by Rusty Young
I called Mamá and asked for Javier Díaz’s number. He answered straightaway and I put the call on loudspeaker.
‘Pedro, what a pleasant—’
‘Javier, remember that three million dollars you offered me?’
‘It was only one million.’
‘It’s three. Or it’s nothing. Your choice.’
There was a long pause. ‘Okay, then. Three. When do we get to—?’
‘I’ll phone you back with the date.’
I hung up and looked at Trigeño for his reaction.
He stood with his hands on his hips, probably wondering what exactly I might be offering in return for so much money, but also trying his hardest not to look impressed.
Alfa 1 watched Trigeño, matching his commander’s increasing curiosity with his own increasing disbelief – surely Trigeño would not let me bribe my way out, especially not with someone else’s money. Alfa 1 snarled sarcastically. ‘And how do you propose to get us into Llorona?’
I should have offered only the money. Mentioning Llorona had been a stupid, impulsive boast caused by my desperation. But now I had to make good on it.
I dialled Colonel Buitrago at the Garbanzos Battalion. This was a far greater gamble than my previous calls to the bulldog fiscal and Javier. Buitrago had repeatedly sent word via Mamá not to contact him, but everything now depended on his taking my call.
Buitrago’s secretary answered. She insisted the colonel wasn’t in his office. I insisted it was an emergency. She said she’d do her utmost to have him phone me back if I left a number. I told her that was not an option. ‘¡Por favor! My life depends on him taking this call right now.’
The secretary sighed, there was a long pause, and then finally the phone line clicked and she patched me through.
‘Pedro, what can I do for you?’
‘We need to meet, Colonel. I have a proposal that I think will interest you.’
‘What kind of proposal?’
‘A proposal to save Llorona and your job along with it.’
There was another lengthy pause, this one lasting as long as a hangman’s rope.
‘Okay, I’m listening.’
PART SEVEN
SOCIAL CLEANSING
106
AFTER MY TRIAL at La Quebrada, I was carried to the infirmary on a stretcher. I was dehydrated, hypothermic and at risk of serious infection. Nevertheless, I was ecstatic. Every microscopic cell of my body rejoiced at being alive and every second that passed felt like a miracle.
Although exhausted, I needed to thank Palillo for bringing the river stones that had saved my life. I had a hundred things to ask him. What had happened after he and Ñoño left me by the Río Jaguar? Had they seen the news coverage? And, of course, had they made that dreaded phone call to my mother or Camila?
After all I’d suffered, I hoped Palillo would help me process things and put them in perspective. But when he arrived, he stood with his hands on his hips, fuming.
‘Palillo, thank you so much for—’
‘We thought you were dead. Dead, you understand? Just like MacGyver, Tortuga and Yucca.’
‘I almost was. But I—’
‘We were devastated. Grieving for four days. And then you turn up here in La Quebrada. I cried with joy when I saw you alive. I didn’t know what you’d done wrong and I didn’t care. I swam out with your knife, but you didn’t escape.’
‘I’m sorry. I—’
‘And then I find out from Culebra that you went across that river on your own. Against orders.’
‘But I shot and injured Santiago. I couldn’t let him escape.’
‘I don’t care! You weren’t there to carry the stretchers. You weren’t there to hear Tiburón screaming. Or to see Beta shoot Mango to put him out of his misery.’
I sat up with my head bowed. Palillo had every right to feel betrayed. He’d warned me about my obsession and we’d agreed to take Santiago down together.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve learned my lesson.’
‘No you haven’t. You go after your father’s killers the first time, you almost get caught. You go after them again, you almost get killed. They capture you, arrest you and almost drown you, but you haven’t learned a puta thing.’
Palillo left, slamming the door so hard it bounced back open.
‘At least tell me one thing,’ I called after him. ‘Did you phone my mother?’
But Palillo didn’t answer. He wanted me to think about it. Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t. And while I did, he wanted me to suffer.
Ñoño and Piolín came to see me next. Ñoño threw himself on the bed and hugged me. ‘I’m so glad you’re alive!’
He proudly showed me his patched buttock. Doctors had removed the round and the wound was healing quickly. He told me that the evacuation of the injured had taken three days. Dozens of soldiers were still recovering in small clinics.
‘Don’t worry,’ Piolín said. ‘Palillo didn’t phone your mother.’
Through an anonymous intermediary, Trigeño would deliver the news and pay three months’ salary to the families of those who’d sacrificed their lives for Colombia. We’d still need to dig up the jar and send our friends’ final messages to their loved ones, but we wouldn’t have to break the news ourselves.
According to Piolín, Venezuela hadn’t yet lodged a complaint about the bombing, and it was too early to know whether Santiago had perished or been captured. After my trial, Trigeño had praised Alfa 1’s leadership and bravery and held a ceremony for the dead. As I suspected, it had been Trigeño’s decision to cross the river. He claimed the battle was a grand victory; however, looking at the empty spaces in the ranks, few believed him.
‘You’re a hero, Pedro,’ said Ñoño excitedly. ‘Trigeño’s saying you’re the bravest soldier in the Autodefensas. He said you kill guerrilleros while on vacation!’
I laughed, but I didn’t feel like a hero, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them about our dead friends being displayed dressed as guerrilleros on the Caracol report.
Before Ñoño and Piolín left, I asked them what to do about Palillo.
‘Give him a few days,’ said Piolín, squeezing my hand.
Phoning Mamá and Camila felt strange. To them, nothing had changed since we’d last spoken. I’d just undergone the most traumatic events of my life since Papa’s execution, but I couldn’t tell the two people I loved most, and I couldn’t expect comfort from them.
I slept for twenty-two hours and the following day was transferred to La 35 to the home of Trigeño’s mother, the kindly señora I’d passed several times in the chapel during our sniper course. She had a soft voice and a gentle manner, and tended to me in a room with lace curtains, urging me to rest and get strong, just like Mamá used to do when I was sick.
‘Drink this chicken broth,’ she said, placing a steaming bowl beside my bed along with a Bible. ‘You need to build up your strength.’
When Trigeño entered the room, however, she muttered excuses to me and departed without looking at him. Trigeño seemed embarrassed but didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, he gave me a signed copy of his recently published memoir – already a bestseller.
I received two more visits: the first was from Alfa 1. Thanks to Trigeño, Alfa 1 couldn’t touch me, but our relationship would never be the same. I couldn’t forget how he’d looked me in the eyes, placed a pistol to my temple and stated unequivocally that he wanted me dead.
‘Proud of yourself?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘I was stupid.’
‘No, I was stupid, deciding to forgive you and trust you.’ He shook his head and left me drowning in a deep well of disappointment.
My second visitor was Beta, who would oversee the operation to take over Llorona, assuming details could be finalised with Buitrago and the Díaz brothers.
‘Three million dollars?’ he said approvingly. ‘Quite some friends you have there. And I don’t believe for a minute that you killed Ratón on your own. But you said nothin
g about your negro friend, even when you were half-dead. Those classes on resisting torture I gave you must have worked.’
My recovery took three weeks. I spent days alone in bed, thinking. At first, I fretted about Colonel Buitrago. During our phone call, he’d agreed to meet. But when I’d hinted at a possible alliance, he’d cut me short, saying, ‘Not over the phone! I’ll meet with you, but only you.’
What if he refused to co-operate with Trigeño? What if he didn’t like our proposal?
I also worried about the upcoming deal with the Díaz brothers. For months, I’d deliberately downplayed my family’s closeness to the Díaz clan. However, once he met them it wouldn’t take long before he learned of their previous offers and that my mother was living with them.
But the wheels were now set in motion, so I tried to focus on the positives, such as what life would be like if we ousted the Guerrilla from Llorona. Mamá would no longer need to rely on Javier’s charity. We could reclaim rightful ownership of our finca, restoring it to its former glory. Uncle Leo could rebuild his hardware business. Don Felix could operate his bus routes. Don Mauricio’s wife and children might return. The townspeople would be happy, no longer living in fear of extortion, murder and kidnapping. And most importantly, Camila might decide to stay.
When my strength returned, Trigeño took me fishing and I saw my opportunity to pre-empt any surprises. He’d sent to Llorona for my fishing rod and I ran my hands over the cane shaft, savouring its smoothness and remembering blissful days spent fishing with Papá on the sparkling river. As I turned the cedar handle to inspect the initials of my father, grandfather and great-grandfather, I noticed a fourth set burned into it – my own.
‘I hope you’re not offended that I look this liberty,’ Trigeño said, ‘but you’re the man of the family now.’
I was touched. It was what Papá would have done for me on my sixteenth birthday.
‘Gracias, comando. But there’s something you should know,’ I said. ‘Last Christmas, the Díaz brothers wanted me to vouch for them to you in exchange for setting up an ambush against Zorrillo. I didn’t accept because they’re not brave and honourable people like you.’
Of course, I didn’t mention my attempt on Zorrillo’s life using the stolen Galil or that I’d read the intelligence file listing Humberto Díaz as a traficante – Trigeño was thorough and would likely read the files himself. Instead, I spontaneously chose to reveal my life’s biggest secret: that Papá and I had buried Díaz.
‘Papá was the one who suggested my mother place flowers on Humberto’s grave. Later, Mamá received a threat from Zorrillo, and Javier offered her his house and bodyguards as protection.’
I was nervous about how Trigeño would react, but when he finally spoke, he wasn’t angry at all.
‘Thank you for your honesty,’ he said. ‘I never met Humberto myself, but he contacted me three years ago. He wanted our assistance against the Guerrilla. Back then, we had few soldiers and resources, and he claimed not to have the money to finance the plan, so it fell through. I think his sons know this and now want to resurrect the deal. But if we do go into Llorona, you need to know what you’re getting into.’
Trigeño’s face clouded over.
‘When I declared war on the Guerrilla, they marked me and my four brothers for death. A month later, my two older brothers, David and Ricardo, were driving to the cattle markets with their bodyguard when their truck was stopped at a Guerrilla roadblock. David refused to accompany them, so they shot him. My eldest brother, Ricardo, had no choice but to go with them. I paid Ricardo’s ransom not once but twice. However, instead of releasing him, the Guerrilla killed him and strung up his body from that guayacan tree at the turnoff from the highway to La 50. It was meant as a threat to all those who’d joined my crusade. Ever since, I’ve been determined the Guerrilla will never take me alive. I keep my “emergency grenade” attached to me at all times, even when I sleep.
‘After my brothers’ deaths, five years ago, my mother vowed never to speak to me again, blaming their loss on my decision to go to war. She spends her days tending her vegetable garden and reading the Bible. She used to love going to church in town. But I won’t risk her leaving the property, so I had the little wooden chapel built for her. She tells her friends that living on La 35 is like being in prison. I know keeping her here is the right decision, but she loathes me for it.’
‘I think my mother resents me too.’
‘Women don’t always know what is best for them, Pedro. Part of being a man is doing what is right, no matter what people think of you. That is the sacrifice you must make.’
I was deeply moved by his confiding in me these excruciating experiences, which he’d omitted from his book. Trigeño dug his rod into the muddy bank and turned to face me.
‘Pedro, I’ve lost almost everything I love. My father, two brothers and the sanctity of my home. My two remaining brothers are depressed. My whole family hates me …’
His voice trailed off, but I understood. I understood how it felt to have your father executed and left like a dead dog in the dirt. To have your own mother resent and blame you. I understood more than he could know.
‘We need to get these bastards,’ he said with a sudden flash of anger. ‘I have my own score to settle with Zorrillo for murdering my cousin Jerónimo. But if this meeting is successful, the honour of killing him will be yours.’
I couldn’t help but notice that while I’d earned the admiration of Trigeño and Beta – two men capable of the most brutal acts I’d ever witnessed – I’d simultaneously provoked anger in Palillo and Alfa 1, the two people whose esteem I most valued. Nevertheless, I chose to ignore these needling doubts when, a week later, Trigeño and I departed for Javier Díaz’s hacienda to discuss the strategy for invading Llorona.
107
I CLIMBED APPREHENSIVELY into the co-pilot’s seat of Trigeño’s tiny four-seater Bell 204 helicopter and watched with trepidation as he flicked switches and twisted dials. My fingers gripped the seat as the engine pitch rose and the rotors began humming. Then my stomach dropped through my legs as we shot skyward.
Once my adrenalin settled I was able to appreciate the magnificent sights whirring past hundreds of metres below – broad, sweeping wetlands dotted with clumps of trees, snaking rivers and large lakes.
As we flew south, the Llanos floodplains gave way to vertiginous ridges and vast mountain ranges blanketed with dense, green jungle. From the air, my country seemed so peaceful and beautiful; it was hard to imagine a vicious, bloody war raging below. At the same time the aerial perspective emphasised our enemy’s advantage: thousands of square kilometres of uninhabited territory to hide in and from which to launch guerrilla attacks.
I had two meetings that day: the first to introduce Trigeño to the Díaz brothers; the second on my own with Colonel Buitrago. The Díaz brothers had already signalled their willingness to pay and to trap Zorrillo, but the logistical and military details required negotiation. If both meetings were successful, the Díazes would convene a third meeting of the region’s prominent citizens.
I looked down suddenly and recognised the Garbanzos plaza and church spire. The journey, which normally took fourteen hours along winding mountain roads, had lasted only an hour. Before touching town on the immaculate lawn of Javier’s hacienda, we passed low over Camila’s colegio. Since these meetings were secret, I’d phoned her to let her know I’d be in Garbanzos briefly for work but that I wouldn’t be able to see her.
The Díaz brothers rushed out to greet us while the rotors were still spinning. Javier shook my hand. ‘We knew we could rely on you, Pedro. You’re like family to us.’
I bit my tongue. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be treated as his family; my corpse might end up abandoned on a riverbank.
‘And that goes for your mother too,’ said Fabián unctuously, although his eyes gleamed with malice.
Mamá was at work, but if Fabián thought mentioning her in front of Trigeño might give him ba
rgaining power, he was wrong. I’d already defused the threat.
We sat under an umbrella by the pool. Eleonora Díaz emerged from the house and offered Trigeño whisky from a crystal decanter.
‘Gracias,’ said Trigeño dryly, ‘but it’s too early to be celebrating. Ousting the Guerrilla will be more difficult than it would have been three years ago.’
Javier glanced at me, realising this meant I was aware of his father’s proposal. I could see him recalibrating his assessment of my closeness to Trigeño. After the formalities, we got down to details.
‘War is expensive,’ stated Trigeño. ‘Your funds will cover troops, uniforms, weapons, bullets, vehicles, food and bribes. We’ll also need to set up a base on the other side of Llorona to prevent the Guerrilla returning. Right now your mother’s finca is in Guerrilla territory – that means it’s worthless. So we use that as our headquarters, then hand it back to you when the area is pacified.’
‘But that’s our childhood home,’ complained Fabián. ‘Is there nowhere else—?’
‘No, there isn’t. Do you want us here or not?’
Javier and Fabián exchanged wary glances. Clearly, they were used to setting terms themselves and had expected a friendly negotiation.
‘Of course we do,’ Javier conceded meekly.
‘Then don’t question me again or this whole deal is off.’
They shook hands with Trigeño to seal the agreement, and that concluded our initial meeting.
Javier nodded sternly to his brother, who disappeared. Then he offered Trigeño a personal tour of the hacienda while I departed for Buitrago’s barracks to attempt a far more difficult negotiation.
108
THE TAXI DROPPED me at the battalion gate, which was directly opposite Camila’s colegio. It was lunch hour and I stole a quick glance into the yard full of students, knowing she’d be sitting somewhere in the shade with her group of friends. It felt strange being back in town, so very close to Camila and yet unable even to establish contact.