Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  ‘But not enough to stop Fabián winning the election. Your court case will take years. By then it will be too late.’

  ‘True justice takes time. I can wait.’

  ‘Señora, please. I promise you no harm.’ I laid my pistol on her desk. ‘Come with me now. Take this and return it to me afterwards.’

  ‘Danilo,’ she said, pulling her office keys from the drawer and tossing them to her assistant, ‘you can lock up and go home.’

  Then she stood, stepped into a pair of low heels with black bows and turned to me.

  ‘Señor Gutiérrez, my own death I accepted years ago.’ She handed me back my pistol. ‘But that doesn’t mean I believe in violence.’

  Delgado followed me to Old Man Domino’s property in her rusted-out white sedan, its single headlight flickering intermittently. Inside the shed, I explained the dubious maintenance runs, and then she began recording. Holding my torch in my mouth, and being careful not to show my face in the frame, I once again drilled into the tyre, and once again the drill bit came out tipped with white powder.

  Delgado stood there shaking her head, although hardly surprised.

  ‘Stealing from their own country. Exporting misery to another. The very definition of multinational efficiency.’

  ‘So you think you can use this?’ I asked.

  ‘As evidence, it’s thin as smoke,’ she said, now filming the vehicles, their plate numbers and subcontractors’ logos. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t shout fire.’

  ‘What exactly will you do?’

  ‘Fabián is so confident he’ll win that he challenged me to a live radio debate this Friday. I didn’t respond.’ She ejected the tape and held it up. ‘But now I will.’

  149

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING – Thursday – I received a call from Colonel Buitrago’s assistant. ‘The colonel has returned from Bogotá. He’s requesting a meeting with you at his private residence.’

  I’d never been to the colonel’s home; it was a small, austerely furnished apartment within the army barracks. I almost did a double take when Buitrago greeted me at the door dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. I’d never seen him out of uniform. In fact, as he led me inside past framed photos hanging on the wall – of his children at different ages and the colonel in uniform at various promotion ceremonies – I realised I knew nothing of his personal life.

  ‘Your wife’s beautiful,’ I said, pausing to admire a picture of a young Buitrago kissing his bride on the steps of a church.

  ‘Ex-wife,’ he corrected me. ‘I don’t need to tell you that military life is tough on women.’

  In the dining room, a bottle of single malt whisky was sitting on the table.

  ‘Are we celebrating?’ I asked. ‘Are the generals sending you more men?’

  Buitrago shook his head and pointed to the bedroom where empty moving boxes lined the carpet. ‘Quite the opposite,’ he said despondently. ‘Twenty-seven years of loyal service and they give me my marching orders. I’m being transferred effective ten days from now.’

  ‘What?’ I said in dismay. ‘They can’t do that!’

  ‘They can and they did. I was saving this for when we got Caraquemada,’ he added, reaching for the whisky bottle. ‘But we might as well open it now.’

  My heart sank as I contemplated the consequences. If Buitrago left and Fabián seized power, he’d ensure Beta took charge of Llorona and the river villages. I’d have no control – that is, if I were even allowed to stay on. The pressure on farmers to sell land to the Díazes below market value, the disappearances of dissenters and the abuses against civilians would continue completely unchecked.

  But all wasn’t yet lost; I wanted to tell the colonel that Fabián’s seat in the Senate was no longer assured – not after my meeting with Yolanda Delgado – but I couldn’t. If elected, she was unlikely to help save his job; she was the one who had pushed for charges against the colonel for ‘neglect of duty’ over the limpieza.

  Before he could twist the cap off the whisky, the colonel’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me for a minute,’ he said, stepping into the bedroom to take the call.

  I heard him talking in a low voice. When he returned, standing erect, it was as though I were looking at a new man.

  He snatched the whisky off the table. ‘Looks like this bottle’s fate will be decided five days from now – along with our own!’ he said, shelving it in a cabinet then pulling on his khaki shirt. ‘That was my colleague in Bogotá. Caraquemada’s lover, Tita, just received a phone call. The rendezvous has been arranged for Tuesday night. The North Americans have agreed to send us a Beechcraft surveillance plane and lend us three Blackhawks. We have only one shot at this, Pedro. This is make or break.’

  I knew he was right. Bringing down the region’s highest Guerrilla commander would make him a national hero; his generals couldn’t transfer him. In fact, after such a victory he could demand whatever resources he needed. And with Delgado’s interview the following evening, the scandal could be enough to tip the election. Buitrago might find it difficult working alongside Delgado, but Fabián would be defeated and Beta ejected from the towns for good.

  ‘And your own news?’ asked Buitrago. ‘Your voicemail said it was urgent.’

  I told him about the earth-moving equipment. The colonel doubted it would be enough to bring the Díazes down. ‘An investigation would take months. A court case could take years.’

  But it was worth a try. The colonel promised to search and then impound the machinery on its next journey through his checkpoint in Garbanzos.

  However, riding back to the base, I checked in on Old Man Domino and the barn and phoned Buitrago back immediately.

  ‘It’s gone! The shed’s empty. They’ve moved it.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re not on to us,’ he said grimly. ‘We’ve underestimated the Díazes and Beta before. I forgot to tell you – one of my lieutenants is dating a kitchen hand at Javier’s hacienda. She said that every mealtime she washes three hundred plates. Pedro, you need to watch your back.’

  On the Friday at 6 pm, Yolanda Delgado went on local Garbanzos radio for her joint interview with Fabián Díaz. It was supposed to be a civilised, supervised debate in which the announcer asked each candidate for their respective views on various topics. Delgado knew it was all a grandiose, well-orchestrated show in which she was cast as a dull background prop to make its star, Fabián, shine brighter. But immediately she rushed to centre stage.

  ‘Why should people vote for you?’ asked the interviewer.

  ‘Because I’m not a cocaine trafficker,’ she said, ‘and, if elected, I am offering to work without a salary. I respectfully request that my opponent publicly declare his personal assets and sources of income to prove that, if elected, he’ll have no conflicts of interest.’

  ‘Aren’t elected officials obliged to do that anyway?’ snapped the interviewer, trying to regain control. But Delgado had an axe to grind – hopefully, I’d sharpened it – and she would not be diverted.

  ‘If people open their eyes, they’ll see work promised by my opponent – and paid for with our hard-earned taxes – has hardly begun. Bulldozers, steamrollers and graders sit idle next to widening potholes. Meanwhile, Fabián’s head of electoral security, the same man who supervised the Puerto Galán massacre, is parading around town without a single charge against him. Armed men under his control escort those same vehicles up from Puerto Princesa to Llorona, and I have evidence proving the machinery is laden with tonnes of cocaine—’

  Suddenly, the interview was interrupted by a beer advertisement. Afterwards, the station played a song. I continued listening, hoping for an explanation but the announcer returned as though nothing had happened.

  An hour later the station ceased broadcasting local news, switching instead to a live feed from a national station.

  That was the Friday night. The elections would be conducted over the next two days. Thousands of people listened to the radio. Those who didn’t would quickly hear
the news. I prayed to God that Delgado’s on-air accusation might just be enough to tip the balance against Fabián. Because if it didn’t, I’d risked my life fighting to evict the morally bankrupt Guerrilla from our region, only to help two corrupt cocaine traffickers and their malignant private army take their place.

  On Saturday I walked to the polling booth at our old primary school in Llorona, where green-uniformed policemen and Buitrago’s soldiers stood guarding the perimeter, searching bags for weapons and explosives. Transportadores Díaz offered free bus rides for those travelling to vote. I watched as a caravan of colectivos and chivas – festooned with gold, blue and red streamers and posters of Fabián on their sides – ferried in scores of campesinos from the river villagers and outlying regions.

  As passengers disembarked, an army of yellow-shirted supporters thrust How To Vote flyers into their hands. A sixteen-year-old with a military crew cut – one of Beta’s soldiers – blocked my path.

  ‘Here!’ He reached into a sack and held out a cellular phone. ‘Take this!’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Once you’ve filled out the form correctly, you point the camera lens and press this button here. Show the photo to my colleague over there on your way out. Then collect your recompensa.’

  The reward was either ten dollars cash or fifteen dollars’ worth of groceries. I waved the boy away, disgusted that Fabián was now resorting to outright bribery. However, once I was in the privacy of the partitioned booth, I was pleased to see the name of Felix Velasquez still on the ballot. He’d withdrawn from campaigning, but evidently his candidature had not officially been deregistered. Surely people weren’t stupid. Seeing Felix’s name would be yet another reminder to them of the sequence of dirty tactics used by Fabián. I ticked the box next to Delgado’s name, praying other voters would see sense and do the same.

  At 6.15 pm, when polling stations had closed for the day, Palillo called me from the Llorona bridge.

  ‘Get down here now! You need to see this.’

  Dusk was falling as I sped downhill from our base in the pick-up. In the fading light, a lone policeman was trying to disperse a crowd that had gathered around a body propped up against a rock beneath the bridge. It was riddled with bullet wounds, staining the victim’s white shirt and green polyester jacket with vivid splashes of blood. The lips were sewn together with blue thread and the head lolled back to one side. In fact, the face was so covered in blood as to be unrecognisable.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked Palillo. But even as I spoke I went cold as I recognised the low heels with black bows, one of which had come off and lay several feet further down towards the water. And then I saw the card with the Black Scorpions logo placed beside what I now realised was the body of a woman.

  ‘Who do you think?’

  150

  DELGADO’S HORRIFIC DEATH was the final straw for me. Of course, I felt personally responsible; I’d furnished her with the information that led to her death. But this was not about me. Beta had gone too far. The Black Scorpions were as bad as the Guerrilla, if not worse. Allowing opposing political candidates to stand was supposed to be proof that the Autodefensas believed in democracy and free speech.

  Beta had done this out of spite. And he’d done it so openly and so brazenly as a message to the public; from here on in there would be absolutely no opposition permitted. Not a single word of criticism would be tolerated. And that meant there would be no democracy. The Black Scorpions would rule the region with iron fists and lead bullets for anyone who spoke out. They would do whatever they wanted and no one could stop them. Beta had done this using his own logo – everyone knew the Black Scorpions were a branch of the Autodefensas. And that meant he was defiling everything we stood for. He’d left that card deliberately because he wanted people and the authorities to know who was behind it; he wanted them to know he was above the law and could not be touched.

  I had to inform Trigeño. He needed to know he had traitors within his fold. The sooner he knew, the quicker he could take action to protect himself. But I would have to be careful. After the elections I still needed to live in Llorona, and without Colonel Buitrago I would have little protection against Beta. I decided I would cast my suspicions directly on the Díazes, mentioning Beta only in passing. If I said one word out of place and Beta discovered I’d gone behind his back, he’d find a means to slit my throat.

  ‘Is it urgent?’ said Trigeño when he picked up.

  ‘Several things have been weighing on me lately, patrón.’

  ‘Then speak your mind. You and I, we have no secrets, remember? Speak!’

  ‘I can’t, patrón. Not over the phone.’

  He sighed. ‘If it’s that serious, I’ll come to you first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘I need our talk to be confidential. Can we meet at my Papá’s finca, patrón? And if anyone finds out afterwards, please tell them it was a friendly surprise visit.’

  Despite my intention to implicate the Díazes rather than Beta directly, I realised that Beta would still get word. And since he knew about the cocaine on my base, he wouldn’t have to slit my throat. He could turn things around on me by telling Trigeño himself.

  I needed to get rid of the cocaine immediately. But how?

  Suddenly, an idea occurred to me – one that hadn’t before but which now seemed completely obvious. Perhaps it was because the cocaine had seemed so valuable. Papá had always taught me the value of money – how difficult it was to earn, how cautious I should be with savings. And when you’re guarding an asset that is worth more than any amount of money you’ve ever contemplated, you assume that asset should not, in fact cannot, be destroyed.

  I phoned Javier Díaz. ‘You need to get up here right now. I don’t care what you do with this shit, but I want it off my base.’

  ‘But it’s elections,’ Javier protested. ‘There are police and officials everywhere.’

  ‘Exactly! After what Delgado said on radio about Fabián being a trafficker, Buitrago is making noises. This is your property and there are rumours from Bogotá of an independent raid. So you’ve got two choices: either you come up here with your men before midnight and remove it, or I’ll have my own men slit every brick open and toss it all into the river.’

  ‘You can’t! It’s worth millions!’

  ‘Maybe it is … to you. But to me it’s worth nothing.’

  Javier arrived at 11 pm with three trucks and ten workers wearing balaclavas. By then my men were asleep and I refused to help. Javier stood near the henhouse watching them load the trucks, smoking a cigar. I kept my distance, knowing he’d only grumble and complain, playing dumb and trying to convince me he was still innocent. I doubted he had anything to do with Delgado’s death – he was a businessman and murder was bad for business. However, I didn’t care either way. Whether he knew or not, they were all in this together.

  As Javier departed I felt cleansed, and with a four-tonne weight lifted from my chest I could breathe much easier. It had taken Javier barely an hour to load and move the cocaine, and I now knew he could have done so at any time.

  For months he’d refused to remove it in order to keep it as an insurance policy against me breaking my silence. I’d kept my word and held my tongue. But during those months, I’d accumulated suspicions, heard accusations and witnessed crimes that could no longer be ignored. But with the cocaine gone, Javier’s insurance policy was now torn to shreds. I was free to speak my mind. All of it could now come out. And all of it would.

  The following morning, I walked a kilometre over the fields to my own family’s finca. Only two weeks earlier, after I’d captured Buitre and before the assassination attempt on Felix, I’d hoped Mamá would very soon be able to return and live here. But all that was now in doubt. Delgado’s assassination meant Fabián’s victory was assured. And with Beta’s escalating military power and Buitrago’s transfer imminent, it might not be safe to remain in the region after the elections – neither for me nor my family. There was still a faint ho
pe. Once Trigeño knew what was happening locally, he could remove Beta. He could also force Fabián to stand aside. But all that depended on convincing Trigeño to take action – no small feat when I had little direct proof and enemies who eliminated anyone who spoke a single word against them.

  At 8 am Trigeño’s helicopter touched down on the freshly mown lawn at my finca, and he emerged, smiling and friendly.

  ‘Walk with me, Pedro,’ he said, putting his arm over my shoulder and leading me away from his men towards the barn. ‘What’s troubling you?’

  ‘I’m concerned that Beta is getting too close to the Díazes. He’s rarely out of their sight.’

  ‘Because I told him to keep a close eye on them. I trust these brothers less than you do.’

  ‘I saw a woman yesterday who’d been executed and had her lips sewn together. She was an independent candidate, running against Fabián Díaz.’ I hesitated, knowing that once I voiced my accusations there would be no turning back. ‘Patrón, I think the Díazes are eliminating their political and business rivals. Not just the Guerrilla like we planned, but also loyal men from our own alliance and anyone who stands in their way. First Mauricio, then Felix, now this woman Delgado.’

  Trigeño stopped walking. ‘And you think Beta is assisting them? That’s a very serious allegation.’

  ‘True, but I’m not sure what else to believe. This was found beside the body,’ I said, handing over the Black Scorpions card. ‘Patrón, I think the Díazes are dirty; you need to be careful. There were rumours about Humberto Díaz trafficking cocaine and working closely with the Guerrilla. His sons always seem to have a lot of money.’

  ‘What exactly are you insinuating?’ When I still hesitated, he insisted. ‘We trust each other more than this, Pedro. Be direct!’

  ‘Delgado claimed on-air that Beta was responsible for supervising the limpieza. She implied that Fabián has stolen money paid to him to build the highway and that he was using earth-moving equipment to transport tonnes of cocaine—’