Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  Andrea, the simpering newsreader from the Díaz party, urged us on this holiest of nights to spare a thought for the thousands of men and women living in captivity around the country. Her voice-over continued while the television displayed images taken from Proof of Life videos showing hostages at the Guerrilla’s jungle camps. Imprisoned in cyclone wire cages, they slept on hardwood planks under thin blankets and ate from metal dishes like dogs. Their original clothes had rotted away thanks to the humidity, so they now wore Guerrilla camouflage. Many suffered from malaria or diphtheria, and their skin bore ulcers that never healed. Some had been trapped there for ten years.

  The reporter crossed to a plaza in Medellín where the hostages’ families huddled in groups, holding a peaceful vigil to lobby the government to seek a negotiated solution rather than attempt dangerous rescue operations. They held candles and waved placards.

  One placard – in red, childish writing – simply read: HOLA, PAPÁ! I LOVE YOU!

  It was held by a little boy who’d never laid eyes on his dad. His father, a doctor, had been kidnapped at a Guerrilla roadblock while doing volunteer aid work in a remote indigenous community. His wife was pregnant at the time. The boy was now five, and his mother had shown him photos and explained how much his father loved him. She’d also instilled in him the hope that his Papá might one day come home.

  ‘We live with that hope,’ said the mother softly, barely whispering into the microphone. ‘Hope is the only thing that keeps us breathing.’

  It was touching. It was gut-wrenching. And it almost flattened me to the floor with fury when they cut to an excerpt from an interview with Santiago, recorded months ago. In response to a question about the hostages’ horrific living conditions, he’d replied, ‘Our prisoners of war live in the same conditions as my soldiers. Here, everyone is equal.’

  Was this how the Guerrilla, after their revolution, would make us all equal: equally poor, equally sick and equally miserable? In comparison to Santiago’s callousness, the mother’s dignity and defiance were inspiring.

  The final interview was with a twelve-year-old boy suffering from leukaemia. I’d seen him on the news six months before. Lying in a hospital bed in a white gown, he was bald from chemotherapy and had a drip in his wrist. His last wish was to hold his kidnapped father before he died.

  ‘I’m sorry for interrupting your television viewing and for being so ugly,’ he’d joked, patting his bald head. ‘But I only want to see my father.’

  Every week for three years he’d written two letters: the first to his father, telling him how much he loved him; the second to Santiago, pleading for his father’s release. In his most recent letters he’d begged simply for a temporary visit. However, since he didn’t know whether the letters were reaching either man, he’d called the television station, which had sent a reporter to his bedside. Although the boy was sick, he told the reporter that he’d trek into the jungle if he had to. Santiago should just tell him where and when.

  That was six months earlier. Now, for this special Christmas follow-up episode, the boy had finally received a reply. He held up a letter on light-blue paper from the Guerrilla. Santiago was considering a unilateral release of his father on ‘humanitarian grounds’.

  Smiling, the boy declared, ‘This is the happiest day of my life since Papá left us.’

  Since Papá left us, he said, presumably to avoid aggravating the Guerrilla. He didn’t say, ‘This is the happiest day since terrorists chopped down trees to block a narrow road late at night, pointed their rifles at a line of innocent motorists and crosschecked their ID cards against a list of kidnappable people.’ He didn’t mention, although it had been written about in the papers, that his mother had been forced to plead with her relatives to hand over their life savings for the ransom. Nor that she’d suffered a nervous breakdown trying to pay their mortgage, feed two children and cover her dying son’s medical bills. Nor that his older sister had twice attempted suicide.

  Stories like this moved me deeply. They formed a lump in my throat and made tears come to my eyes. But when Andrea, the sexy, lip-glossed newsreader, came back on, I tensed as she turned from her co-host to pout at the camera.

  ‘And let’s hope Santiago releases him.’

  ‘Yes, Andrea.’ Her co-host frowned and shuffled her papers before shooting back a similarly empathetic look. ‘Let us hope.’

  As for me, I despaired. I wanted to scream at them, ‘Are you completely fucking insane? Can’t you see what’s happening?’

  Santiago orders his men to hijack a plane and take twenty-two hostages. Then, with his next breath, he kindly offers to release one man whose son is dying, cunningly timing his response for Christmas to pluck at the nation’s heartstrings. How could this tiny, manipulative act of apparent kindness be hailed as a beacon of hope? It sickened me to the marrow of my bones and the tiny fibres of my existence. And I wanted to shout the truth:

  It was not hope they were showing. It was tragedy. Pure fucking tragedy.

  I snatched up the remote and fumbled for the OFF button before they could depress me even more. Silence filled the room. I stared at the blank screen, listening to my own breathing.

  It was Christmas, but the world was not right. The world was simply not right.

  And with Santiago alive, it never would be.

  95

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, a soft tap sounded at the door. I leaped up and flung it open, convinced that Camila had found a way to visit. Instead, Javier and Fabián Díaz stood before me. Javier drew himself up to full height. Fabián looked sheepish and resentful, as though he’d come under duress. They glanced from my unshaven face to the unmade bed, the half-eaten meal in a polystyrene tray on the bedside table and the crumpled clothes strewn across the floor.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I demanded.

  ‘Our driver knows where your mother comes each day. Please come and join us,’ Javier urged. ‘We’ve put a plate of food aside for you.’

  ‘You drove all this way to collect me?’

  ‘And to apologise face to face,’ said Fabián. ‘My behaviour at the party was unacceptable.’ He was trying to sound sincere but I doubted he meant a word of it.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Now, if you don’t mind,’ I said, beginning to close the door.

  ‘Please, Pedro! At least hear us out,’ Javier begged. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about Zorrillo and Caraquemada. You were right. This month, Zorrillo raised our taxes to fifty per cent. The Guerrilla are bleeding us dry …’

  ‘We know we’re being followed,’ Fabián added. ‘We think Zorrillo is doing to us exactly what he did to our father before they kidnapped and killed him. But if we flee, we’ll lose everything.’

  ‘And?’ I interrupted.

  ‘And we need to speak to Trigeño,’ Javier said.

  So there it was again! Palillo had guessed their motives eight months earlier and I’d heard it confirmed by Fabián’s indiscretion at their party. Whatever crooked deal they’d struck with their father’s killers wasn’t working out so well after all. But if Javier and Fabián had seen what El Psycho had done to the three traficante brothers in Los Llanos, they mightn’t be so keen on meeting Trigeño.

  ‘Why come to me? Other people could get you Trigeño’s phone number.’

  ‘We’ve heard Trigeño is suspicious of outsiders. Our other friends mightn’t be as … reputable. Whereas you’ve known us all your life.’

  ‘I’ve heard you out. My answer is no. Now, goodnight.’

  ‘Wait!’ Javier jammed his foot in the door. ‘We can give you Zorrillo. Set up a meeting in a remote place, just as you asked.’

  This made my choice tougher. Although I didn’t trust Javier, I had no doubt he could arrange a face-to-face meeting with Zorrillo. He might even persuade Caraquemada to come along too.

  But as tempting as it was, my fear of Trigeño’s reaction was greater. After his vehement pronouncements against the narco-guerrilla and his upcoming book, any c
onnection with traffickers would torpedo his credibility. And once Trigeño discovered that I’d known their true profession, not even the deepest, darkest cavern on earth could shelter me from his rage.

  ‘My answer is still no. Now please leave!’

  When the brothers departed, I lay back on the bed, alone once more.

  And that was Christmas! The second after Papá’s death and the most depressing one I’ve ever spent.

  Over the coming days, I saw Camila and Mamá regularly, but I couldn’t get the image of that boy with leukaemia out of my head. I, too, hoped Santiago would release the father in time, but the selfish part of me was also envious of the boy. Maybe, just maybe, he would see his father again.

  On December 30th, I boarded the bus to return to La 50 and slumped into my seat, watching sullenly as smiling and laughing passengers entered, chattering gaily about their vacations. How could people laugh and joke at times like these?

  Optimistic people are fond of saying, ‘Cheer up! Things could be much worse.’

  But right then, my tent was not pitched in the optimists’ camp. It was the lowest ebb of my life. The men who’d killed Papá were not only taking my beloved town but the rest of the country too. Worse still, people around me – ordinary, everyday people whose perceptions, actions and common sense I’d assumed had always determined the course of our country’s history – accepted all this as if it were inevitable.

  Against this, I had only one thing: my fight. I would not be passive like them. I would continue to battle, no matter what, even if it cost me my life.

  When I changed buses in Villavicencio my stoicism was finally rewarded. A breaking newsflash appeared on the television screen above the driver’s seat.

  The Guerrilla had liberated eleven of their twenty-two hijacking hostages, with more expected to be released over coming days. The newsflash cut to a press conference with the President, who made a surprise announcement: ‘Not good enough! They must release all the hostages.’

  He had dark circles under his eyes and his hand was trembling. As a result of the hijacking, the President’s political career was all but over. He’d pledged a peaceful solution to the three-decade-long conflict by convincing our nation that the Guerrilla leaders were capable of compromise. But the Guerrilla had made fun of him for months – recruiting, buying weapons, fortifying defences and moving hostages to more secure locations while gaining worldwide publicity for their cause. And now there was this plane hijacking.

  ‘Today,’ the President read sombrely, ‘I’ve signed instructions to the nation’s Attorney-General to legally annul the demilitarised zone. I’ve also directed the Minister of Defence to use the army to retake the area by force. Sadly, but necessarily, the peace process is over. The war against the communist Guerrilla must now recommence.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that!’ I yelled, clapping three times and rattling the headrest in front of me. To me, this announcement was like a belated Christmas present – a present from the Guerrilla themselves, tied with ribbons of their arrogance and flagrant disregard for human dignity.

  I assumed everyone would be with me, cheering, applauding and whistling. Outside, patriotic motorists would honk their horns, fly flags and scream from windows as they did whenever Colombia made the first round of the World Cup.

  But other passengers turned to stare coldly. The old lady in the seat beside me looked at me like I was crazy.

  ‘Why would you say that? Why would you be pleased?’

  ‘The Guerrilla killed my father,’ I said. ‘In front of me.’

  That shut her up, although her disapproving expression didn’t disappear entirely.

  To the old lady and most other Colombians, the failed peace process was another sad episode in the tragic history of our nation – a cause for lament, not celebration. Yet while everyone else rallied for peace, I was cursing their stupidity and praying for war. Only years later did I look back and realise that the way I thought and acted back then was not normal.

  But right then I was glad. Glad the war was back on. Glad that when Lieutenant Alejandro pulled up in his army truck at the La 50 gate two days after my return he was not alone.

  General Itagüí was perched proudly beside him, smiling and waving like a touring monarch. Now that the peace process was over, he no longer needed to hide his friendship with Alfa 1.

  ‘Welcome back, General,’ said Alfa 1.

  ‘Feels like I never left,’ responded Itagüí, his shiny medals jangling as he bounded from the cabin like a dog let off its leash.

  He’d been instructed by the President to make up for lost time. As a result, there was a third man in the truck’s cabin – a man we’d all been waiting for: the zorro solo. He’d found Santiago’s camp.

  96

  LOOKING AT THE zorro solo as he climbed from the truck, I felt disappointed. I’d envisioned a bronzed, shirtless warrior with twelve-inch biceps, a barrel chest and raised abdominal muscles like the panels of a turtle-shell. His killer stare would harpoon me against the wall.

  However, the man before me was short and compact. He was wearing old jeans and a loose, faded T-shirt, and his upper body was slight. I had trouble imagining him as a barehanded assassin.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by appearances,’ Lieutenant Alejandro told us as we walked towards the office. ‘Judge him by his work.’

  Only Alfa 1, Beta, Itagüí and I attended the meeting. After placing a large crate marked ‘Classified’ on the table, Lieutenant Alejandro reported on the mission.

  ‘A helicopter lifted the zorro solo, the boat driver and one other soldier into the jungle to within thirty kilometres of the camp,’ Alejandro explained. ‘The boat driver guided them another fifteen kilometres closer along intricate tributaries and then turned back with his guard, while the zorro solo continued alone until he detected movement through the trees – a small Guerrilla patrol. Crawling, he followed their trail to the base, which was located on a triangular spit of land where two north-flowing tributaries join to form the Río Meta. His satellite transponder pinpointed it as being eight kilometres inside Venezuela.’

  With water to the north, east and west, Alejandro explained, the base was like a castle protected by a broad moat. From the south it was accessible by foot but was heavily fortified by trenches, machine guns and guard posts, making a stealthy entry impossible. The zorro solo slipped into the river and let the current drag him to the base’s northern tip. There, he scaled a tree, where he hid for five days, sharing it with a three-toed sloth and a family of squirrel monkeys. Although the taller trees of the rainforest canopy protected the base from aerial detection, the smaller trees had been felled, affording him a clear view over the camp.

  The zorro estimated that the base housed five hundred soldiers, who moved about on raised pathways made of wooden logs bound together using vines.

  ‘And after his return he made us this,’ said Alejandro, lifting the lid of the crate and motioning for us to gather round. He lowered its side flaps to reveal a three-dimensional scale model of the camp.

  I was astounded by its intricacy. Constructed from matchsticks, glue, rocks, dirt, thread and wire, the model was covered in neatly affixed labels indicating the latrines, commanders’ cabins, armoury bunker, food storage areas, cooking tents and sentry posts, including two high up in the trees. The zorro solo had even recreated the overhead netting and tarpaulins designed to fool satellites and prevent soldiers rappelling from helicopters.

  Three words beside a large tent at the northern tip of the camp set my heart racing: SANTIAGO AND PARTNER.

  We’d found Santiago! As Alejandro continued, I hung on his every word.

  The zorro solo’s tree was only fifty metres from Santiago’s tent. Each day at 5 pm he watched Santiago giving orders to his socia, a beautiful girl who was also his radio operator.

  Before leaving the base, the zorro solo had decided to test how the Guerrilla would react during an attack. At midnight, he stole a rifle magazine and placed it i
n the dying embers of a cooking fire. Ten minutes later, when he was safely back in his tree, the twenty-five bullet casings exploded like gunfire.

  The troops grabbed their weapons and scrambled for the perimeter trenches. Ten guards rushed into Santiago’s tent, but no one emerged. Two minutes later, the zorro solo was surprised to hear the squeak of metal directly below his own tree.

  A hatch, perfectly concealed by the leaf litter of the jungle floor, flipped open. Five of the bodyguards climbed out. They stripped away nearby palms and ferns to reveal three wooden dugout canoes, which they dragged to the water’s edge. They all piled into one canoe and paddled north-east, disappearing into darkness.

  A minute later – presumably when the first group had radioed their safe landing – a sixth guard emerged from the hatch with Santiago’s young girlfriend, who was carrying a laptop. They, too, sprinted to the water and paddled the second canoe in the same direction as the first.

  Santiago and the remaining four guards never emerged. The zorro solo was convinced that Santiago was waiting in a tunnel beneath the hatch, ready to sprint to the third canoe. However, by then the Guerrilla had discovered the false alarm and the camp quickly returned to normal.

  ‘Incredible!’ exclaimed Alfa 1, shaking the zorro’s hand.

  Luck had played a part in his observations. If he’d chosen a different tree, he might never have spotted the hatch and we’d never have known about the tunnel. But we now had everything we needed: the precise location of the base, its troop numbers and defensive layout, as well as knowledge of Santiago’s probable escape route.

  Alfa 1’s excitement died suddenly when he noticed Alejandro’s blank expression.

  ‘We’ve almost captured Santiago and his base. What’s the problem?’

  ‘In this tiny cage here,’ said Alejandro, pointing to a cube of barbed wire glued to the eastern part of the model, ‘are twelve civilian hostages.’