The Accountant's Story

by David Fisher

  Pablo was getting desperate to save the family. This was when we made arrangements for my family to leave the country. Nicholas went with his pregnant wife and children, his mother and his seventy-eight-year-old aunt, all huddled together. They went to Chile, where, as Nicholas remembers, “It was tough because when the police found out who we were from the Colombian government informants there, they didn’t want to let us into the country. Finally I had to pay some money to the police in Santiago to allow us to go through the gate. When we left the airport three cars were following us. I started driving all over the city and they followed me. I went faster they went faster. Just like in the movies. We were scared. We didn’t know if they were going to take us and hand us back to Colombia or kill us. It didn’t matter that we were innocent, that we had nothing to do with the wars between Pablo and the cartels and the government. They wanted to use us to catch Pablo. I turned into a huge parking lot and shut the car and we all hid below the windows. We waited, the cars drove around looking for us for hours and hours. Finally they went away.

  “I waited some more, then started the car. Two blocks later they were waiting for us. I raced. On the road I saw a police station and I stopped. It was better to be taken out of the country than killed.”

  Eventually from Chile my family went to Brazil. They were not permitted to land in Brazil; instead they were sent to Spain. Again, they were not permitted to leave the plane, because the Colombian government had warned all these different countries and the persecution against my family continued. So from Madrid they went to Frankfurt, Germany. There, Nicholas remembers, “I spoke to an immigration agent since I had studied there and knew German and he told us it was true that everybody in Europe had information from the Colombian government that the Escobar family was trying to hide in Europe so don’t let them in. ‘The president of Colombia gave the order to my superiors,’ he told me.

  “Finally we pleaded, ‘Please let us get in, they are going to kill us, we are innocent. It would be better for everybody. We’re not going to do anything bad. Please call your superiors.’ It took some time, but he got permission for us to be there. That agent was so human he saved us.”

  Pablo was not so fortunate. María Victoria, Juan Pablo, and Manuela were not permitted to leave the country. There is a story I have heard that Manuela would walk the halls of the security hotel the government had put them in singing little songs that Los Pepes were going to come and kill her.

  Through the months I would speak to Pablo almost every day on the mobile phone. He always spoke from a moving taxi. But he was very much alone and lonely. Much of his money was beyond his reach, too many people of the organization were dead or had surrendered, and it was dangerous for him to be in contact with his family. A contact inside the Search Bloc would tell us that their new listening tools allowed them to track every phone call of interest. The government would not negotiate. In the city he only went out in complete disguise and now he stayed away from the most popular areas, instead going outside the city. When possible he liked small places where he could sit and drink black coffee with pastry. For Pablo it seemed that the safest answer was to go into the jungle and work with his new movement that he was forming called Antioquia Rebelde. So in November of 1993 that is what he began planning to do.

  He had just moved into an apartment in Medellín in an area near the soccer stadium Atanasio Giradot. With him was our cousin Luzmila, who prepared his meals and did the errands for him, and one of my best men, Limón. Nobody in the family knew Pablo was staying there. Luzmila told her sons that she had a job taking care of an older man and she was going to earn good money. But with the torturers waiting, it was important that nobody knew where Pablo was staying. I personally had sent Limón to work for Pablo and before he went to meet him I had him pick up a different mobile phone. That phone was a terrible danger. On Sunday November 29, a woman who was working for me had smuggled in some secret letters hidden in the soles of her shoes, shoes that had been made for that purpose. One of those letters came from a source who warned that if Pablo continued talking on those phones he would be caught. I wrote immediately to Pablo this letter: “Brother, lovely greetings. I hope that when you get this note you are all right. Next Thursday you will be one year older, and that is a gift of God He can give us. Brother, I’m really worried; I just received some information, which tells me your mobile is being intercepted, they are triangulating the signal, you could get caught if you keep it up. DO NOT SPEAK OVER THE PHONE . . . DO NOT SPEAK OVER THE PHONE . . . DO NOT SPEAK OVER THE PHONE.”

  When my mother arrived for her visit I gave this letter to her and gave her instructions where to take it. I told her it must be done very quickly. She knew it was for Pablo, and so she was worried. I did not lie to her, but I did not tell her the complete truth. “Mother,” I said, “they have Pablo’s phone intercepted, and it’s not convenient for them to know who Pablo is talking to, because we are negotiating again with Gavíria’s government.”

  His big worry always was his family. Pablo was trying hard to get them out of the country, away from Los Pepes. In April he had tried to send them to the United States but the American DEA stopped them from leaving in Bogotá, keeping them under the death sentence from Los Pepes. In November Pablo called my son Nico, who was living in Spain with his family, and requested that he go to Frankfurt to meet María Victoria, Juan Pablo, and the rest of his family. “Uncle,” Nico told him, “I don’t know if this is safe. We had so much trouble getting into Europe.”

  Pablo replied, “I have no other choice right now. I want my family to be away and I want you to please help me out and take care of my family while I fix this situation here in Colombia.”

  Of course Nico would do that. He returned to Germany, to the same airport he had arrived at months earlier. María Victoria, sixteen-year old Juan Pablo, and five-year-old Manuela flew to Germany, but they were not permitted to get off the plane. There was no legal reason for this, not one person on the plane had done anything illegal. None of them had sold or transported drugs. As I have said, their crime was their Escobar blood. So they were told they had to return to Colombia. They were told that being allowed into any country in Europe was only possible “upon the immediate surrender” of Pablo.

  For Pablo surrender was sure death. According to his sources he was going to be murdered once in custody.

  When Pablo’s family was deported from Germany the government ordered that they be put into a famous hotel in Bogotá owned by the national police. This was incredible; the government was holding the entire family hostage. The government of El Salvador had offered to protect them, but the Colombian government wouldn’t talk to them. Worse, they were being protected by the police, which was known to be working with Los Pepes. Then the government threatened that it was going to take away the protection from the family.

  Pablo made phone calls telling people what would happen if his family was harmed, but besides that there wasn’t much he could do. He would still go out of the apartment; in the last days of November he took the risk of attending a soccer game. But now the Search Bloc, Centra Spike, Delta Force, the police, Los Pepes, and Cali were getting closer to him. They had set up the family and they knew that Pablo would do anything, even give his own life, for them. So the planes continued to fly overhead listening for his conversations, the experts with phone-tapping equipment drove through the city, soldiers roamed through the streets, all of them searching day and night for Pablo.

  Limón, the person staying with Pablo, was superstitious. He believed in witches and fairies, the luck of the four-leaf clover, even the power of spells. Pablo didn’t take any of it seriously, but he enjoyed Limón’s predictions. On the last day of November he was reading the newspaper when a big, ugly fly started bothering him. He rolled up the paper and tried to kill it, but failed. When he sat down again to read the fly landed on his right ear. Limón said nervously, “Patrón, this is not good. This means bad luck. Something is going to happen.” Pablo
tried to kill it again, but again the fly escaped.

  Pablo told Limón to kill it, which he tried to do, but again it landed on Pablo’s leg, and Limón just let it out the window. I’m sure Pablo laughed.

  At night Pablo sent our cousin Luzmila to the store to buy a present for me, a copy of the new Guinness Book of Sports Records. Pablo was an expert on our sports, particularly soccer; he knew the details of every World Cup final ever played and would always quiz me to make sure my knowledge kept even with him—and I would not lose any sports bet. When Luzmila returned he wrote a note to me in this book and asked our cousin to send it to me in prison.

  The next day, December 1, was his forty-fourth birthday. Writing this, it is difficult not to think of the great celebrations we had enjoyed in years earlier, from when he was a boy to the parties at Napoles with hundreds of people. Now he was almost alone. Luzmila made his favorite breakfast and he read the notes that had arrived the night before from his family. Manuela had written, perhaps with some collaboration with María Victoria, “Even though you are not here, we have you hidden in a corner of our heart. Happy Birthday, I love you Dad.”

  María signed her letter of good wishes and long life with the mark of her lips.

  My card to him expressed my love for him and my hopes for his long life. After reading them all he put them in a paper bag and for security asked Luzmila to burn them. She does not remember if she burned them or not.

  For dinner that evening the three of them enjoyed seafood from one of the best sea food restaurants in Medellín, Frutos del Mar, with a bottle of Viuda de Clicoff champagne. Limón failed to open the champagne so Pablo tapped it gently against the wall. The cork shot out, hitting Limón on the chest. They laughed and Limón said, “Thank God it wasn’t a bullet, patrón.”

  The three people raised their glasses in a toast, but Pablo insisted a fourth glass be present, “Which symbolizes the presence of my family that cannot be with me today.” His toast was, “For my family, for the good health of all.”

  “God bless you forever,” toasted Luzmila.

  Limón offered thanks to God for the chance to work with Pablo, saying, “God crossed our paths.”

  They raised the glasses to toast once again, but as Luzmila remembered later the glass slipped from Limón’s hand and fell to the ground—and landed standing up without breaking. To Limón everything that happened in life was a sign from the other life. This one, he said, was “a sign of bad luck. Something bad is going to happen.”

  I know that Pablo respected the fears of Limón, but never took superstitions very seriously. He probably wanted to comfort him when he said softly, “You don’t die the night before.” After dark he put on his disguise and went outside. Early in the morning he managed to get inside to see our mother. She was still living in the secure apartment he had established for her. Getting there was difficult and dangerous, but this time Pablo risked it because he needed to tell her goodbye.

  Pablo had finally accepted that the government would not make an arrangement with him for his surrender. There was nothing he could do in Medellín for his family. He needed to get back his power if he was going to make them release María Victoria and his children. So he was going to leave the city and go into the jungle to form up with his new group. “This is the last time we’re going to be seeing each other in Medellín,” he explained to our mother. He was going into his new life to set up Antioquia Rebelde, he said, which will fight for freedom. “We will establish an independent country called Antioquia Federal. I’ll be the new president.” And as president he would be free from the legal system of Colombia.

  Our mother did not cry. Instead she told her son that she loved him and walked him to the door. He slipped out into the early morning.

  My mother was a very strong woman with good feelings; she was a beautiful woman with blue eyes. She was a devoted Catholic with a charitable heart for Medellín’s needy. During her youth she was a teacher with perfect penmanship, which I dearly remember. After ending her teaching career my mother had created a group for retired teachers for which she would provide the money needed to enjoy different sorts of activities like arts and crafts, music, singing, and anything fun.

  Pablo knew he had to limit his time to under two or three minutes, but he was getting too careless. On his birthday he had called the radio station to inform the Colombian people that their government was holding his family hostage, and he had called his son. With their sophisticated equipment the Americans had located the general area where he was staying, but not the precise spot. They were getting too close.

  That night in my dreams the priest came to visit once again. But this time it was a happy dream. I don’t remember the details, but when I woke on December 2, I felt excited, like everything was going to be fine. For no reason I was filled with joy. I was feeling love for my family, I was feeling happy to be alive.

  Pablo got up about noon that day, the usual Pablo, and organized his day. The day was gray, with hints of rain in the air. The early news was sad; the son of Gustavo, Gustavito, had been killed in a raid by the national police. Pablo asked Luzmila to go to the store and buy some things he would need in the jungle, like pens, notepads for writing letters, toothpaste because he used so much of it, some shaving supplies, and medicine. He warned her to return back to the apartment by three o’clock. If she had not returned by 3:30 he reminded her, he would be forced to leave for safety.

  It was just another day for her. After she was gone Pablo got into the taxi with Limón and drove around the city while making his telephone calls. The Search Bloc was listening to him, armed and prepared to attack wherever he was staying, but he was moving and they couldn’t track him. He called María Victoria and spoke with her briefly, then spoke with Juan Pablo. A German magazine had requested to do an interview and given his son a list of forty questions. I suspect Pablo thought that maybe he could appeal through this magazine to the German people to accept his family, and inform them of the inhumane treatment that they received from the Colombian government. As they drove, Limón helped him write down the questions. Questions like, Why did they depart Colombia for Germany? Why did they pick Germany? What happened when the family landed there? Why were they refused entry?

  I guess Pablo must have felt secure because he went back to Luzmila’s apartment and continued speaking on the telephone from there. He was never this careless. But this time the Search Bloc was able to find the right street. They went to the wrong place first, but Pablo knew nothing about it. Then they found the right place. Only the people who were there on December 2, 1993, know what happened. I know the official story they told. I also know what I believe.

  At the moment this was taking place I was in my cell opening up the gift-wrapped book that my brother had sent to me. With it came a short note that read: “My dear brother, my soul brother, my best friend. This is so you learn a little more of the sport, and perhaps someday you could beat me in sports trivia . . . I send you a hug.” He signed it with two letters, “V.P.,” and to this day I have never understood this signature. Pablo always singed his letters to me “Dr. Echaverria,” and the most secret letters were signed “Teresita.” But “V.P.”—I didn’t know what it meant. I can only think about two assumptions: “Victoria Pablo,” and the other would be “Viaje Profundo,” which means “profound trip.” I have asked many people, including my English teacher Jay Arango, what he thought the initials could mean. There has been no satisfactory answer. But while I sat there in my cell, wondering for the first time, the events that would become history were taking place.

  In the official reports the government said that probably Pablo and Limón heard a noise downstairs when the police came inside. The reports all claim that the government shot only after Pablo and Limón began firing at them. That I do not believe. There is no way they wanted to capture Pablo and risk that one day he would be free. He was going to die there.

  These reports say that Limón was shot first on the roof and fell to
the ground. Then Pablo tried to run across the roof to the back of the house, carrying two guns with him, but he was shot there and collapsed. Limón had been shot many times. Pablo had been shot three times, in his back, in his leg, and just above his right ear. There have been many stories about the source of the third bullet. The claims are that it was the Search Bloc shooting. Some people claim Pablo was killed by an American sniper from another roof. But after he was shot and fell on the roof, the Delta Force Americans posed for pictures with him like at an animal hunt.

  That’s the story, but this is what I believe happened: The police barged in through the doors and Pablo told Limón to see what that noise downstairs was. When Limón went to see he was shot numerous times, and died right there near the entrance. While Limón was heading to the door Pablo decided he would escape to the roof. There on the roof Pablo looked around and saw he was surrounded. He would never allow himself to be captured or killed by the government. Pablo had always said that he would never be caught and taken to America. In my mind there can be no doubt about what happened. Pablo understood that there was no escape, and did not want to be a trophy for those who were out to kill him. He did as he always had said he would: He put his own gun to his head and deprived the government of their greatest victory. Truly, he preferred a grave in Colombia over a jail cell in the United States. At the end, in his last hour, he stood fighting like a warrior. And when there was no hope, he committed suicide on that roof.