Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  I rode my motorbike to Garbanzos to consult with Colonel Buitrago.

  The colonel’s office was stuffy, and the corners of his moustache seemed to droop in the heat. A blue plastic fan swivelled slowly from side to side, blowing tepid air across the desk.

  ‘Your colleague Beta is walking down a very dark path,’ commented the colonel when I finished recounting Felix’s revelations.

  ‘I can’t go to Trigeño with this,’ I concluded. ‘But perhaps if I could prove to him something even worse. For instance, that the Díazes have stepped into their father’s dirty shoes …’

  The colonel stared at me hard for several seconds, no doubt remembering the night at the Díaz fiesta when I’d revealed my knowledge that Buitrago had the combination to Javier’s safe. We’d never openly acknowledged that the only place I could have obtained that information was from army intelligence files.

  ‘That would be difficult,’ he said at last. ‘They’re far smarter than Humberto.’ He extracted a manila folder from a filing cabinet beside him and flipped it open on the desk. Reading it upside down, I saw it was a log of phone calls; some had been circled in blue, and one in red.

  ‘As you clearly know, I monitored Javier and Fabián’s calls for six months after their father’s death. I found no direct evidence of trafficking. Only this.’ He tapped the red-circled item. ‘A call from Javier to Humberto’s best friend and former business partner, Miguel Hernández.’

  I realised Buitrago was referring to Don Miguel, the patrón from Flora’s Cantina.

  ‘I saw him with Javier. They were friendly—’

  ‘Friendship doesn’t prove they’re partners,’ interrupted Buitrago. ‘But expose them with evidence, and the Díaz charade is over.’

  If the Díaz brothers were unmasked as narcotraficantes, not only would Fabián be forced to withdraw from the election but Trigeño would sweep them from our alliance, like leaves in the full force of a hurricane.

  124

  PALILLO WAS THE one person in whom I confided Felix’s revelations and my plan with Buitrago to expose the Díaz brothers as narcotraficantes.

  It was dusk and we’d walked to the wooden barn on the western side of our base, where we stored sacks of seed and the yellow barrels of chemicals for Trigeño’s agricultural co-operative.

  ‘Don’t think for a moment that Beta will give up his luxury car and cavalcade of personal centurions without a fight,’ Palillo warned. ‘If you want to take on the Díaz, you’ll have to get past their vicious guard dog first.’

  After seven peaceful months, Palillo was no longer desperate to leave the Autodefensas. He visited his mother and siblings frequently, slept every night beside Piolín and received a regular wage. He’d grown complacent, firm in the belief that Caraquemada would never come down from the mountains to attack us. In fact, all of us had. Ñoño, too, was happy. Iván still followed him around like a kid brother. Ñoño helped him train on their improvised obstacle course, and together they fed and walked the five guard dogs.

  An hour after dawn the next morning, I was eating breakfast with Camila and fourteen of my men in our makeshift outdoor mess hall: two tables set up under the spreading branches of a jacaranda tree. The skies were cloudless and the horizon tinged with pearly pink.

  With the ten additional recruits Alfa 1 had sent, my platoon now numbered thirty. Mona fed us breakfast in two sittings with corn flatbreads and huevos pericos made from eggs she’d gathered from the thirty hens she kept in the old henhouse.

  Palillo was entertaining the masses with his latest election joke.

  ‘What’s the difference between a politician who is ignorant and a politician who is indifferent?’

  Ñoño, who’d heard him tell it before, proclaimed, ‘Don’t know and don’t care. Either way voters are fucked.’

  We were all laughing when I felt an urgent tug on my shirtsleeve, and turned to see Iván hovering beside me. His eyes darted hesitantly towards the others before he slid a folded piece of paper onto my lap.

  I unfolded it and my heart seemed to stop. In the centre of the page was a large black-and-white photo of me. Above it, printed in huge black letters was: WANTED! And below the photo: PEDRO GUTIERREZ! FOR CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY! BY ORDER OF ENRIQUE BOLIVAR, COMMANDER 34th UNIT. A reward of one hundred million pesos was offered for bringing me to ‘justice’ on ‘behalf of the people’.

  Furious, I crumpled the paper in my fist under the table. Enrique Bolivar was the political alias used by Caraquemada!

  ‘Iván, into the office. Now!’ I whispered, glancing towards Camila, who did not seem to have noticed anything.

  I met Palillo’s eyes. He rose silently and followed.

  The ‘office’ was simply a corner of the milking shed screened off from my men’s sleeping quarters. There was a white plastic table pushed against one wall, which boasted a radio, a conical lamp and a clunky old laptop from which I sent Trigeño my accounting spreadsheets via email. I dismissed Cobra from radio duty.

  I tried to speak calmly. ‘Iván, where did you get this?’

  ‘In Puerto Galán. They’re everywhere, comando. On the electricity poles, the bus stop and all along the walls of the abattoir. Someone must have put them up last night.’

  Apparently, Iván had ridden his bike to Puerto Galán at dawn; he liked watching the fishermen bringing in their early-morning catch. Then he’d seen the posters. Most of them were too high for him to reach, but he’d managed to jump and grab one.

  ‘I’m scared, comando.’ Iván hugged me, his spindly arms encircling my waist.

  ‘You were very brave taking this down,’ I said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘But people might have seen you. So I don’t want you cycling down to Puerto Galán anymore.’

  Standing behind Iván, Palillo looked worried. ‘Let me go,’ he said. ‘It might be a trap.’

  ‘No, I need to see this for myself.’

  I returned briefly to the table and told Camila that something had come up and I’d phone her later. She seemed to be about to demand details when Piolín, always the sensitive one, said, ‘I’m happy to drive you home, Camila.’

  Eight of us on four motorbikes sped from the base, covering the five kilometres of dirt highway at breakneck speed. When we screeched our bikes to a halt beside the riverside food market, nothing could have prepared me for the sight that confronted me. Hundreds of posters covered every available surface. Beside the river, where the worst atrocities of the limpieza had occurred, white sheets fluttered against the boughs of the trees. In the side streets surrounding the market, they stretched as far as the eye could see. The effect was overwhelming; it was like walking into a hall of mirrors and seeing a thousand versions of my own face, distorted and grotesque, staring back at me.

  It was 7 am on market day, and normally the village would be stirring early. However, the covered stalls were deserted. Across the street I saw the baker ripping down posters from his store window. Seeing us, he dashed inside and slammed the door. The few other villagers scurried away, obviously terrified that the posters would unleash another wave of retaliatory Autodefensa violence.

  ‘Spread out,’ I ordered. ‘Tear down every last fucking poster! Then check Puerto Princesa.’

  As I yanked posters from the bus shelter and stripped them off the abattoir wall, my anger grew fiercer. Caraquemada had done this to undermine me and destabilise my leadership and authority, and he’d chosen market day to maximise my humiliation. Even if we removed every last one, the damage was done.

  Palillo placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Why not chill out, hermano? We’ve got this under control.’

  I finally stopped and looked around. Paper was strewn everywhere in my wake. Instead of systematically removing posters as my men had been doing, scrunching them up and tossing them into piles to be bagged and removed, I’d shredded them. Tiny pieces of paper were tumbling across the deserted cattle market, blown by a light breeze.

  ‘It’s a lie. Villagers k
now I had nothing to do with the limpieza!’

  ‘Even so, a hundred million pesos is a lot of plata. Perhaps you should bunker down at La 50 until things cool off.’

  ‘If Caraquemada was planning to assassinate me, he wouldn’t advertise it,’ I said. ‘He’s trying to get under my skin.’ Instead of being fearful, I interpreted these posters as a sign of Caraquemada’s frustration. He was too weak to attack me militarily. This pathetic provocation was the best he could muster.

  Passing through the gates upon our return to base, I found Piolín standing by the milking shed, waiting for me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pointing to the cottage. ‘I drove her home earlier but she returned in a taxi.’

  Camila was sitting on the corner of our bed amid the colourful feminine touches she’d added to my cottage – vases of flowers on the windowsills and colourful sarongs hanging from the walls. She held a copy of the WANTED poster in her hands. She didn’t look up and her voice was quiet. ‘This was slipped under the door of my father’s store last night. And Carolina phoned to say they’re all over the villages.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I sat down beside her, put my arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. ‘We’ve collected all of them. And I promise Caraquemada won’t touch you.’

  ‘Pedro, it’s not me I’m worried about,’ she said. ‘I’m not the one with a price on my head.’

  ‘No one is going to kill me. The villagers know me. They respect me.’

  Camila shook her head. ‘What if you’re wrong? Caraquemada wants to murder you. And you act like it’s nothing.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Come with me to Bogotá! Piolín told me you were on good terms with your boss and that you could ask for a discharge.’

  ‘If I run, Caraquemada will have won. People will lose faith that we can protect them. Patience, mi amor,’ I said, offering her the same excuse Trigeño had given me for not attacking the Guerrilla camps. ‘The time isn’t right.’

  ‘When will the time be right, Pedro?’ she asked testily. ‘When we’re all dead?’

  ‘When Llorona is safe. When Papá’s killers are brought to justice.’

  She shrugged out of my grip and stood. ‘This isn’t about Llorona. This isn’t about justice. This is about you.’

  Camila stalked away, disappointed and incredulous, while I remained on the bed feeling angry, misunderstood and beset on all sides by enemies, as well as friends who should have been supporting me.

  125

  SINCE THE POSTERS were everywhere, I had no choice but to inform Trigeño. He was deeply concerned.

  ‘Why not come back to La María and take leave, Pedro? Have a vacation on me until the situation settles down. Swim, jog, relax. You’ve been working eight months without a break. Palillo can take over while you’re away.’

  ‘I can’t, comando. Stepping back now would send the wrong message to Caraquemada. With all due respect, what I need is more men. We need to go after him.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ responded Trigeño. ‘Meantime, avoid Puerto Galán and reinforce your headquarters in case he attacks.’

  Trigeño sent cash and Alfa 1 transferred twelve more recruits. My base now numbered forty soldiers, plus the two guarding Don Felix. I set about increasing our fortifications. Not only would this protect us in the event of an attack, it would also reassure my soldiers and placate Camila.

  I had Tarantula, Montoya and R6 fill old tyres with dirt and stack them against the walls of my quarters and the barn to protect against heavier calibre rounds. They also built a second wall around the milking shed, punctuated with defensive firing positions, and covered it with barbed wire.

  ‘Palillo, have Buitrago send me anti-mortar netting,’ I ordered. ‘Coca-Cola, get a radio handset to every house within five kilometres so they can report suspicious movements. And Giraldo, I want ten men working to dig four trenches, two metres deep, fifty metres back from the guard posts. We also need a connecting trench from the milking shed to the farmhouse. If Caraquemada attacks, we can’t let him catch us divided.’

  The two-storey farmhouse, with its thick walls, was the most defensible position. But it was seventy metres from the milking shed and soldiers needed to be able to reach it safely under enemy fire.

  Meanwhile, I had Piolín print a WANTED poster for Caraquemada, with a sketch of him instead of a photo, and ordered two thousand copies taped on every surface in Puerto Galán, Puerto Princesa and even across the river in Santo Paraíso. I smiled to myself. Two could play at this game.

  On our third day of work, when the sun was high overhead, I was on a ladder, fixing netting across the ground-level windows of the farmhouse while Palillo and Ñoño worked nearby. They’d dragged aside the old henhouse, having shooed out Mona’s hens, and were working on the trench, their picks and shovels crunching into the dirt. Suddenly, I heard a muffled yelp and looked over to see Ñoño disappearing into the earth while Palillo dived to his side before he, too, disappeared completely.

  I sprinted over, lay on my stomach and peered over the edge of a deep pit. They were three metres below, side by side on their backs in a square of sunlight. Dirt continued to pour down on top of them. Ñoño coughed and spluttered. Palillo turned on his side, groaning.

  I looked around, hoping someone could bring a first-aid kit, but no one was in sight.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I called down. ‘Keep still! I’ll get some rope!’

  Palillo looked around and, strangely, burst into laughter.

  ‘No need!’ he said, standing up and stepping out of the light. I heard rattling and then the top rungs of an aluminium ladder appeared in front of me. ‘Climb down. You’ve got to see this for yourself.’

  Gingerly, I descended the rungs until my foot struck something solid. When my eyes adjusted, I saw I was standing in a four-by-four-metre bunker. Stacked around the walls were hundreds of white blocks covered in plastic. They almost reached the ceiling. A few blocks had toppled down and smashed open, their contents spilling out in white chunks. At first I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.

  Palillo was still laughing. He was covered in grass and soil, but also clumps of white rock.

  ‘¡Cocaína!’ we exclaimed at the same time.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ said Ñoño, standing and dusting himself off. He began counting the bricks in each row. ‘If each block weighs two kilograms, there must be four tonnes!’

  Behind the blocks, the concrete walls were painted with waterproof sealant. The roof of iron girders above us was boarded over with wooden planks. A trap door dangled by its hinges; it must have rotted through during the rainy season and then buckled under Ñoño’s weight. Beneath our feet, a layer of plastic covered more blocks that were stacked one metre high on a pallet in the centre of the floor. These bricks had luckily broken Palillo and Ñoño’s fall.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Ñoño.

  ‘Buy a month’s supply of import-quality whisky,’ suggested Palillo gleefully. ‘Combined with this export-quality perico and some home-grown hookers, can you imagine the party?’

  He scooped up two handfuls of powder, throwing one clump at me and rubbing the other in Ñoño’s hair. Ñoño retaliated and soon cocaine was flying everywhere.

  However, when Palillo caught my eye, he sobered up abruptly. ‘You think these bricks belong to—’

  ‘The Díaz brothers,’ I finished for him. ‘Who else? This must have been their storage point.’

  It made sense. At their fiesta, I’d seen Fabián and his friends with a similar brick. And after their mother abandoned the property, the brothers had access to it for at least a year. But last April, when the Guerrilla suddenly demanded more money and torched one of their buses, it became too dangerous for them to step foot on the property. This load must have lain here ever since.

  I smiled, remembering back to the initial meetings between Javier and Trigeño. No wonder the brothers had objected so strongly to granting us th
is finca as our headquarters. I could only imagine Javier’s frustration, knowing his drugs were here but not being able to get to them.

  Now I had the brothers in my crosshairs. This cocaine was exactly the evidence I’d been praying for.

  ‘All I have to do is phone Trigeño,’ I declared with satisfaction. ‘He’ll banish the brothers from the area. Javier will have to give up trafficking, and Fabián’s career in politics will be over.’

  Ñoño frowned. ‘Trigeño won’t banish the Díazes. He’ll gut them like fish. Is that really what you want? I mean … Javier looked after your mother.’

  ‘Then I’ll call Javier first. I’ll demand both brothers leave Vichada forever. Once they’ve gone, Beta and his army will have no reason to remain.’

  ‘Dangerous plan,’ Palillo warned. ‘Don’t underestimate the Díazes. People get killed for less than a single brick of this shit.’

  ‘You have a better suggestion?’

  He shrugged. ‘Drag the henhouse back over the top, divert the trench and pretend nothing happened.’

  But I couldn’t. Fate had placed a sword in my hands; it was begging to be wielded. I told Palillo and Ñoño to cover the trapdoor loosely with a plywood sheet and alter the line of the trench. If any of my men asked why, they were to say they’d struck rock.

  Then I phoned Javier. He claimed to be busy, even when I told him that he needed to come up urgently. While digging I’d found ‘evidence of illegal activity’.

  Only thirty minutes later Pantera announced, ‘We have visitors.’

  ‘¡Mierda!’ said Palillo. It was not Javier who had arrived but Beta, with three trucks and thirty soldiers.