Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  When the brothers had signed, he ordered his men, ‘Now bring me Beta.’

  By then, however, Beta and his Black Scorpions had fled.

  Five days later, Buitrago entered our room with a huge smile across his face and a full bottle of single-malt whisky dangling from his hand. He’d just returned from high-level meetings with his generals.

  ‘Drink with me.’ He poured three glasses. ‘It worked.’ He held up the USB. ‘At first the generals said our own government might lack the willpower to pursue Trigeño, which probably means he could embarrass some very powerful people. But once we spoke to the North Americans, everything fell into place. They showed me this.’

  He handed me a file marked CLASSIFIED, which had been translated from English.

  Carlos Trigeño. Former high-level member of the Medellín Cartel and close associate of Pablo Escobar Gavíria. He broke away from the cartel and assisted the Cali Cartel, PEPES and Search Block, notably Major Itagüí (now General) in the manhunt for Escobar.

  Following Escobar’s death, Trigeño founded his own breakaway cartel, which was loosely protected by the government as repayment for his assistance as an informant. However, when confronted with extortion and kidnappings by the FARC-Guerrilla, Trigeño and other traffickers amassed private armies as protection. He united these private militias under the banner of the Colombian Autodefensas, hoping to achieve political legitimacy and legal status.

  The Autodefensas are currently listed by the Department of State as a Foreign Terrorist Organisation. It is believed Trigeño continues to import chemical precursors and export cocaine hydrochloride to Mexico and Florida via cargo ships. He is protected at high levels of government. As yet, insufficient evidence is available to lay charges.

  ‘Luckily,’ Buitrago continued, ‘the USB in combination with the white booklet was a game-changer. The North Americans have wanted to extradite Trigeño for years but lacked the proof. However, with this new evidence they can link Trigeño to crimes committed on US soil.’

  He explained that this would take time and naturally involve the interrogation of less-important intermediaries, including the Díaz brothers.

  ‘They’ll have to admit their role in all this, implicate Trigeño and do some prison time here, or the North Americans will extradite them too,’ added the colonel with satisfaction.

  Since the Americans’ extradition plans would take time, they’d pressured the Colombian government to use the evidence on the USB to imprison Trigeño in Colombia on lesser charges while they finalised their own evidence.

  ‘Trigeño’s government contacts informed his attorneys that they have clear evidence of his drug trafficking. When the attorneys expressed doubt, they were allowed to view the video contained on the USB. But the government has indicated that, provided he disarms his forces, surrenders voluntarily and pleads guilty to the lesser offence of being the intellectual author of the massacre in Puerto Galán, they can arrange a light sentence for him in a minimum-security facility in Colombia. Of course, before his sentence is over, the Americans will extradite him for drug trafficking, but Trigeño has no idea about this and has agreed to the deal.’

  Best of all, the generals had finally granted Buitrago the resources he needed to rid the region of the Guerrilla forever. How could they refuse? Over the past twelve months he’d already made headlines for downing Zorrillo and rescuing the kidnapped Telecom engineer. Now he’d raided the largest cocaine laboratory in Colombian history.

  Three hundred extra soldiers had already arrived and established outposts and daily patrols south of Puerto Princesa. Llorona and the river towns were safely back under government control.

  Satellite images showed that troops belonging to Caraquemada’s 34th Frente were withdrawing from their camps in the mountainous jungle around Santo Paraíso.

  We toasted and then the colonel said, ‘You’re both free to go home.’ With Beta gone, the Díazes still in army custody and Trigeño on the back foot, it was safe for Palillo, me, Mamá, Old Man Domino and Gloria to finally leave the barracks.

  ‘But stay away from Trigeño,’ warned Buitrago. ‘Don’t even phone him.’

  For the time being, I obeyed. Instead, I asked Mamá and Uncle to meet me the following day for lunch at our finca.

  161

  THE FINCA LOOKED better than it ever had. Beds were made, food filled the refrigerator and Papá’s granite tombstone had been polished until it shone.

  Confident that Beta had left the area and no longer posed a threat, I’d refused Buitrago’s offer of a bodyguard, although I thanked him. Without his go-ahead, Mamá would never have arrived with Uncle Leo and a heavily pregnant Amelia.

  They looked serious, with their hands on the table, fingers interlocked, so I figured they had an inkling of why I’d invited them for lunch.

  ‘It’s over, Mamá. You can pack your things and come home. The Guerrilla are gone. So are the Autodefensas.’

  ‘Ay, Pedro!’ Mamá rushed to hug me, but I held up both hands.

  ‘Mamá, there’s something you need to know about Papá’s death.’ I glanced at Uncle Leo. He stood and took Amelia’s wrist, making to leave, but I placed a hand gently on his shoulder and made him sit. ‘Something you both need to know.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Remember how no one would collect Humberto Díaz’s body?’

  I told them about the midnight trip in our Mazda to the river S-bend, the blue tarpaulin, the pen torches and our return trip via the cemetery. Before I finished, Mamá understood what I was really telling her – the cause of Papá’s death – and she was weeping. We threw our arms around each other.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mamá.’

  ‘But … all this time … I thought … I mean … why wouldn’t he just tell me?’

  ‘Papá was only trying to protect you. But you had a right to know.’ Then I went further. ‘And I should have told you afterwards.’

  By keeping the burial secret we’d treated Mamá as a child. She’d suffered greatly, solely because of decisions made by the two men in her life.

  ‘I thought I was to blame,’ I continued. ‘I was seen in the plaza with the Autodefensa recruiters. Papá warned me it was dangerous. So when he was killed, I didn’t think of Humberto Díaz – I thought it was because of me.’

  Uncle Leo nodded. He’d believed this as well.

  ‘Then I owe you an apology,’ he said, now on the point of tears himself. ‘I’ve blamed you all this time. Whenever I saw my sister suffering, I—’

  Mamá buried her face in her hands. Like Papá, she probably knew about Humberto Díaz’s true vocation all along.

  ‘Unfortunately, there’s more,’ I said sombrely. ‘The Díaz brothers saw our Mazda that night. They were the ones who informed the Guerrilla. Afterwards, the Guerrilla turned against them and the brothers befriended us because they needed my boss’s protection.’

  Mamá gasped then sat there stunned. All along, Javier’s generosity and probably Eleonora’s friendship had stemmed from ulterior motives. Mamá finally had the truth, and it would help the healing.

  I hoped Mamá would eventually reach the same calm place I had: Papá had lived by strong principles and died for doing what he believed was right.

  Wiping away her tears, she whispered, ‘Thank you, Pedro.’

  Padre Rojas knocked. I had invited him too. I knew Mamá would have questions. And maybe Rojas, being Papá’s best friend and confidante, could supply more answers and further words of comfort. After that, we’d all attend morning Mass.

  ‘Uncle Leo.’ I beckoned him aside after church. ‘I have no right to ask any favours of you after all I’ve done. But …’

  It was in Uncle Leo’s blue truck that I sped out from Llorona, across Los Llanos and on towards Trigeño’s finca.

  162

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, around noon, I finally reached La 50. I drove past without stopping and headed uphill in the direction of La 35. After nine months’ absence I thought at first I’d forgotten
the way and taken a wrong turn.

  Instead of the pot-holed dirt track, I found myself on a paved road. Where the rusted cattle gate should have been, sandstone bricks arched over thick oak gates. There was a guard station, where a soldier stood behind bulletproof glass. I pulled up and wound down my window.

  ‘Private property,’ the guard barked through the intercom.

  ‘Perdón. I’m looking for La 35.’

  He nodded. ‘Your name?’

  After checking a list, he opened the motorised gates and I stared, stupefied. A gold-lettered sign announced the property’s new name: Hacienda Ralito. Wild African palms had been uprooted and replanted along the driveway at measured intervals.

  The dilapidated, wooden farmhouse had been razed and replaced by a complex of stylishly rendered and painted buildings clustered around a twenty-five-metre lap pool in which bikini-clad models now frolicked. Beside the pool stood a white marquee where a team of black-tie waiters carried silver platters of cheese, prosciutto, tuna carpaccio and fine wine. About fifty drivers and armed bodyguards sat at several round tables, some in police and army uniforms, others in suits and ties. Laughing and nudging each other, they admired the poolside entertainment.

  Dotted throughout the grounds sat guest bungalows with thatched roofs, jacuzzis and bamboo privacy walls. An artificial lake boasted a wooden jetty, ski boat and an island sanctuary where pink flamingos stood. The small wooden chapel on the hill was the only structure that had not been altered. Even seeing it there, I couldn’t shake the sensation I was in the wrong place. The transformation from my last visit was unbelievable.

  Culebra stood up from one of the tables and we shook hands.

  ‘What’s been happening here?’ I asked.

  He chuckled. ‘A few minor improvements.’

  ‘A few. Who are these people? And where’s Trigeño?’

  Culebra nodded towards a brick conference room. ‘He’s tied up in meetings with political big-hitters. You’ll have to wait.’

  I walked up the hill and found the door locked. Cupping my hands, I peered through the glass. Inside, approximately thirty men sat around a U-shaped table. I recognised their faces from television, newspapers and recent Vote 1 billboards – they were congressmen, senators, business leaders and colourfully decorated army generals, including Itagüí.

  Pacing and turning, Trigeño was addressing the gathering with the same commanding presence as in his military briefings, pointing frequently to a whiteboard. His audience sat mesmerised and admiring.

  Only a week earlier, I too had looked up to him and believed in him unquestioningly. He’d convinced not only me but thousands of loyal soldiers – children like Ñoño – to fight with fire and blood for a just and patriotic cause. But all the while he’d worked secretly with our enemy in the interests of business.

  I did not hate him. I felt empty and betrayed, and also disappointed with myself for letting him fool me for so long. Right then, however, I simply wanted him out of my life with a minimum of conflict. I planned to ask courteously but directly for a discharge without mentioning what I knew. However, before I could knock, a strong hand gripped me by the back of my neck.

  ‘What in puta madre are you doing?’

  I’d never seen Alfa 1 without his uniform or weapon. Dressed in rain boots and muddy coveralls, he looked like a regular foreman from any finca.

  ‘I need to talk to him. It’s urgent.’

  ‘So is this demobilisation meeting.’

  If the disarmament Trigeño had agreed to in return for a short prison sentence was anything like the government’s peace offer to the Guerrilla, Autodefensa soldiers who surrendered voluntarily wouldn’t be charged or imprisoned. They would simply hand in their weapons and reintegrate into society as ordinary citizens. However, I didn’t want Alfa 1 to know I’d heard anything about this in advance, so I raised my eyebrows questioningly, as though I were confused.

  ‘You haven’t heard the news?’ he asked softly.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Apparently the war is over,’ he said ironically. He mounted a motorbike and thumped the seat behind him. ‘Get on and I’ll explain. Then you can wait with me until his guests depart.’

  We rode three kilometres downhill towards the fence that bordered La 50. A Constructoras Díaz crane was lowering two familiar forty-foot shipping containers from a Transportadores Díaz truck into a deep bunker. They were burying the La 50 armoury. Fifty recruits were mothballing uniforms, oiling weapons and plastic-sealing boxes of ammunition. I wondered what else they might be burying – tonnes of cocaine or barrels of chemicals perhaps – and whether Alfa 1 knew about El Patrón’s true profession.

  ‘We’d always planned to demobilise in the future, after the war was won,’ Alfa 1 explained. ‘But Trigeño needs to disappear for a while. Meantime, he has to break all ties to his past, and that means us.’

  ‘Why aren’t you burying those?’ A separate pile of old, rusted Galils was being loaded back onto the truck.

  ‘We need them for the cameras. They’re broken.’

  Low-powered rifles, malfunctioning pistols and single-barrel shotguns would be handed over then crushed during a televised demobilisation ceremony. The good weapons they were keeping.

  ‘What about our employees?’

  ‘They go home, keep their mouths shut and receive a government salary. Some of the commanders need to demobilise too. Culebra will be in the first group.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ I tried to hide my excitement. If all troops were being sent home, maybe I wouldn’t have to request a discharge after all.

  ‘Not exactly. Only two-thirds are demobilising. While Trigeño’s away, I’ll be in charge. If the government breaks the terms of our agreement, we have our men on speed dial and can dig all this up.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘I’m glad you finally learned some loyalty, Pedro,’ he said, patting my back. ‘Trigeño is pleased with you for warning him about Beta turning rogue. We both are.’

  I was glad Alfa 1 had finally forgiven me. I’d lied to him, used him to pursue my own self-interest and betrayed his trust. I now knew exactly how that felt.

  Clearly, he was also trying to shore up my loyalty in case something went awry. The government might try to make Alfa 1 take the fall for the hundreds of bodies chopped and buried throughout Los Llanos in mass graves and fifty-by-fifty holes. War with the Guerrilla might flare up again, or an internal war might erupt among Autodefensa mid-range commanders, like Beta, who refused to disarm. Whatever the case, Alfa 1 wanted few enemies and needed to be ready with his own group.

  We returned to the conference room from which senators, generals and businessmen had emerged, shaking hands and embracing. Cutting a swathe through the midst of his departing guests, Trigeño circled back around and manoeuvred them towards the gate like a barracuda corralling baitfish.

  I had to hand it to him; with several atmospheres of pressure bearing down on him, his resilience was titanium. His world might be collapsing around him, but his façade remained intact.

  When he noticed me waiting, his face lit up with pleasure.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Pedro,’ he said warmly, as though he’d invited me here himself. ‘And your timing is perfect. I’ve had two days of stressful meetings with fucking políticos who wouldn’t bother to smile unless there was a peso in it. They’re such falsos! Now that I’m finally with someone real, I can relax. Come! We’ll fish together.’

  ‘Comando, I—’

  ‘Walk with me.’ He gripped my arm, pulling me towards the dam. ‘As you can see, I’m making some big changes around here. I want you to be a part of them.’

  He dismissed his bodyguards with orders to send us fishing rods, and then he turned to me in that old, confidential manner. ‘You were right about Beta. I should have listened. But I assume everyone is like you and me – trustworthy, loyal and honest – but that also makes me vulnerable.’

  When the caretaker arrived with rods, T
rigeño tactfully changed subjects, informing me that the dam was stocked to capacity with vampire fish, a vicious predator he admired greatly because they put up an amazing struggle. Once the caretaker had departed, Trigeño cast his line and then leaned in close, speaking softly.

  ‘What I’m about to tell you is in complete confidence. Somehow the government has photos of Beta and his men during the limpieza – playing soccer with severed heads, using chainsaws on men who are not yet dead. Disgusting, despicable acts that I can’t bear to think about. Beta knows about the photos and has scurried to Monterrey, where he now hides like a rat in a drainpipe. I’m sending Alfa 1 to flush him out and exterminate him.’

  Although he pretended to concentrate on his rod tip, Trigeño’s lizard eyes flitted across at me, gauging my reaction. Perhaps he wanted to know how much of this I already knew and whether I’d continue participating in his fiction.

  ‘What will happen afterwards?’ I asked, again hoping his plans might make my request for a discharge unnecessary.

  ‘Beta’s junior commanders will be disappeared. His soldiers will be returned to the fold and retrained. Beta is a liar and a traitor, but unfortunately I am indirectly responsible for his actions. I ordered him to occupy Puerto Galán with the best of intentions. However, as his commander, I am responsible for the terrible atrocities he committed without authorisation. I must now fall on my sword.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to my friends in government and agreed to hand myself in. I will offer compensation to the victims’ families, as they properly deserve. I will give a full and frank admission of my role as the intellectual author of Beta’s crimes in exchange for a predetermined prison sentence.’

  ‘For how long?’ I asked. I didn’t care that he was claiming this was by his own doing. With Trigeño locked up, I’d be safe.