Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s my job.’

  I watched him cast one last glance up at the farmhouse where we’d left his brother locked in his cell. After the trauma we’d put him through, could he ever return to a normal life? How many years would he spend looking over his shoulder? What would he tell his mother and Astrid?

  Ernesto and I drove in silence. There was no point in apologising. What could I tell him? That the gun hadn’t been loaded? That I’d wanted to stop it but couldn’t? What kind of excuses were they?

  On the way to Garbanzos, I lent him my phone to call his mother. As he told her of his release I could hear her crying with joy and couldn’t prevent tears from welling in my own eyes. When we reached the terminal and I gave him money for his ticket home, Ernesto thanked me, opened the door then turned towards me.

  ‘Are you going to kill him?’ he asked. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘You’re free. That’s all that matters. It’s over. You and your mother are safe.’

  ‘Pedro.’ As he shook my hand, his expression vacillated between joy at his own release and terror of what that meant for his brother. ‘I know you’ll do the right thing.’

  Driving back towards the base, I felt cleansed. In leaving Ernesto at the bus terminal, I’d also shed the skin of the cruel monster I’d become over the past few weeks.

  Maybe I hadn’t done the right thing, but I’d finally stopped doing the wrong thing. And at least I’d taken one step off the dark path I’d been stumbling blindly down for so long. So when my phone rang – Buitrago had good news – it was almost like God was rewarding me.

  ‘We got a match!’ the colonel declared, his voice brimming with excitement.

  Buitrago had pulled in a favour from a police major in the anti-narcotics intelligence unit. His search for ‘Ofelia Vanegas’ and ‘Tita’ had received an instant match in their classified system. The major had sent Buitrago the file, which contained a photo of a fake blonde.

  ‘It’s the same girl,’ he told me. ‘Come to my office tomorrow at 9 am to discuss the operation.’

  I was overjoyed – all this might soon be over. Immediately, I texted Camila: ‘Ernesto is free.’ I waited for a response, but receiving none I called Mamá at Uncle Leo’s hardware store where I knew she was now working.

  ‘Mamá, the boy is free. He’s on his way home to his mother.’

  ‘I’m glad, Pedro. You’ve always been a good boy. I knew you’d make the right choice,’ she said cautiously, although not with the tone of unconditional forgiveness I’d expected. ‘His mother deserves to have him home.’ Mamá paused for a long time. ‘But, Pedro, your own mother also wants her son back. You said it will soon be safe to return to the finca. I hope then you can leave this life behind and start building the kind of future your father and I always knew you were capable of.’

  I hoped so too. I wanted to start trying. But then there was a problem: Buitre. What would I do with Buitre? How exactly would I now kill him? March him outside and coldly, rationally pull the trigger on a completely defenceless man. This situation was different to that of Ratón and Zorrillo. I’d killed them in the heat of anger, charged with adrenalin or following a hail of bullets. With Buitre utterly at my mercy, my temper had cooled. Gradually over the past week, ever since Ernesto had told me about their father’s death, Alias Buitre, an enemy soldier, had become Kiko Fuentes, a twenty-year-old boy with a family. A boy who’d had a father he’d loved and lost, just like I’d lost Papá. Killing him would leave his sixteen-year-old brother and his mother grieving and devastated, their lives forever scarred, just like mine and Mamá’s.

  When I reached the base I was surprised to see three trucks with a platoon of Black Scorpion troops.

  Beta.

  He was standing next to Rafael. I had no way of knowing whether he’d called Beta. Both their faces were impassive. But the timing was too much of a coincidence. And when I saw Buitre, cuffed and kneeling behind Beta’s red SUV, I knew they’d been waiting for me.

  145

  BETA SCOWLED AT me. ‘You’ve had your fun, Pedro. And now you’ve released the brother. So why is this scum still alive?’ He kicked Buitre in the stomach, causing him to double over.

  I had no answer.

  ‘Don’t be weak. It’s time to finish the job.’

  Beta was right. Buitre had served his purpose; I had the information I needed. I’d insisted I wanted to capture and kill him. Beta and Javier had kept their word to help me. My dogged determination to get to this point had cost many lives and caused Ernesto and Ñoño incalculable suffering. It had ended my relationship with Camila and prompted Mamá to disown me.

  To turn around now and not do it would mean I’d made others pay a steep price, all for nothing. I knew there was no logical reason not to kill him, so why was I hesitating?

  Beta plucked my Smith & Wesson from its holster, tightened my fingers around the grip, cocked it for me and pointed it at Buitre. I breathed deeply, lining up the front and rear sights with the back of his head. I willed myself to recall the feeling of powerlessness as Buitre held me down to watch Caraquemada shoot Papá, but instead my mind cast up an image of a thirteen-year-old Buitre shooting rocks at vultures with his slingshot as he collected the parts of his father’s dismembered body.

  I lowered the pistol.

  Beta’s hands shot to his hips and he shook his head angrily. ‘Do you know how many families this hijo de puta has destroyed? I should have gift-wrapped him for El Psycho. But you insisted you wanted justice and that you wanted to do it yourself. I captured him for you, Pedro. This is what you’ve dreamed of and planned for. But if you won’t accept the honour, Rafael or a dozen patriots over there will.’

  I raised the pistol again and Buitre squeezed his eyes shut, tears running down his cheeks.

  Beta grabbed him by the hair and twisted his face towards me. ‘Open your eyes, hijueputa, so before you go to hell you can see who’s killing you and remember why.’

  Buitre obeyed. But when he looked at me with those emerald-green eyes, pleading, the face I saw was Ernesto’s.

  When I didn’t pull the trigger, Beta stood behind me, locked his forearm under my chin and pulled my neck back tight while holding my head forward. Choking, I felt my adrenalin surge and my fury rise. Beta was the cause of my anger, but I tried to channel it towards Buitre.

  ‘Right in front of you is one of the men who killed your father. Have you forgotten? Do it!’

  I was now giddy and off balance. But his words worked, adding fuel to the fire of my forgotten anger. Next he struck a spark.

  ‘What kind of son are you? This is your duty to your father.’

  I felt myself being sucked back to the day of Papá’s execution. ‘Okay,’ I yelled, breaking out of the chokehold and shoving Beta in the chest. ‘I’ll do it.’

  I aimed the pistol. I didn’t circle. I didn’t read the charges. I didn’t make my speech.

  ‘Wait!’ yelled Buitre. ‘Think of my mother.’

  I fired two shots. Buitre toppled forward.

  ‘Adiós, Guerrilla hijueputa.’ Beta spat on the body. He put me in another headlock, half friendly and half deadly serious, and dragged me away. ‘Don’t ever touch me again! Especially not in front of my soldiers,’ he said. Then he ruffled my hair and relinquished his grip slightly. ‘Cheer up, Pedro. Take pride in being a man.’

  But something was wrong. Suddenly seized with anger, I twisted out of Beta’s hold, ran back to Buitre and fired and fired and fired. Although he was already dead, I emptied an entire clip into him, all the while yelling, ‘You’re not sorry. Say sorry. Say sorry.’

  But I knew it wouldn’t bring Papá back. Nothing would bring him back. And then I heard a voice behind me.

  ‘Put the gun down, Pedro. It’s over.’

  It was Palillo. When I turned towards him, he raised his hands in surrender, afraid I hadn’t recognised him. He looked at me as though I were a man possessed.

  ‘It’s me! Palillo. Your f
riend. Put the gun down, please.’

  I lowered the pistol.

  Palillo placed an arm across my shoulder and hugged me tightly. I felt him prise the pistol from my fingers and toss it aside. Then he turned me to face him and looked into my eyes. ‘How do you feel?’

  Palillo never asked anyone how they felt. He always claimed he could deduce people’s feelings from their behaviour. But this time he seemed genuinely perplexed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered.

  I’d killed three of my father’s murderers, but I no longer felt anything. The first time with Ratón I had shaken and almost vomited. With Zorrillo there had been adrenalin but no fear. However, this time there was no sickness in the stomach. No guilt. Nothing.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I demanded.

  ‘You’re crying,’ Palillo replied matter-of-factly.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Palillo touched a finger to my face and showed me the glistening tear on its tip. ‘It’s okay to cry.’

  ‘Why would I be crying?’

  ‘Because you didn’t feel what you wanted to feel.’

  Palillo had always been smart at reading me, but this was one of the most perceptive things I’d heard him say. I wanted to tell him I loved him, but I couldn’t. I just stood there feeling numb.

  The world was better for Buitre’s departure – he’d done terrible things. But so had I. And now I’d deprived Ernesto of a brother. I’d robbed his mother of a son.

  Palillo hugged me tightly again but I stood stiff, my arms limp. I realised that at the time Caraquemada killed my father, Buitre had been just a seventeen-year-old boy like me.

  We stood there for a full minute. Finally, I heard car doors slamming. Beta and his men were leaving.

  Palillo picked up my Smith & Wesson and led me to my cottage. ‘Get some rest, hermano,’ he said. ‘Then you can start to focus more clearly on the future you really want. But I know you won’t do that until it’s completely over.’ He placed the pistol beside my pillow. ‘And for that to happen, you’ll need to pull this trigger one last time.’

  If I’d doubted Rafael had phoned Beta, by morning parade I was sure of it. Rafael had been on guard duty at the northern post. He wasn’t answering his radio.

  ‘He’s gone,’ reported Pantera.

  At first I assumed he’d defected to Beta’s camp. But then Pantera found Rafael’s uniform folded neatly underneath his rifle. He’d deserted. It all made sense. He’d never believed in the Autodefensas. He’d simply wanted revenge on Buitre.

  PART NINE

  THE WORK OF OTHER MEN

  146

  THE NEXT MORNING I awoke feeling strangely hollow. I felt no remorse that Buitre was gone, but no satisfaction either. It was unsettling to have wanted something so badly for so long, to have rehearsed it repeatedly in my mind, expecting it to plug the void left by Papá’s death, only to discover that now it had been accomplished the emptiness had grown.

  When I mentally replayed Buitre’s execution, the moment I pulled the trigger was a blur. Instead, the clearest image was that of Beta’s powerful hand forcing the pistol into mine. Buitre could have been killed by Beta. Or Rafael. Or any one of a dozen patriots. To Buitre, it made no difference who’d pulled the trigger. I had wanted it to be completely by my own hand. But would I have actually gone through with it? Beta’s interference meant I’d never know.

  I pushed these misgivings aside. Perhaps I’d spent too much time on the base, focused on Buitre with my own claustrophobic thoughts clouding the lens of my judgment.

  Once out on the open highway on my way to visit Colonel Buitrago, with fresh air whipping my face, seeing ordinary citizens going about their daily business, the lens pulled back and the bigger picture opened up. These people could now walk freely, talk freely and live without fear because of what we’d achieved.

  When I reached Garbanzos plaza I saw a crowd gathered around a temporary wooden stage covered with Don Felix’s electoral posters. Technicians were mounting speakers and sound testing a microphone while Felix’s supporters distributed flyers. Felix himself was leaning against the stage holding a sheaf of papers and practising his speech. Coca-Cola and Pantera – his assigned bodyguards that day – stood on either side of him, scanning bystanders attentively.

  I honked my horn and waved.

  Why had I begun doubting myself over the death of one man? Now was not the time for last-minute questioning. We were almost there. This was what we’d been fighting for: the right of ordinary citizens to vote and decide for themselves how they wanted society governed rather than having a doctrine imposed on them at gunpoint.

  Besides, my mental niggling over Buitre didn’t alter my hatred for Caraquemada. On the day of Papá’s execution, Buitre had merely been following orders. Caraquemada had not only given those orders, he’d planned them beforehand, made the decision and then pulled the trigger himself. Throughout Vichada he was a potent, almost mythical symbol; his repeated escapes from death made him emblematic of the Guerrilla’s supposed invincibility. I remembered Trigeño’s words: cut the head off a snake and its body might thrash around wildly, but eventually it would die. Killing Caraquemada would be the true end to all this. And the death of this single man would prevent thousands more.

  ‘So have you located the girl?’ I asked eagerly when I was seated across the desk from Buitrago in his office.

  The normally dour Buitrago’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘We have. We’re already intercepting her phone and have her apartment under physical surveillance.’

  Tita, he told me, belonged to a stable of high-class prostitutes – once-were, hoping-to-be and ‘just-while-I’m-studying’ models and TV presenters known as prepagos or ‘pre-paids’. Police had been monitoring Tita’s ‘modelling agency’ for years in pursuit of high-level cocaine traffickers.

  Wealthy clients chose their girl from a catalogue of photos and then phoned for home visits. Jungle delivery to known terrorists or fugitive cocaine capos incurred a danger surcharge. If a client really liked a girl, she could turn exclusiva, like Tita had for Caraquemada. Her university tuition fees and the rent on her luxury apartment in the prestigious suburb of Rosales would be paid in cash by a corrupt Bogotá attorney. She would need to be ready to drop everything and travel when notified. The rest of her time would be her own.

  Thanks to the information provided by Buitre, we knew Tita’s next meeting with Caraquemada would be near Santo Paraíso and that Caraquemada’s head of security would phone her five days in advance to specify the date. We also knew that she would have to arrive via the Garbanzos highway – the only road into the jungle.

  ‘But how do we track her, Colonel?’

  ‘For that, we’ll need the North Americans. I’m seeking their permission to use their hardware and technology. They could provide us with a miniature GPS transponder and a Beechcraft surveillance plane to receive the signal. Provided they agree to help, my undercover operatives will follow Tita on her way to the rendezvous with Caraquemada, looking for an opportunity to plant the transponder on her. If we can get a good signal, we can direct you and Palillo to her final coordinates. But Pedro, there’s a condition. I’ve worked with the North Americans before. They’ll need this operation to remain small and will want to keep their hands clean, so no one can know, especially not the Autodefensas’ high commanders. And that means you can’t tell Trigeño.’

  I nodded, disappointed I couldn’t immediately share the good news with Trigeño but convinced that once we got Caraquemada his happiness would help him forgive me for keeping this a secret.

  Our meeting was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. It opened to reveal the concerned face of Buitrago’s lieutenant, who beckoned the colonel over. ‘I’m sorry, mi coronel, but it’s an emergency.’

  They spoke in whispers and then Buitrago turned to me, looking as though he’d seen a ghost. ‘Six shots fired in Garbanzos plaza. Felix Velasquez was hit.’

 
While Buitrago went to the plaza, I sped to the hospital on my Yamaha, where Coca-Cola met me in the bare white waiting room of the emergency department. He was distraught and blaming himself.

  The rally I’d passed earlier had been a resounding success until disaster struck. Felix’s speech was met with cheers and applause. The sicarios had waited until Don Felix was at his most vulnerable – climbing down the small wooden ladder from the stage.

  ‘There were two of them on a red motorbike, both wearing helmets,’ said Coca-Cola. ‘We didn’t see them until the very last second, when their engine revved. People screamed and they mounted the sidewalk and sped towards the stage, shouting, “Death to Fascists.” We drew our pistols and yelled to Don Felix, but he was on the ladder above us with his back turned and couldn’t react in time. As soon as the shots were fired people scattered everywhere, running for their lives. We couldn’t fire at the assassins – we might have hit a civilian. And we couldn’t give chase because we had to apply pressure to Felix’s wounds and bring him here.’

  Felix was now in the operating theatre. He’d been hit twice – one bullet had entered his right lung and another was lodged in his left wrist. He’d suffered massive internal bleeding and lost consciousness within minutes. The nurses at reception didn’t know whether he’d make it.

  ‘Pantera is beside himself,’ said Coca-Cola. ‘He’s in there right now, donating blood for Felix’s transfusion.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I told him.

  I sat in the waiting room, fretting over Felix. That day in the Llorona church, when he’d told me about the patchwork doll and invitation to his own funeral, I’d persuaded him to remain in the race and given my word to protect him. I’d taken the threat seriously, but I’d never imagined such a brazen daylight attack – not in the centre of Garbanzos, only four blocks from the army base. If he died it would be entirely my fault.