by Rusty Young
Giraldo’s two younger brothers claimed no knowledge of his illicit business, even though both lived in palatial houses on neighbouring plots of land and drove brand-new SUVs – gifts from Giraldo, who’d also paid for their university educations.
The middle brother, Gentíl, was a recently graduated attorney who supported two children and an ex-wife. He was frightened.
‘If you’re going to kill me, please let me make one last phone call to my children,’ he pleaded.
The youngest brother, Paolo, was an accounting student, unmarried with no children. He, too, was petrified. ‘I’m a good Catholic. I’d like a Bible.’
The eldest brother, Giraldo, admitted to trafficking but begged Trigeño to set his brothers free. ‘Please! They’re innocent.’
Trigeño pointed to the youngest and then the middle brother. ‘Get this man a Bible and this one a two-minute conversation with his children. Then kill them.’
While Beta’s minions sprinted for a Bible and telephone, the condemned men protested vociferously, ‘We’ve done nothing wrong! You have to believe us.’
Alfa 1 seemed shocked. ‘But those two aren’t traffickers.’
‘They’re not a pair of parish priests either. A lawyer and an accountant. Looks like Giraldo was grooming them for his growing empire.’
‘Comando, you hired me for one reason – to rid the region of communists.’
‘And their financial collaborators.’
‘Which these two clearly are not.’
‘Not yet. But how long do you think it would take for one or both of them to slip into their brother’s shoes? Or do you honestly believe they’ll go back to feeding table scraps to squealing piglets?’
Alfa 1 folded his arms. ‘Since when did we start killing people for the crimes they might commit?’
Trigeño threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘Fine. I won’t force you to act against your conscience. Besides, I’d never ask you to do something I wasn’t prepared to do myself.’ He unholstered his weapon.
‘That’s not the point. I don’t think we should be doing this at all.’
Trigeño lowered his weapon and his voice. ‘You think I like killing? Well, I don’t. But tough decisions require brave men to make them. The millions the Guerrilla make from drug trafficking taxes buy them weapons, food and uniforms. Take away cocaine and it will prevent uneducated campesino children from being recruited into their ranks. It will stop the car bombs they explode every week in crowded city streets. It will stop the roadside kidnappings. Defeating the Guerrilla will save countless lives, help poor people find an honest day’s work and improve the lives of millions of people.’
Alfa 1 looked down and stabbed the toe of his boot into the dirt. ‘I still don’t agree.’
‘Then there’s only one fair way to settle this.’ Trigeño removed a 200-peso coin from in his pocket. ‘We let God decide. Tails they live. Heads they die.’
I could see Alfa 1 didn’t agree with a coin toss as a fair way of administering justice, but he said nothing.
While the younger brother prayed furiously and the middle brother cried over the phone to his ex-wife and children, Trigeño flipped his coin high in the air. It twinkled as it caught the afternoon light and then dropped to the dirt.
Beta peered down at it, delighted. ‘Heads it is!’
Without another word, Trigeño shot one brother and then the other in the temple. Both men slumped forward. The Bible given to Paolo thudded to the ground and the phone dropped from Gentíl’s lifeless hand with a woman’s voice wailing, ‘¿Alo? ¿Alo?’
The eldest brother, Giraldo, turned away with tears streaming down his cheeks.
Alfa 1 was frowning, but Beta hadn’t flinched. As Trigeño strode towards his vehicle, Beta called after him and pointed at Giraldo. ‘And what do we do with this one, jefe?’
Trigeño turned and glanced at El Psycho. ‘I need you to send a clear message that will reach every corner of the province: no more trafficking. We do this once and we do it properly. Then we won’t have to do it again.’
‘And the truck driver?’
‘Drop him at the bus station.’ He addressed the driver. ‘Keep your mouth shut and find yourself a new employer.’
‘Gracias, jefe,’ the truck driver repeated over and over. ‘Mil gracias, I’ll never say a word.’
Beta seemed surprised. ‘But he knew he was transporting contraband!’
‘We’re after mid- and top-level traffickers. That man is a loyal employee with a family to support. Poverty is not a crime.’
I later learned more about Trigeño’s political philosophy on cocaine traficantes. Not only did he want every last one of them dead, he wanted to exorcise the corruption and black money surrounding the drug industry. As with removing the communist cancer, it was preferable to extract too much of the surrounding tissue than too little, in order to prevent it rejuvenating in the future. He termed this ‘preventative justice’. At the same time, he felt empathy for the underclass of workers who were exploited by traficantes simply because unemployment was so high in Guerrilla-controlled regions.
Of course, Trigeño doubted the driver would keep his mouth shut. In fact, he hoped he and the disarmed security guards would tell as many people as possible. The driver was witness to not only the Autodefensas’ hard-line justice, but also to their capacity for mercy.
‘You heard him,’ barked Beta to El Psycho as he signalled his minions to release the truck driver, and return Giraldo to the bunker.
El Psycho’s work as a maestro of human pain was already infamous. Soldiers avoided him like the plague. They said he was simply wrong and not human and that you shouldn’t look him in the eyes because an evil spirit inhabited his body.
His ‘message’ utilising the brothers was one of his boldest works. After Giraldo gave up his suppliers, money and trafficking routes under torture, he was shot and the body parts of all three brothers were strewn across Meta-Vichada with dozens of tiny plastic bags of cocaine sewn into the skin. After two days – enough time for the flesh to begin rotting and flies to lay their eggs – the dead men’s relatives were sent instructions and had to travel from village to village collecting the body pieces in a trash bag to eventually form the entire cadavers, rather like a treasure hunt combined with a human jigsaw puzzle.
They were then given three days to pack up their homes, finalise their affairs and leave – forever. This ensured complete degradation of the culprits as well as providing a strong deterrent for anyone considering trafficking cocaine. Imagine the psychological effect on locals who saw and smelled the sun-baked body parts infested with flies and maggots and then witnessed the faces of the distressed relatives as they discovered a head in a ditch, an arm in a tree and a leg or a foot tied to a fence post with ants crawling between its bloodied toes. No one would ever consider trafficking drugs after that.
Palillo raised his eyebrows at me as if to say, I told you so. But I didn’t react.
Witnessing and hearing about these horrific deaths, you might think I’d be scarred for life. But I was quickly becoming inured to violence and the spectacle of blood.
When I applied Trigeño’s arguments about preventative justice to my own experience, they were even more compelling. If cocaine trafficking had never been allowed to flourish south of Llorona, the Guerrilla wouldn’t have grown so strong and Papá would never have been executed. By killing narcotraficantes before they spread into every region of Colombia, how many lives and families were we saving?
When I thought of the brothers’ deaths in those terms, the fact that my own actions in identifying the boat driver had started the chain of events that ultimately led to their execution faded into the dark sky.
In fact, as I absorbed Trigeño’s Autodefensa philosophy, what had once seemed cruel now seemed completely justified.
91
LESS THAN A week later, in early August, it was time for the boat driver to assist the army’s zorro solo to penetrate deeply into Santiago
’s territory with the aim of entering his base. We assumed Trigeño’s ruse of sending a man to Costa Rica impersonating the boat driver had succeeded.
As we waited for the zorro’s return, the next ten weeks of patrolling passed quickly, without a single skirmish or even an enemy sighting. Thanks to her bravery during the skirmish, Tortuga was now a respected member of the squad. With Veneno gone, Giraldo and Yucca quickly fell into line. As for Ñoño, my mentioning him to Trigeño resulted in him being offered training as a medic.
Coca-Cola returned to us after two months’ convalescence. Unfortunately, several bone fragments remained lodged below his knee, making him a liability on long treks. He longed to be an urbano – one of the plain-clothes Autodefensas posted permanently in small villages. But since there was no opening at present Trigeño offered him a job as a punto, watching the highway with a radio. Coca-Cola accepted.
In late September, Ñoño learned that his aunt – the one who had fed him while he hid under her porch from his machete-wielding father – was sick. Her appendix was inflamed and if it burst she might die. But no hospital would operate without proof of health insurance or an upfront payment that was much more than Ñoño’s savings.
‘Tell her to phone this number to arrange a pick-up,’ Trigeño told him, handing over a slip of paper. ‘The driver will take her to Santa Margarita Hospital. Don’t worry! Everything’s paid for.’
Ñoño was eternally grateful and completely won over by Trigeño’s gesture. Even Palillo couldn’t deny the obvious benefits of being associated with the highest commander. Via the proper chain of command, he requested permission to conduct a relationship with Piolín, which Alfa 1 granted after talking to Trigeño. Piolín wasn’t allowed back into our squad, but whenever their rest weekends coincided, she and Palillo were permitted to share a cabin at La María.
In late October, the recruits who’d begun training in July graduated. I was promoted a second time and given my own platoon – known as a contra-guerrilla – which contained four squads of eight men. Palillo and MacGyver were made junior commanders and given leadership of two of the squads under my command.
Before receiving his tattoo, MacGyver got drunk and finally revealed why he’d been sent back to basic training.
‘My platoon was ambushed while we were out patrolling in Soap Canyon. The enemy opened fire when we were trekking through a narrow ravine. The fire fight lasted less than an hour. Everyone around me was dead. Amid the smoke, I could hear the guerrilleros scrambling closer. So, I took all the rifles I could carry and waded downstream, making my way to safe territory. I thought I’d be given a hero’s welcome for saving our rifles from the Guerrilla. But Alfa 1 said an Autodefensa never retreats, and I should have fought to the bitter end.’
MacGyver had been sentenced to a punishment called La Quebrada – the creek. His eyes glistened as he stared into the campfire and described how he was tied to a metal pole – the one we’d always swum out to after the obstacle course – with the water up to his neck. It was raining hard, and the creek rose higher and higher until it reached his lips and he had to stand on tiptoes to breathe.
‘Alfa 1 left me there all day and all night. All sorts of thoughts went through my head: the mistakes I’d made in life; the things I wished I’d done; whether my family would find out I was dead; and what I’d say if I could speak to them one last time.’
‘But you lived!’ I interjected. ‘How did you get out?’
‘Trigeño heard I was in La Quebrada and ordered me dragged from the water. I was like a half-drowned rat. Another hour, mi amigo, and I wouldn’t be here. Alfa 1 was furious, but all Trigeño said to me was, “You’ve now had time to think. I’m sending you back for retraining so you can become a proper soldier.” Ever since, I’ve kept my head down and avoided Alfa 1 like the devil.’
MacGyver paused and his eyes closed. ‘Twenty-three boys died in that ambush. Trigeño sent their families their back salaries together with a few thousand dollars extra and a condolence letter, which he signed personally. He was taking a risk putting his name on paper. But he did it, and paid the compensation out of his own pocket, because he thought it was right.’
Hearing this, I was even more convinced Palillo’s initial misgivings about Trigeño were wrong. Trigeño had changed the entire region, and everyone who’d met him only told positive stories. Finally, in the second week of November, our advanced training commenced.
While the rest of my platoon continued ordinary patrolling duties, Palillo and I were transported by SUV fifteen kilometres uphill to La 35, Trigeño’s personal finca. I clutched the pouch containing the Bushnell scope. I’d been playing with it – looking through its zoom – but soon I’d learn how to use it properly.
After passing through three separate heavily fortified cattle gates, we found Trigeño waiting to greet us in front of a dozen rustic wooden dwellings. Beside him were sixteen older-looking soldiers who’d be doing the course with us.
‘Welcome!’ he said, sweeping his arm across the commanding views behind him. It was the end of the wet season and the verdant valley was covered with bright yellow flowers.
Trigeño explained that this ‘satellite farm’ had once housed his workers back when La 50 was a cattle and rice farm. Their dwellings were now our dormitories and classrooms. The largest house, where Trigeño now lived, had four permanent guards. Although the agricultural co-operative he ran was profitable, Trigeño lived modestly. He permitted us a brief look at the interior of his house, with its old furniture and faded curtains. One of the farm’s buildings stood out as newer than the rest: a wooden chapel embedded in the hillside.
‘Those of you who are religious may use the chapel, which I built for my mother. She lives further uphill. And now I must leave you in the capable hands of Alfa 1.’
Alfa 1 leapt onto a rock to address the group. ‘What you’ve seen in Hollywood movies about the lone-wolf sniper who, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, arrives undetected at a perfect position, screws together his rifle in three minutes, takes a one-in-a-million shot, then escapes at a brisk jog with a smirk of satisfaction, is pura mierda. It’s bullshit, for a start, because there’s never one sniper. Snipers go in two-man teams. One is the spotter, the other the shooter, and they swap roles every four hours. It’s bullshit because sniper teams need to be in position and fully camouflaged before the target arrives. And it’s bullshit because rifle and scope need to be zeroed on a shoot range and left fully assembled for optimal accuracy before setting off on an assignment.’
Here he broke off to introduce three bulky, tough-looking men who were standing behind us with their arms folded. These were our three foreign trainers – two Israelis and one Briton – who’d assist Alfa 1, communicating through translators.
‘Over the next six weeks,’ Alfa 1 continued, ‘you’ll acquire three primary skill sets: stealth penetrations, positioning and camouflage, and advanced marksmanship. But you’ll also learn about leadership, teamwork and communication. Most of you think you already possess those abilities in abundance. This course will therefore serve as a lesson in humility.’
Advanced training was intense. Morning classes involved field craft and weaving ghillie suits – clothing made of burlap designed to resemble heavy foliage – and embellishing them with leaves and twigs from local vegetation. In the afternoons, we learned how to select a concealed shooting position, known as a ‘hide’, and how to set up ambushes or conduct defensive retreats in shadow. Beta even gave classes on how to resist torture, which included a three-night stint in his bunker being kept awake and yelled at with wet pillowslips tied over our heads.
During our very first practical lesson, Alfa 1 announced that six snipers were concealed within our field of vision. We were divided into two-man teams to scan for potential hides, and I was paired with Palillo. Snatching up my Bushnell scope, I rattled off a list of potential locations where I myself would have hidden.
‘It can’t be that easy,’ whispered Palillo, frownin
g. Rather than picking up his binoculars, he scanned the nearby ground with his naked eye. However, I ignored him, sure that I was right.
We’d barely handed our lists of hides to Alfa 1, when, all of a sudden, a nearby bush, a rock that Alfa 1 had stood on and a log he’d sat on jumped up and bounded towards us, yelling. Every soldier gasped and threw his hands up for protection. Every soldier, that is, except Palillo, who sat calmly with his legs crossed.
Three sniper teams had been camouflaged the whole time only five metres away.
During his debrief, Alfa 1 gave each team sparing praise before tearing strips off them. ‘Despite all you were taught in basic training, you still know nothing! But after basic training your errors could cost only your own lives. Now that you’ve attained positions of responsibility, your errors might cost the lives of many others.’
‘You may be a good shooter, Pedro,’ he growled, ripping up my list. ‘But without your spotter, you’re nobody. You need to rely on your partner and develop communication that goes beyond words, extending into intuitive understanding.’
That night at dinner, I reflected on what Alfa 1 had said. I knew he was right. No matter how much technical knowledge I absorbed, I failed continually at the most important lesson of leadership: recognising my own weaknesses and trusting that other people’s strengths might be enough to compensate for them.
92
WHILE WE TRAINED, Trigeño came and went via helicopter, visiting different parts of the country for meetings, always carrying his laptop. Trailing two paces behind him was a journalist who was putting the finishing touches to a book about his life. Judging by his sycophantic laughter and the fact Trigeño called him his journalist, I imagined the portrayal would be favourable.
Trigeño was collaborating on the book because he wanted the AUC to become a publicly recognised political organisation that had articles of association, media spokesmen and, ultimately, representation in Congress. This would end the cycle of fear and allow people to speak out against the Guerrilla. Thanks to the peace process, Santiago and his Guerrilla cohorts were in the spotlight. The Autodefensas needed to give their version too.