Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  37

  DURING THE NEXT afternoon’s obstacle course, Ñoño made three failed leaps for the monkey bars. On his fourth attempt to shimmy up the wooden support pole, his left boot found the nails.

  Having tried to clamber up that same pole many times, he must have been surprised to find a new foothold, but cleverly, he didn’t glance down.

  I stood on the wharf, dripping wet, and observed Beta’s reaction.

  ‘Well done!’ he cried. ‘Finally.’

  Although short and weak, Ñoño was a good sprinter. He punched his fist in the air as he finished fourth-last.

  Clapping slowly, Beta squinted at the pole. ‘Your training paid off.’

  I was relieved, but the nails would only be a temporary measure. Once Ñoño’s strength and confidence were high enough to do everything on his own, I’d reposition the nails lower and eventually remove them altogether.

  The following afternoon, Culebra came to the container looking stressed.

  ‘Alfa 1 is in a filthy mood. He’s been snapping at us all morning. Now he’s ordered a spot inventory count.’

  My heart skipped a beat. If I didn’t separate out my bullets before the spot count, the discrepancy would be discovered, corrected and the bullets re-absorbed into inventory. Hiding them in the container for removal another day wasn’t an option – Culebra was working right beside me. I told him I needed to use the bathroom urgently. But to prevent the bullets knocking audibly against each other in my trouser pocket, I had to walk slower than usual. Culebra noticed.

  ‘Pedro!’

  I froze. ‘What?’

  ‘You shit your pants or something?’

  I paused. ‘Not yet. But I will if you keep me here much longer.’

  Culebra laughed and threw a rag at my back.

  As I pissed against the side of the container, I dropped the bullets onto the ground and kicked them underneath. Then I ran my hands through my cropped hair and dug my fingers into my scalp. This time, there was no doubt about what I was doing: stealing from right under the trainers’ noses. The penalty for being caught would be death.

  However, two days later when the inventory count was completed, Culebra relaxed, enabling me to steal another yellow-stringed bag, insert the bullets into watermelon rinds and add the bag to the ordinary kitchen trash.

  One good thing did come out of the surprise inventory check: I noticed that the only pistols not counted were the damaged weapons in the decommissioned box – their sole purpose was to be stripped for spare parts as the need arose.

  When a pistol malfunctioned, Culebra now left the fiddly, time-consuming task of searching for spare parts to me. And if none could be found, the malfunctioning pistol would be added to the box and could remain there for months.

  No record was kept of the parts already used from the stripped pistols. In fact, the box was a jumble of half-disassembled weapons. But there were three Taurus pistols in the box, and if I took the good parts from each, I could create a perfectly functioning weapon.

  For eight weeks, I’d had my pistol without knowing it. I stripped the recoil spring from one Taurus and the firing pin from a second and added them to a third. I dry-fired it quickly to ensure it worked. Then I disassembled it, wrapped the parts in toilet paper and removed them from the container one by one.

  Everything was falling into place, and the trainers still had no suspicions. In fact, when I drove Beta to Puerto Bontón, he himself lifted the garbage bag containing the Taurus parts and hurled it into the dump.

  On my next solo trip to the dump, I reassembled the Taurus, cocked it and dry-fired it. It worked just as before, only now, away from the base, the click of metal sounded more satisfying. Then I placed the Taurus with the bullets in one of the two zip-lock bags and removed the phone and battery.

  Back in the Blazer, I lined up the business cards from the electrical stores on the dashboard. I took out my photo of Papá. Although I’d already taken a million risks, I was willing to take a million more.

  One by one, I called each of the electrical stores, inquiring about the Motorola CP200 lithium-ion battery.

  Each store gave the same response: ‘That’s restricted war matériel! Who are you and where are you calling from?’ When I persisted nicely, they explained that an over-the-counter sale of long-range VHF radio batteries without a licence from the Defence Ministry was illegal.

  I hung up, dejected.

  But a few days later, on my next visit to Puerto Bontón, I phoned each store a second time, claiming I had a licence and needed five batteries – could they quote? This time, four storeowners said they could get them in. I’d have to attend the store in person with the licence and identification. Of course, I couldn’t go through with this, but at least my search was narrowed. One of those four stores must be the Guerrilla battery supplier. But which one and how could I find out when Ratón would next visit?

  I couldn’t phone, claiming to be Ratón – his supplier might know his voice. Nor could I claim to be one of his subordinates – the Guerrilla probably had specific greeting codes. But it occurred to me that I might be able to find out more by visiting the stores and impersonating a junior miliciano working on Ratón’s behalf.

  Why not? I looked the part: I was young and had a shaved head and a military-trained physique. By visiting, I could watch their reactions closely. Even if my ruse was detected, I might at least discover which store Ratón used.

  Unfortunately, being sent to Villavicencio depended on the whims of the commanders. Since we were in the thick of training, there were no upcoming parties. And with Mahecha, Paisa and Mona making nightly visits to their dormitory, the trainers had no need for porn videos. As for Piolín, she continued pining after her phantom boyfriend while Palillo played along.

  Rejection hadn’t made Palillo change strategies with Piolín; it made him determined to be funnier and earn more money.

  ‘This country has resources,’ he said on payday, eyeing trucks from Trigeño’s Agricultural Co-operative as they rattled towards La 35 with yellow barrels of fertiliser and departed an hour later laden with cattle. Palillo counted his salary three times, curling up his nose. The envelope always looked thicker than what came out of it. ‘We can’t be employees forever.’

  At the time of Papá’s job offer, Palillo’s shopping list of what would make him happy had been modest. Now, he’d seen greater wealth and his dreams had grown accordingly. His Discman was now a solid platinum watch. His childhood slingshot was a Colt .45. His Yamaha 250cc was a Toyota Blazer. All of it belonged on a splendid ranch.

  I humoured him. ‘How much would you need?’

  ‘Approximately two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars.’

  ‘On the minimum wage, that would only take …’ I counted on my fingers. ‘Three and a half lifetimes.’

  I refused to spend my salary, taking out only the small amount I needed and sending the rest to Mamá. But Palillo’s envelope was always empty before the next one arrived.

  Two days later, returning from the rifle range, a voice yelled from the back of the group, ‘Everybody down!’

  We hurled ourselves to the ground. For ten seconds the only sound was that of twenty soldiers scrambling towards the trees. Crawling was painful now that we carried rifles that weren’t to be scratched.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Piolín.

  I looked up. Palillo was lying on top of her. Somehow, his limbs were sprawled across Tortuga, Mahecha and Paisa. The fifth girl – Mona – had escaped his grasp, although he was reaching for her ankle.

  ‘I thought I heard enemy,’ claimed Palillo.

  Gradually, we realised what he’d done.

  ‘Get off me!’ cried Piolín.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His lips were centimetres from hers. ‘I practically saved your life.’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’

  ‘And that’s my thanks?’ Palillo stood and slapped his thighs to brush the dust off. ‘I take a grenade for you and no reward.’ He
adjusted the anaconda. ‘No gratitude. Not even a kiss.’

  Palillo made me laugh. Seeing him happy made me happy too. Through a rare combination of luck and grace, Palillo could do cartwheels along a cliff edge and not even a hurricane would make him fall. He could dance hopscotch through a minefield. And while everyone around him was blinded and shell-shocked, stumbling around in search of missing limbs, he’d emerge from the blast zone smiling, swinging his anaconda and singing, ‘What’s the time, mi corazón?’

  Neither had he given up on his acting dreams. The Paramilitaries was simply his toughest role yet – the audience came from all over the nation and the critics had guns. But seeing him happy also made me realise I should never have gone to Garbanzos plaza that Friday. Palillo would have ended up in the Paramilitaries eventually. Even if Papá had given him a job on the finca, he’d have joined the army when he turned eighteen. Either way, Palillo would have been fine.

  And Papá would still be alive.

  38

  THE SIXTH EXECUTION occurred in the first week of February. A strong hand covered my mouth and shook me awake. Using field signals, Beta formed twelve of us into a squad and laid out our mission. He pointed to the motionless silhouette of a man at the south-east guard position and ordered us to sneak up and surround the post. I assumed it was another night training exercise.

  In the prone position, we inched warily forward. Reaching the guard, I saw that it was Pollo. Beta stood and waved a hand in front of his face. I’d never seen anything like it. Pollo was snoring on his feet, completely unsupported. Ñoño stifled a giggle. Beta touched his finger to his lips, stood behind Pollo and unsheathed his serrated hunting knife. Until the last moment, I believed Beta was demonstrating his stealth. But he gripped Pollo’s jaw and wrenched back hard, slitting his throat all the way around. Pollo woke instantly, clutched his neck and fell kicking to the ground, gargling blood. He bled out in less than a minute.

  Beta gave the order: ‘Chop him and pack him, boys. Fifty by fifty.’

  By morning parade, everyone knew. Alfa 1 backed Beta up.

  ‘If you’re tired before guard duty, the coffee urn is always full.’

  Culebra explained their rationale: there were one hundred and six lives to protect at the base. One man falling asleep could cost all of them. So now there were only one hundred and five.

  Nerves began to fray. Daisy’s howling vigil over Pollo’s grave made it worse.

  ‘Shut that dog up,’ Rambo yelled. Pollo had been his best friend. Ñoño held Daisy tightly in his hammock. During class, he tied her to a tree.

  The girls looked the most tired. Cushy guard shifts and lighter chores no longer seemed a fair exchange for their frequent call-outs to the trainers’ dormitory. But they wouldn’t leave the commanders. Through Palillo, I heard Mahecha invented women’s problems to avoid sleeping with Beta.

  Palillo concentrated on our upcoming leave – he was trying to convince Piolín to go on a beach vacation with him. But for me, every injustice was a reminder of Papá’s death. MacGyver joked that I was the commanders’ golden boy. For almost four months I’d done everything right. I played their game and I played it better than any other recruit. I made them think that I was working on their side. But there was only one side I was working on: my own.

  Lying in my hammock at night, I ran through different scenarios of what I’d say to the four storekeepers and how they might respond. Unlike Palillo, I was no great actor. However, I did have one advantage when it came to impersonating the Guerrilla’s urban militia: having observed them collect vacunas from Papá, I knew their mannerisms and how they spoke. And more importantly, I knew their names.

  Ideally, I wanted information that might lead to a time and location where I could find Ratón. It might be an invoice from a previous order, a docket for future delivery, a contact name or a transport company. But first I needed to discover which store he used. At a minimum, that would allow me to observe the store during my two weeks of leave in mid-March. After that, my plan was vague. I might go through the storeowner’s rubbish. I might break in at night and steal his client list and customer orders. But to do any of these things I needed to get to Villavicencio.

  Culebra ignored my hints about needing more supplies, instead sending me to Puerto Bontón. Even when I hid the double-sided electrical tape, he said we could survive without it until the end of the course.

  Then, on February 20th, he required something that was unavailable locally.

  ‘Fireworks,’ he said. ‘Lots of them. And smoke flares.’

  He gave instructions on where to purchase them, as well as money for alcohol for our graduation party and a list of ‘personal items’ for the three trainers.

  Finally, I was to drive to Villavicencio.

  This time, when I stopped at the dump, I tucked the fully-loaded Taurus into my trousers. I needed to practise carrying it. It might also come in handy. On the million-to-one chance I saw Ratón, I’d take him on the spot.

  Before setting off, I creased and rubbed dirt on all four business cards to make them look older. On the reverse side of each, I wrote the name DANIEL JOAQUIN GÓMEZ.

  I arrived in Villavicencio before midday. Culebra’s purchases took less than an hour, and then I drove to Third Avenue.

  At each of the stores, I told the owner the same story: my boss needed five Motorola CP200 batteries, for which he had a government permit.

  ‘They’re hard to get in,’ said the first.

  ‘We don’t keep them in stock,’ said the second after flipping through a catalogue.

  To each objection, I shrugged like an innocent errand boy who didn’t know what he was buying.

  ‘I just do what I’m told.’ I held up the store’s dirtied, creased business card. ‘This is where he said to come.’

  The first storekeeper frowned. ‘Who’s your boss?’

  I flipped over the card to reveal the hand-written name DANIEL JOAQUIN GÓMEZ – Ratón’s political alias. This name was Ratón’s bond; it struck fear into people who knew it, including his suppliers.

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘He’s a regular customer.’

  Frowning, he looked up his database but found nothing. From his confusion and lack of fear, I could tell he was genuine. The next two storekeepers didn’t recognise the name either. However, the fourth storekeeper, Boris Sandoval, nodded.

  Sandoval was a respectable-looking man in his mid-forties with a neatly trimmed moustache. A girl of about nine years old, wearing a school uniform – presumably his daughter – sat quietly behind the counter doing her homework. This man couldn’t possibly be Ratón’s supplier, I thought. But he was.

  ‘Why didn’t he include them in last week’s order?’

  I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d expected to have to coax information out of the storekeeper or threaten him, but Sandoval had voluntarily jumped a few steps ahead.

  ‘Like I said, comrade,’ I removed my cap so he’d see my military haircut – the same one worn by guerrilleros, ‘I just follow orders and deliver messages. My boss said to combine both orders. When do you think they’ll be ready for pick-up?’

  ‘Same as usual – two to three weeks. Why didn’t he come himself?’

  Obviously, the haircut wasn’t enough. I lifted my shirt to let him see the Taurus.

  ‘Phone him when they’re ready. You have the correct number?’

  Suddenly wary, Sandoval nodded. He looked at his daughter, who hadn’t seen the pistol.

  ‘Go finish your homework in your room, cariño.’

  She closed her books obediently and disappeared through the door behind the counter. I heard her feet pattering up a staircase. He waited until the sound of footsteps faded before consulting a blue folder. ‘A 310 number?’

  ‘That’s the old one,’ I told him. ‘It’s now a 312.’

  Switching on my phone, I read out the new number: mine. As Sandoval wrote, I read the previous number he had for Ratón upside down and memo
rised it. ‘My boss keeps it switched off for obvious reasons. Just leave a message.’

  My plan was simple. When both orders were ready for pick-up, Boris Sandoval would leave a message on my phone, thinking he was calling Ratón. Now that I had Ratón’s number, I’d phone him, pretending to be Sandoval, and leave the same message, word for word, in case it contained hidden codes. Ratón would come to pick up his order, just as he normally would, but with one important difference: I’d know he was coming.

  ‘Why didn’t Ratón phone to place the order himself?’ Sandoval looked down at the old number. He’d put a tiny cross next to it and written NEW beside the one I’d given. ‘How come he sent you?’

  ‘The 310 number was compromised. One of our suppliers snitched. The police were intercepting several lines. Three other suppliers were arrested – all of them are now dead.’

  Sandoval’s eyes widened. He snatched up his pen and scrubbed out the old number like it was diseased. He wouldn’t be dialling that number ever again.

  Outside, I crossed the street to the Residencia Royal – a small hotel diagonally opposite Sandoval’s store – and asked to see a room on the second floor. I didn’t know exactly when the batteries would arrive, so I made a reservation for the entire two weeks of my leave. I paid four days’ deposit in cash. But I wanted no mistakes – number eight, the room I’d been shown, was the one I needed. From behind the curtains there was a clear view up and down both sides of Third Avenue. I had no way of predicting what time of day or night Ratón would come, or from which direction. But he had to enter via the storefront – there was no back entrance. I’d approach him from behind with my Taurus, disarm him and make him accompany me to my vehicle.

  Of course, there was nothing to stop Ratón arriving early to collect his original order. And unless I could somehow use the Blazer, renting a truck would be complicated and expensive. There were other risks too: What if the batteries arrived early, before our course finished? How would I then get off La 50? Or what if the batteries arrived late, after my leave was over?