I’d always known Camila wanted to leave Llorona. But whenever she’d spoken previously about moving to the capital, it had always been in terms of us. Her dream was for us to live together, sleeping on the floor of a rented room while scrimping and saving to get by. But now she spoke in terms of her.

  Her voice brightened. ‘Living in Bogotá will be great! There’s a suburb called La Candelaria with artists, theatre festivals and galleries. You can visit me whenever you like …’

  Of course, the possibility of Camila attending university was a long way off. The application date was months away, and the university semester wouldn’t start for a year and a half. That was assuming she actually won the scholarship and that her father could help with living expenses. Nevertheless, it scared me to think of Camila beginning a new life that I wasn’t part of.

  ‘That’s great, amor. I’ll cross my fingers you get it.’

  Our relationship was changing – it was becoming more on her terms – but I didn’t want to lose her. Nor did I want her going to Bogotá on her own, or with Andrea and Fabián, which meant I had to track down Papá’s killers faster. And with the boat driver’s confession and Trigeño’s military briefing about to begin, that was now a real possibility.

  Fifteen senior commanders attended the briefing with Trigeño in the new office. I was the only junior commander present. Arguments erupted over what to do with the boat driver’s information, although everyone agreed we had to act quickly before the Guerrilla noticed his absence.

  ‘Let’s intercept the food and gasoline trucks, shoot the drivers and leave their bodies by the side of the road,’ said Beta. ‘We’ll torch the boat driver’s house and five boats to send a message to other Guerrilla collaborators.’

  Alfa 1 preferred a more measured approach. ‘We should occupy Puerto Pescador and set up a roadblock to prevent supplies getting through to Santiago’s camp. We’ll weaken them before launching an attack. As for the boats, we should confiscate them and use them ourselves to patrol the river.’

  Trigeño waited for his senior commanders to finish.

  ‘We’ll do none of that,’ he stated quietly. ‘The base is close to the Venezuelan border, so cutting off their supplies from this side won’t starve them.’

  In army circles, it was an open secret that the socialist government in Venezuela had long supported the communist insurgency in Colombia. The border was porous: weapons, munitions and supplies flowed one way from Venezuela; cash and cocaine flowed the other way as payment.

  Trigeño had developed a plan, which he now outlined to us.

  First, we’d transport the boat driver to Bogotá, from where he’d phone his girlfriend and say he was away visiting a supplier. The Bogotá number would be recorded in her telephone billing. He’d then apply for a passport. A one-way ticket to Costa Rica would be purchased in his name and someone would be paid to impersonate him and take the flight. Meanwhile, Beta’s men would secretly visit his house to pack clothes and valuables. Under cover of darkness, they’d also dig up the Guerrilla’s crate of cash.

  The Guerrilla had IT experts and intelligence operatives embedded in phone companies, airlines and government agencies. All clues would point to the boat driver absconding with their money.

  ‘The operation against Santiago needs to be covert,’ explained Trigeño. ‘Otherwise he’ll flee, evacuate his troops and move the base. The Guerrilla will be looking for signs the boat driver has talked. But when there are no raids and no arrests, they’ll relax. Of course, they’ll change their codes and personnel as a precaution. But after that, we want them to go back to business as usual.’

  ‘So we keep quiet,’ said Alfa 1, folding his arms. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Phone your army friends. The army can use its one advantage – air power. Once we’ve pinpointed the base’s location …’ Trigeño paused dramatically. ‘Boom! A five hundred pound MX-82 bomb will leave a crater the size of a football field. Santiago won’t know what hit him.’

  The other commanders seemed impressed, relieved even, murmuring among themselves and nodding enthusiastically. Bombing the base would inflict maximum casualties on the enemy with no risk to us.

  However, I was disappointed – Santiago’s death would be quick. I’d have no chance to interrogate him about how to find Papá’s other killers. And I wanted Santiago to look into my eyes and understand why he had to die.

  But when Lieutenant Alejandro arrived in response to Alfa 1’s phone call, he dismissed Trigeño’s plan.

  ‘The generals will never authorise bombing,’ he said. ‘We’re still in peace talks. Plus we’re negotiating billions of dollars in aid from the EU and the US government to fight drug trafficking. A bomb dropped on the border of Venezuela would be disastrous. We can provide aerial surveillance, radio communications intercepts and photographic data from US satellites, but you’ll have to amass your own ground forces and go in yourselves.’

  Trigeño kept his temper tightly controlled. ‘So you want the victory, but the bloodshed will be ours?’

  ‘The army will do its part,’ the lieutenant said crisply. ‘For one thing, we can help you determine the camp’s coordinates.’

  We all looked at the large map pinned to the corkboard. The boat driver’s information had narrowed the likely location to a six-by-six-kilometre area right on the Venezuelan border. However, it wasn’t possible to plan a coordinated attack on thirty-six square kilometres of dense jungle.

  ‘How?’

  ‘With a state-of-the art satellite transponder. The police can detain a Guerrilla truck driver, secretly insert it into his supplies and wait for it to reach the camp.’

  Beta shook his head. ‘The boat driver says everything is scanned daily by electromagnetic detectors.’

&nb
sp; ‘Then we’ll send in a zorro solo.’

  ‘Zorro solo’ literally translates as ‘lone fox’. I imagined some kind of remote-controlled robot disguised as a furry mammal with a camera inside. But Alfa 1 later explained to me that zorro solos were highly disciplined, elite soldiers with special training in hand-to-hand combat, physical endurance, jungle survival and psychological control.

  A zorro solo is taught to detect and disarm anti-personnel mines and crawl over trip-wires. To build up his tolerance for pain, he is covered with fire ants and not allowed to scream or scratch. Camouflaged, he can survive up to two months in the jungle, eating berries, fruit, tree roots and wild animals – anything he can find or kill.

  Wearing only black boxer shorts and with his body covered in burned motor grease so that no skin pigment shows, he is inserted secretly into the jungle with a plastic-bladed knife and two energy bars for emergencies. His mission: to penetrate the Guerrilla’s defences, gather intelligence and sometimes carry out acts of sabotage.

  Trigeño nodded his agreement to Alejandro and then stood to give his final orders.

  ‘Contact the commanders from other regions and ask them to lend us troops. We’ll amass eight hundred soldiers, while our generous cousins here contribute one. We pinpoint the camp and study its defences. We plan and simulate an attack. And we obtain confirmation that Santiago is present. I’ll leave the details up to you, Alfa 1.’

  Trigeño strolled from the room and Alfa 1 dismissed us with a jerk of his head. He, too, was annoyed at how little help the army had offered.

  As for me, a ground force attack renewed my hopes for getting proper justice against Santiago. Nevertheless, I was dead tired. As I trudged towards the dormitory, my limbs felt like concrete and my eyelids like lead weights. I rounded the shower block and Trigeño stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

  ‘Pedro! The boy with the eagle eyes and viper tattoo. Walk with me!’

  I froze, instantly wary. I’d been the most junior commander in the room. What could he possibly want with me? Falling into step beside him, I wondered nervously whether this ‘walk’ was an interview, a friendly stroll or an interrogation. Had he somehow heard about my mentioning the intelligence files to Buitrago at the Díaz fiesta?

  As Trigeño led me along La Quebrada, I looked behind me for reassurance that someone had at least witnessed my departure.

  But the sight of ten heavily armed bodyguards trailing us closely only exacerbated my unease.

  90

  TRIGEÑO STRODE ALONG the creek bed in silence, although I knew he must have had some purpose. He wasn’t a man who wasted time. He worked until midnight and kept a laptop nearby at all times, ‘in case he had a spare moment to do some work’.

  Finally, he stopped beside the small, peaceful pool above La Quebrada.

  ‘You know, Pedro, if you hadn’t shot those two enemies and identified the boat driver, none of that briefing would have been possible.’

  ‘Gracias.’ I blushed, glad to be recognised.

  ‘You’re from Llorona?’

  ‘Yes, comando.’

  ‘We had plans to enter it three years ago but they came to nothing. And now the Guerrilla are too strong. We’d have to launch a large-scale invasion and I’m a poor soldier, not a banker. Besides, there’s one stubborn man who refuses to collaborate.’ He studied my face. ‘Do you know Colonel Buitrago?’

  ‘He and Papá were friends,’ I answered hesitantly. ‘I gave him my witness statement after Papá was executed by—’

  ‘Caraquemada and Zorrillo, who received orders from Santiago. You want all of them dead.’

  Astonished, I stared at him.

  ‘I studied your personnel file and Alfa 1 told me about your little deal … and your recent request.’ He handed me a velvet pouch containing a Bushnell 6500 – a zoom scope with nine times magnification that affixes to most rifles. ‘However, a telescopic scope is of no use without professional training. We’re conducting an advanced sniper training course in a few months – I want you to be a part of it.’

  I could hardly hide my delight. ‘Thank you, comando!’

  ‘Santiago’s base will be protected by expert snipers. We’ll need sharpshooters too.’ Trigeño waved to his head bodyguard, and his three-vehicle security caravan roared towards us. ‘Once you’re trained, you’ll receive a salary increase. And if there’s anything else you need, feel free to ask.’

  I immediately thought of Palillo.

  ‘Comando …’ I began cautiously. ‘There is something – actually, two things.’ He raised his eyebrows and I felt heat rushing to my cheeks. ‘When I shot those two guerrilleros, Palillo was beside me with binoculars. He reported where the bullets struck and that allowed me to adjust my aim. We’ve always been a team.’

  ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘Ñoño. He’s only a kid but he’s as brave as men twice his age. If given an opportunity …’

  Trigeño opened the car door and nodded his farewell. ‘Consider it done.’

  I assumed Palillo would be grateful that I’d recommended him for the advanced course. But he was livid that I was bringing him closer to Trigeño.

  ‘He’s a psychopath. Have you forgotten Tango and Murgas? One wrong move and that could happen to us.’

  ‘But I thought you needed extra money for your family. And I wanted us to stick together.’

  ‘And then what? After sniper training, do you think they’ll pay us to sit around watching movies?’

  Palillo was content patrolling cow paddocks, receiving three free meals a day and a monthly pay packet, and enjoying quarterly leave. Being promoted would entail greater responsibility and bring him a step closer to the front line.

  I’d deliberated over which aspects of my visit home to share with Palillo. My sightings of Zorrillo and Buitre would only worry him. Instead, I told him how Fabián had given Camila cocaine at the fiesta.

  ‘The Díaz brothers are bad news,’ Palillo said. ‘Steer clear of those two.’

  ‘I can’t avoid them entirely. Mamá is living with them.’

  ‘What?’

  I explained how my mother had received the letter from the Guerrilla. Palillo was dismayed, but at least it caused him to back off a little.

  After a few days he calmed down and settled into a contented rhythm. He did, however, remain sceptical of Trigeño. And a week later, his scepticism seemed justified.

  Trigeño hated cocaine and narcotraficantes almost as much as he hated communism and the Guerrilla. According to him, the two went hand in hand.

  ‘Traffickers are the scourge of Colombia,’ he said, addressing us all during an evening political lecture at La 50. ‘Cocaine corrupts every person it touches: senators, judges, lawyers, bankers and ordinary citizens. The easy money creates laziness and lawlessness. Field workers become accustomed to quick cash; women become prostitutes. Peasant farmers rip up their traditional food crops and plant coca seeds instead, leading to food shortages and rising prices.’

  Ñoño raised his hand to ask how exactly the Guerrilla was involved.

  ‘Traffickers need to be protected from the government and from us. The Guerrilla act like a private army, posting sentinels to guard coca leaf pickers while they work, and positioning machine guns at the edges of fields to shoot down the US fumigation planes sent to destroy the crops. Guerrilla soldiers guard jungle laboratories and markets in small villages where cocaine is traded. Of course, they claim they do this to protect coca farmers’ rights. But it’s really so they can collect taxes: ten per cent from buyers, ten per cent from sellers, ten per cent for precursor chemicals entering their territory, and a set fee for every kilo of crystal that goes out. An army of twenty thousand men requires funding. But if we destroy their trade, it’ll be like switching off their life-support system.’

  In accordance with Trigeño’s instructions, civilians caught taking drugs were given a three-day grace period to leave town. However, for those who trafficked in drugs, the penalties wer
e severe.

  Violent proof of Trigeño’s hard-line policy was not long in coming. The boat driver provided Beta’s intelligence team with the name of a pig-truck driver who’d delivered cocaine to him for transportation along Guerrilla-controlled rivers and the truck driver in turn gave up his boss, Giraldo Gil, a farmer who lived on the outskirts of Trigeño’s protectorate.

  When Beta’s platoon surrounded the farmhouse, they were surprised at what lay behind the crumbling walls of the dilapidated estate: an elaborate security system with four CCTVs, electrified fences and two patrolling guards who were easily persuaded to lay down their shotguns.

  It was a Sunday and Giraldo Gil was eating lunch with his two younger brothers. Beta brought in all three for questioning. For a week, the Gil brothers and the pig-truck driver were accommodated in Beta’s bunker, which now boasted two extra rooms.

  The following Sunday, when Trigeño arrived, Beta led the four men out into the sunlight and tied them to separate wooden poles.

  All three brothers were of the same stocky build, slightly overweight with short hair and a week’s facial growth. The dark circles under their eyes told of sleeplessness and stress, but since all had talked frankly, none had been tortured. Nevertheless, Beta had El Psycho at the ready.

  ‘I believe their stories,’ Beta reported to Trigeño. ‘But if they’ve told the smallest lie, this genius will gouge it out of them.’

  Trigeño raised a palm. ‘That won’t be necessary. What’s their story?’

  Beta described how, for fifteen years, the truck driver had worked for the brothers’ father, a humble pig farmer. When he died, the eldest son, Giraldo, inherited the farm. The truck driver hadn’t liked it when his new boss required him to transport concealed trays beneath the pig cages and hand them over to the boat driver at Puerto Pescador. He didn’t know what the trays contained, although he guessed it must be contraband. But Giraldo said, ‘Do it and keep your mouth shut if you want to keep your job and feed your family.’