by Rusty Young
Tita, Caraquemada’s lover, had phoned to reserve a taxi for 5.30 the following morning. Destination: El Dorado Airport. She was listed as a passenger under the name on her fake cédula on the 7.30 flight to Villavicencio.
From there, we assumed that she’d travel the same route to Santo Paraíso that Buitre had described, then be led by donkey to a campesino hut. But this time with one critical difference – Buitrago would have her bus pulled over at his checkpoint and, during a ‘routine’ bag search, a minuscule GPS transponder would be secreted in the lining of her handbag. A Beechcraft surveillance plane circling high above the cloud line would then relay the transponder’s precise coordinates as she moved.
Palillo and I would be inserted in advance as close as possible to Santo Paraíso. When the transponder started moving out of the village – signalling that Tita was on her way to the meeting place – we’d track her stealthily but quickly, wearing our night optics.
‘Remember, gentlemen,’ Buitrago said, ‘this is a capture or kill mission. If you can do so safely, immobilise and hold the target. But if you can’t kill all ten bodyguards, at least pin them down. These three Blackhawks will be on standby, each with fifteen soldiers. I’ll have boots on the ground within twelve minutes.’
‘And the girl?’ I asked Buitrago.
‘Avoid civilian casualties if possible,’ he responded tersely. ‘But she should know – when you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas.’
At nightfall Palillo and I slipped across the river from Llorona in a canoe and trekked south through the jungle for fifteen kilometres, hacking our way through thick undergrowth, swiping off ants and leeches while sidestepping tubular tarantula nests.
At midnight we buried ourselves in thick scrub two kilometres east of Santo Paraíso and rested until the sun began to rise. We awoke sweating under a blanket of humidity. Our instructions were to remain hidden, listening to the encrypted situation reports over our headsets.
At 7.15 am, Buitrago’s agents at El Dorado Airport sighted Tita at the boarding gate. As expected, she was dressed scruffily to downplay her beauty – old jeans, red canvas sneakers and a grey hooded sweater. This description allowed Buitrago’s undercover officer at the Villavicencio transport terminal to report her boarding a bus to Llorona at 9.30 am. At 4.30 pm she passed through the Garbanzos checkpoint, and one of his soldiers inserted the transponder into her bag. The Beechcraft took off immediately. Technicians aboard the plane reported that the transponder’s signal was strong and clear. By 5.15 pm she’d crossed the river and was in Flora’s Cantina.
Darkness fell at 6.30. Fifteen minutes later the transponder began moving slowly south-east. Palillo and I set off on a parallel bearing at a distance of one kilometre. The clouds parted, revealing a half moon; diaphanous light filtered through the dense vegetation. Since there was no rain to mask the crunch of our footfalls, we deviated frequently to avoid campesino huts.
‘The furthest she can go is five kilometres to a tributary of the Tuparro River,’ Buitrago informed us over our headset. ‘If the rendezvous point is one of those fishermen’s huts near the water, she’ll reach it within the hour.’
We arrived at the river at the same time as the girl, one kilometre upstream.
‘Her transponder has stopped. Hold your position,’ Buitrago said. Then his voice registered alarm. ‘Something’s wrong! The signal’s changed direction and sped up. She must be on a boat. She’s heading straight towards you!’
To our right, we heard the low growl of an outboard engine. We lay flat and watched in disbelief as a lancha cruised past us with two figures silhouetted: the boatman standing and a woman in a hooded sweater seated in the bow.
At night, in thick, muddy jungle, cutting our way through vines, it would be impossible to keep pace. Abandoning caution, we trekked upriver quickly and noisily.
Twenty minutes later, another surprise came from the Beechcraft. ‘We’ve lost her. No signal.’
‘Either the canopy is blocking it,’ said Buitrago, ‘or the battery has failed.’
‘Mierda,’ hissed Palillo, shaking his head.
There was another possibility: the Guerrilla had discovered the transponder and we were heading into a trap.
‘Avoid the river,’ said the colonel. ‘Too many huts. Move inland. Set your bearing towards her last known coordinates.’
During those twenty minutes, the transponder had travelled nine kilometres. In unknown terrain, it would take us two hours to cover that distance. But there was nothing for it but to keep going.
Whenever we detected movement, we froze. First it was for a thigh-thick guiri snake dangling overhead, then for a herd of short-tusked jungle boar that thundered across our path, their retinas reflecting green through our night-vision goggles.
One kilometre from the transponder’s last known location we slowed our pace. We knew Caraquemada would have six sentries in his outer security cordon. They would be motionless behind trees, sitting in branches or lying camouflaged. If they saw us before we saw them, we’d be dead.
We needed elevation to see what we were moving towards. We climbed a ridge, then lay flat and belly-crawled to a log and peered over.
‘Lights ahead at four hundred metres near the river,’ whispered Palillo. ‘Possibly the hut.’
By following the ridge around to the east we were able to get two hundred metres closer. Once there, we dropped to our knees and crawled a further twenty metres down the slope through the undergrowth. I tasted spider’s web on my tongue then felt tiny legs clawing across my cheek. Finally, we emerged into a small clearing where a large tree had fallen. From here, our view down the hill towards the lights was now unobstructed.
‘You’re not going to believe this, Colonel,’ said Palillo.
‘What do you see?’ Buitrago’s excited voice came over the headset. ‘Is it the hut?’
‘No,’ Palillo responded. ‘About thirty of them. It’s a gigantic base.’
154
I’D SEEN MANY astounding things in my life, but this was by far the most incredible. More than a Guerrilla camp, what I was observing through my binoculars was an absolute marvel of jungle engineering. Backing onto the river, a small citadel was laid out in concentric circles lit by hundreds of solar cells wired to trees that made it shimmer like a fairground in December.
Wooden boardwalks forked out like bicycle spokes from a central hub to an inner circle of tin-roofed dormitories with wooden walls and then to an outer circle of large square tents of khaki canvas. I also saw an office containing radio units, aircraft scanners and a satellite dish on a trolley.
Ten metres up, a roof of black insulation plastic explained how the camp avoided detection by blocking its emissions of electromagnetic radiation and also why the signal from Tita’s transponder was obstructed.
Buitrago’s next question snapped me out of my fascination. ‘How many enemy?’
‘Sixty, maybe eighty,’ said Palillo, ‘that I can see.’
My heart sank. Against that many soldiers, even if I could get a shot I’d never get into the camp to confront Caraquemada and escape in time.
‘Do you have eyes on target?’ asked Buitrago.
‘Not yet.’
Getting a fix on any one of the many people moving within my field of vision was difficult since all were working furiously. On a jetty, a commander with a clipboard barked orders at a team of porters unloading supplies from a flat-bottomed boat. Bending forward as heavy boxes were hoisted onto their backs, the porters staggered like leaf-cutter ants towards the central hub. Finally, I saw ten heavily armed men standing around a large, separate hut close to the river.
‘I see what looks like a master dormitory with ten guards.’
‘Hold your position, but prepare to withdraw,’ Buitrago said. ‘I’m phoning the generals. We’ll order a bomber.’
I looked at Palillo. Caraquemada would die and I’d never get to do my interrogation. Desperately, I scrambled down the slope. Palillo followed. I
stopped on a rocky outcrop with an even better view over the camp. Palillo calculated the target’s distance and I adjusted the clicks on my Remington.
‘Prepare to evacuate,’ Buitrago said.
‘Wait! I think I’ve got eyes on the girl.’
The guards turned away respectfully as a young blonde woman emerged from the dormitory dressed only in bra and panties. She lit a cigarette.
‘Is the target with her?’
‘No eyes on target.’
‘He must be inside.’
‘Negative. No sign of him.’
Starting from opposite ends, Palillo and I scanned the base more thoroughly, hut by hut. However, everything we saw only increased our confusion. Military discipline seemed extremely lax. Apart from the ten soldiers guarding the blonde’s dormitory, I counted only five more men in camouflage carrying rifles. The remaining men were without weapons or uniform. Women traipsed around in bikinis, flirting and drinking.
Some of the men ate while others worked. From the western perimeter, I heard music; a party was underway. Metre-high speakers blared reggaetón across a sunken dance floor. Strangely, only the men were dancing, wearing rubber rain boots and stomping out of time. None of this made sense – the music, the alcohol, the lack of command and security.
A moment later a tent flap peeled back and a man emerged wearing elbow-length rubber gloves and a gasmask. Palillo realised what was happening at the same time I did.
‘It’s not a Guerrilla base!’ he whispered. ‘It’s a big, fucking, puta de dios, cocaine laboratory.’
It finally all made sense. The dance floor was a pit for crushing coca leaves and leaching out the alkaloid. Since it was repetitive, exhausting work, music was permitted for motivation. Women entertained during breaks.
Once more the dormitory door opened. This time a man’s silhouette filled the doorframe. Naked, he emerged briefly into the light. Caraquemada.
I tensed suddenly, filled with hatred. Then I drew a deep breath and remembered my mission.
‘It’s the target. Confirmed,’ I said into my headset.
‘Come home immediately. We’re proceeding with the bombing.’
‘Negative. It’s a drug lab. It’s filled with civilians.’
Buitrago paused a moment. ‘Then take the shot. I’m sending the Blackhawks.’
But Caraquemada had returned inside. Palillo and I breathed out at the same time. We curled our toes and stretched our fingers. I kept my Remington trained on the doorway.
Five minutes later, the commander with the clipboard looked skyward. He raised his hand for silence. Movement ceased. Pointing for the music to be switched off, he scrambled to the office and snatched up headphones attached to a scanner. Barking instructions, he pointed repeatedly in our direction. Women rushed into dormitories to grab clothes. Powerful spotlights came on, illuminating a clearing at the bottom of our hill.
‘We may be compromised,’ whispered Palillo. ‘We need to go silent.’
Hearing all the fuss, Caraquemada reappeared momentarily in the doorway wearing pants but no shirt. However, before I could take the shot he stepped back.
I heard helicopter rotors. Could Buitrago’s Blackhawks have reached us this quickly?
The rotors got louder and suddenly a small helicopter skimmed the jungle canopy behind us. Descending rapidly, it passed only metres above our heads and landed in the spot-lit clearing. The rotors slowed. Four men got out – two wearing suits, the other two in uniform and carrying rifles.
Caraquemada re-emerged, buttoning his shirt. I looked through my scope.
‘Target back in sight.’
‘Neutralise him,’ said Buitrago.
I breathed in deeply. Palillo threw a distraction grenade towards the helicopter. I breathed out a long, slow breath. I took the shot. It was the hardest of my life. The bullet flew straight and true, hitting precisely where I aimed: his left knee.
155
CARAQUEMADA CRUMPLED. The bullet report reached his security contingent a second after the distraction grenade exploded near the helicopter. Five bodyguards raced to cover their fallen commander.
The two soldiers by the helicopter, believing themselves under attack from the Guerrilla, dropped flat with their rifles pointed towards the laboratory while the men in suits ran into the jungle.
Meanwhile, the ten guerrilleros not protecting Caraquemada fired at the helicopter, perforating the windscreen and fuel tank. The helicopter soldiers fired back. While both sides fought each other mistakenly, camp workers fled in all directions and I picked off Caraquemada’s bodyguards one by one.
Following thirty seconds of automatic fire, the last of fifteen guerrilleros – the clipboard commander fleeing with a backpack – was down and the two soldiers from the helicopter were also dead.
Bounding down the hill with Palillo close behind, I ran towards Caraquemada, praying that he was still alive.
By the time I reached him, his workers and remaining soldiers had scattered into the jungle. Clutching his rifle, he was dragging himself to a tiny canoe moored at a jetty, leaving a wake of red behind him like a blood-soaked bridal train. Not ten metres away, tied to a tree, a German shepherd was barking and thrashing wildly against its leash.
As I approached, Caraquemada took aim with his Kalashnikov, but I fired first and my bullet shattered his hand. Keeping my pistol trained on his chest, I kicked away the rifle then confiscated his pistol and satellite phone. I hurled them into the river before crouching to study him.
In the two and a half years since murdering Papá, Caraquemada had grown thicker around the middle. His most distinctive features were unchanged – the burn-scarred left cheek, the flap of skin over his glass eye and the nose of a boxer who’d fought a decade beyond his doctor’s advice. However, his gel-plastered hair was now thinning and his clipped moustache was flecked with grey.
Caraquemada regarded me with animal cunning. Although haemorrhaging from his hand, he was still strong and his will was unshakeable. To prevent him bleeding out before I got my answers, I tossed him a bandage. He flung it into the river then flapped his arm, causing small fountains of blood to surge from his palm.
‘Go get your chainsaw, you fascist slave. I’ll be dead before you’re back.’
I threw him a second bandage.
‘I’m not here to torture you.’
He eyed me warily but must have believed me, or at least perceived an opportunity to stall for time. While he wrapped his hand, he seemed to be calculating the distance between us and assessing my size, muscle tone and potential brutality, as though they were measures of character.
He must have found me lacking because, when I leaned in to help tie off another bandage around his knee, he seized my wrist with his good hand and tried to dislodge my pistol with the other. Calmly, I ground my thumb into the bullet hole in his knee, all the while holding his gaze.
‘Know who I am?’
‘You could be anyone,’ he growled contemptuously before relinquishing his grip. ‘A man like me makes many enemies. I’d rather know who sent you. Was it the Díaz brothers or Trigeño, that two-timing hijueputa?’
Since Caraquemada didn’t know about Buitrago tracking his prostitute, he might naturally assume Trigeño was behind this ambush, and that perhaps the Díazes had assisted, as they had with Zorrillo.
‘I’m here on my own,’ I said. ‘You killed my father.’
Confusion knitted his brow. ‘Like I said, muchacho. You could be anyone.’
I struck him hard across the face with the butt of my Smith & Wesson. ‘You murder a man point-blank, you damn well better remember.’
Caraquemada shook his head and stared back impassively. His sensibilities were so deadened by war that violence was his remaining language. Luckily, after two years working with Beta, I spoke that language fluently.
‘I am Pedro Juan Gutiérrez González, Autodefensa.’
‘Trigeño, then.’ He chuckled to himself ironically. ‘I thought I recognised you
r voice. Congratulations. Now finish your master’s work, capitalist puppet, and this time shoot straight.’
‘Trigeño has nothing to do with this,’ I retorted. ‘You killed my father and banned us from our land. Why? Buitre said my father did something to anger you. Is that true? Or was it because I’d met with the Autodefensas in Garbanzos?’
‘What?’ He looked genuinely perplexed.
‘My father giving the army water was simply an excuse,’ I insisted. ‘Your men saw me drinking beer with recruiters. So why not kill me?’
He laughed. ‘Drinking beer is no crime.’
‘Why then?’
He glanced across the small river, perhaps hoping to see a rescue party returning for him. ‘Let me go and I’ll tell you.’
‘You’re in no position to bargain!’ I pointed my Smith & Wesson at him.
‘Kill me and you’ll never know.’
At this, I flew into an uncontrollable rage. Caraquemada was dangling the most painful event of my life right in front of my face, and using it to taunt me like a helpless infant. Looking around the compound, I seized a small gasoline tank and pitched its contents over him. As he squirmed and twisted sideways to avoid the splashes, his dog snarled viciously, gnashing at its rope.
When Caraquemada’s clothes were soaked, I held up my lighter, flicked the flint twice so it sparked, and we stared at each other venomously. For the first time I saw fear lurking behind the bravado in his eyes. I’d always told myself I would never commit acts of torture, but at that moment I was prepared to light Caraquemada up like a bonfire.
‘Okay!’ He raised his uninjured hand to signal stop. ‘I’ll tell you. And you can decide, in your judgment as an honourable man, if I am truly to blame.’
I began to feel calm again. My interrogation was back on track: he was using flattery to feign submission; he would now downplay his own culpability, shifting responsibility onto others. But no matter what explanation he gave, he had pulled the trigger on Papá, and I was still determined to do the same to him.
