by Rusty Young
In Buitrago’s office I found the colonel looking wearier than I’d ever seen him. He was unshaven and had dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, the intense scrutiny from his superiors and public calls for his resignation were taking their toll.
‘Thanks for meeting me, Colonel,’ I began respectfully. ‘I know that you haven’t always approved of our methods.’
‘I still don’t,’ he responded tersely. ‘But my superiors leave me little choice. Two weeks before you phoned, they denied my meagre request for three trucks and one hundred more men. And then this happened.’ He slid two photos across his desk, the first showing the mangled, charred shell of an exploded car, the second showing the warped battalion gates and the surrounding concrete strewn with twisted metal and broken glass. ‘Three of my men killed on my doorstep. Two in hospital on life support. How can I fight barbarians when my own bosses have tied one hand behind my back?’
‘I’m sorry for your men, Colonel, but I believe we can work together. My commander, Trigeño, would like to discuss our security proposal, man to man.’
Buitrago shook his head. ‘After his book, that’s impossible. He’s a fugitive from justice. We can’t even be seen in the same room.’
This came as a shock. I knew Trigeño’s book had divided the nation. To many, he was a celebrity; to others, a pariah. However, I didn’t know of any charges against him.
I pushed on with a description of our proposed military plan for ousting the Guerrilla. Phase One: ambush Zorrillo. Phase Two: establish our headquarters south of Llorona and conduct patrols and reconnaissance. And Phase Three: occupy Puerto Galán and the river villages in order to weaken the Guerrilla logistics and intelligence networks in preparation for a coordinated attack on their temporary bases.
‘However, to do this we’ll need your assistance,’ I concluded.
‘What sort of assistance?’
I began to list Trigeño’s requirements, which I termed ‘requests’ in deference to Buitrago. ‘We’re hoping to use your base to house our off-duty men and store supplies.’
‘Completely illegal and out of the question.’
‘What about granting us access to the Garbanzos airfield?
‘Can’t do that either. The Americans use it for their coca fumigation program.’
‘Can’t you move them elsewhere?’
The colonel laughed. ‘Where do you think our helicopters come from? Who do you think pays for their maintenance? And provides our new weapons?’
‘At a very minimum, we need you at tomorrow’s community meeting about local security with Trigeño. If you don’t give your backing, we simply can’t operate.’
‘Let me make this perfectly clear, Pedro. Even if I did agree, I wouldn’t be giving you my backing. I would be lending you my permission, which I could withdraw at any time. And that’s only provided your boss accepts my conditions: No mistreatment of civilians. No massacres. No torture. You hand over prisoners to us for processing. If you have suspicions but no proof against sympathisers, then you simply warn them to leave. I’m not agreeing yet, but I’ll need your word on this, Pedro.’
Clearly, he’d read the magazine articles filled with allegations about Autodefensa massacres.
‘Even if reports of those atrocities are true, they were committed by other bloques not under Trigeño’s control. That’s not how he operates, I can assure you.’
‘I’ll need his assurance too.’
‘Then come to the meeting at Javier’s. Many prominent citizens will be there.’
When the colonel still hesitated, I used my riskiest argument. ‘You need us, Colonel. The communist cancer is spreading. Isn’t any cure worth trying?’
Having secured Buitrago’s reluctant agreement to attend the meeting, I detoured via the officers’ mess and asked for Señora Gutiérrez.
Mamá emerged from the kitchen wearing pink washing gloves, with soapsuds on her brow. When she saw me a joyful smile lit up her face. ‘Pedro! When did you get here?’
‘I came with my boss this morning,’ I said, kissing her cheek. ‘He’s visiting Javier on business.’
‘You should have phoned. I’ll ask the chef for an hour’s break.’
‘I’m sorry, Mamá. I’m on duty. But next time, I’ll stay much longer. And you’ll soon be able to quit this job.’
I returned early to Javier’s hacienda to see him and Trigeño strolling back towards the mansion, deep in conversation. They shook hands firmly, and when Javier tried to withdraw his fingers, Trigeño squeezed harder so the muscles on his forearm stood out. He pointed at Javier threateningly.
‘May I ask what that was about?’ I asked Trigeño later, on the flight home.
‘About how we’ll run things afterwards,’ he answered. ‘And also about the Díaz brothers’ participation in Phase One – the operation against your soon-to-be-departed friend, Zorrillo. It’ll be dangerous, so Javier needed considerable persuading.’
This sounded plausible, but I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me. Trigeño had trusted me with everything else. Why not include me in the part that was most personal to me?
Everything now hung on obtaining Colonel Buitrago’s final agreement at the Community Security Meeting, which Javier was arranging for 5 pm the next day.
The following afternoon, twenty prominent ranchers and businessmen, including Don Felix and Don Mauricio, attended the meeting in Javier’s spacious living room. Four servants dragged out the heavy teak dining table, carried in additional chairs and sofas, served drinks and then discreetly retired. To operate effectively, we needed every powerful person in the region on side, or at least no one making high-level complaints. All the guests knew why they’d been invited and who Trigeño was, but if they were made nervous by his presence, they covered it with noisy conversation.
Colonel Buitrago was the last to arrive. He entered Javier’s living room looking like a man attending his own funeral. Silence fell over the group and all eyes turned to him. It was a bad sign that he was without his usual aides and dressed in civilian attire.
Buitrago removed his hat, kissed Eleonora gravely on the cheek and shook hands loosely with her sons. He nodded to me but averted his eyes from Trigeño and deliberately moved away from us, sitting tensely on the edge of his seat.
Trigeño stood immediately and took control.
‘We are united here today for a just and patriotic cause. We have a common enemy – the communist Guerrilla. Unfortunately our individual efforts to date have been unsuccessful. Divided we remain weak. But together we will triumph.’
After a nod from Javier, Eleonora Díaz followed.
‘The communist subversives demanded a million dollars for my late husband’s safe return. That’s in addition to the dozens of land plots we were forced to “donate” or sell to their collaborators at reduced prices, and the cash, cattle and crops they extorted from us. I’m now prepared to offer that money to the cause.’
Trigeño’s eyes lit up. That made four million dollars for his war chest. Perhaps the Díaz family expected this to inspire other, albeit smaller, donations; however, after a respectful silence, everyone wanted his say and no one was offering money.
One after another, the attendees rose to their feet to decry the Guerrilla and list their numerous crimes. With each new tale of woe, people nodded and murmured approval. Some even glanced at Trigeño and cried out that it was time for ‘a new military solution’.
Suddenly, Colonel Buitrago stood and called for silence. He now expressed his scepticism, explaining the difficulty of controlling thousands of square kilometres of mountainous jungle against a highly mobile enemy.
‘I’ve been fighting these criminals for twenty-five years, and there’s one thing I’ve learned: this war will not be won with military campaigns alone. The Guerrilla thrives on poverty. This region needs business investment, cell phone coverage and services like health, education, roadways and electricity.’
Fabián jum
ped in. ‘Infrastructure is the government’s responsibility, not ours.’
‘Private companies need to reinvest profits and create employment,’ countered Buitrago. ‘People with jobs don’t join revolutions.’
‘Companies can’t invest here when there’s so much criminality,’ Fabián persisted, ignoring a quelling look from his normally dominant brother, who was keeping himself unusually quiet.
‘If you’re referring to cocaine trafficking, preventing it is the responsibility of the National Police. If the army were in charge, young man, things would be very different …’
This pointed mention of cocaine was the closest Buitrago had come to acknowledging what he surely must have known about the Díazes. It stopped Fabián like a stick between two bicycle spokes. But we were veering into dangerous territory.
Trigeño stood once more. ‘There will be no cocaine trafficking,’ he said forcefully. ‘We’ll discourage pickers and planters and create alternative legal employment. Through my agricultural co-operative, I’ll donate seeds, fertiliser and herbicides to farmers willing to destroy their coca crops.’
I scrutinised the brothers’ faces. They hadn’t invited the Autodefensas into the region and donated three million dollars only to destroy their main source of income. But their expressions were impassive.
‘Now,’ continued Trigeño, ‘who will stand in the senate elections next March? Once the Guerrilla is ousted, the region can hold its first fair ballot in years.’
‘I’d like to nominate Fabián,’ Javier said coolly, looking around at the attendees. I now understood his earlier reticence; he’d wanted Fabián to occupy centre stage.
Grumbling came from across the room until Don Felix Velasquez stood to vocalise the group’s opposition. ‘Then I nominate Don Mauricio,’ he stated.
After a long pause, Mauricio assented reluctantly and humbly. ‘If the group agrees that it needs me, then I will stand.’
With the exception of Fabián, Javier and Trigeño, the gathering applauded.
Trigeño now presented a document. It was entitled REFOUNDING THE GREAT NATION OF COLOMBIA, with a rambling text below that made no mention of the Autodefensas or anything illegal. This was to be Trigeño’s masterstroke – his solution for locking Buitrago into the pact and his insurance policy in case he tried to pull out.
Trigeño signed first and then offered the document to the colonel for signature. But Buitrago had little to gain by signing. In fact, if the document ever became public, he could go to prison.
Staring at the paper in front of him, he stated categorically, ‘I will not sign.’
‘Then there is no pact,’ responded Trigeño menacingly, ‘and you will go down in history as the man who lost Garbanzos. These patriots here are witnesses to your refusal.’
The others’ stares rattled him. Never had I seen a man so pained as Colonel Buitrago. It was as though he’d been asked to sell his soul to the devil. He glanced towards heaven, made the sign of the cross and then kissed the crucifix on his necklace. Finally, he stood and extended his arm.
‘As a gentleman, I prefer handshakes.’
Trigeño hesitated but saw that if he refused and Buitrago called his bluff the entire deal might fall through. Scarcely concealing a scowl, he shook Buitrago’s hand. There were murmurs of relief and another spontaneous round of applause. My clapping was by far the loudest. I’d felt like my skull was in a vice, with Trigeño and Buitrago taking turns to screw it a notch tighter. But with their handshake, the pressure was suddenly alleviated.
Many months later, when the dark alliance I’d helped to found descended into chaos, I recognised Buitrago’s wisdom in not signing. Reluctantly, he’d permitted the presence of the Autodefensas because he needed them to win the war. However, at the appropriate time, he would also need to kick them out.
109
‘DON’T FUCK ME around, Pedro,’ said Palillo after we’d touched down at La 35. He waved his long, black finger across my face like a windscreen wiper in violent weather. ‘Just tell me straight. My sister phoned. She saw you in Garbanzos plaza.’
I stopped walking. We were out of earshot.
‘We’re going to take back Llorona. And the river towns.’
‘And you organised this?’
‘Parts of it, yes.’
Now that I was in the mood for honesty, I told Palillo everything. I told him about the intelligence files, the true circumstances of Humberto Díaz’s death and my conversations with Buitrago. I told him about the child vacuna collectors, my attempts to assassinate Zorrillo and how I’d nearly been captured at the Guerrilla roadblock. And I told him about the Díaz brothers being cocaine traffickers, their approaches to me and the offer I’d made to Trigeño after La Quebrada.
The conversation took over an hour and Palillo was initially exasperated by my revelations, and incredulous that the Autodefensas wanted to retake Llorona.
But he was a pragmatist and was quick to grasp the possible benefits. If the Autodefensas cleaned up Puerto Galán, they’d ban coca-leaf pickers, wife-beaters and public drunkenness. Palillo’s stepfather would have to curtail his nasty habits and find legitimate work, or leave.
‘And now we have our ticket for a clean exit from the Autodefensas,’ I told him. ‘Trigeño’s grateful for all I’m doing, and I’ll ask him to release you, me and Piolín once it’s done.’
For several seconds, Palillo was left speechless. Then his grin stretched as wide as the keys on a grand piano. He raised his hand to give me a high five. ‘Genius, Pedro! Absolute genius!’
I laughed and he hugged me.
This warm embrace ushered in a fresh era in our friendship, one of complete co-operation in which there were no more secrets. We were one hundred per cent in this together, and when it was over, I was confident we’d be one hundred per cent out.
A week later, I found myself once more touching down with Trigeño on Javier’s lawn, this time to begin the operation against Zorrillo.
Our plan was for one Díaz brother to attend a meeting with Zorrillo, luring him down from the Guerrilla’s mountain camps, while the other brother stayed with Trigeño as ‘insurance’ in case the first wanted to back out. Trigeño was more than happy with my request to send Fabián.
Nevertheless, once we were seated in their living room and Trigeño had outlined the plan, he initially let the brothers think they had a choice, and we both enjoyed observing their cowardice as they bickered over who should go in the Mercedes.
‘Why do I have to drive?’ Fabián whined when Trigeño finally informed him he was to go. He knew he’d be risking his life in an ambush operation that could turn into full-scale combat.
‘Because Pedro says you’ve had your licence for years.’
I’d told Trigeño about Fabián’s insults at the Díazes’ party, and I now struggled to suppress a grin.
Fabián looked at me imploringly. ‘You’ve done this before, right? You know how to shoot?’
‘Of course! I hit my mark about sixty per cent of the time,’ I lied, relishing the reversal of our positions. ‘Although wind or humidity can bring down my average.’
Javier pretended to be sympathetic towards Fabián, but his face showed relief at not being chosen, until Trigeño cocked his pistol and handed him the cordless phone.
‘Javier, make the call. If anything goes wrong, you’re both dead.’
I’d never expected this from Trigeño, and neither had they. Javier had viewed his pact with the Autodefensas as a partnership. In their own world, the Díaz brothers may have been princes with bodyguards and a court packed with famous models and wealthy hangers-on. But in our world – the world of war – they were like schoolboys.
Javier began sweating, and with good reason. If our plan worked, Caraquemada would list the brothers as military targets and there’d be no turning back. But he made the call exactly as Trigeño had coached him.
‘I want to make peace,’ he began, referring to the recent bombing of his bus and the p
rice placed on his head after he protested Zorrillo’s rising vacunas. Trigeño had instructed him to sound nervous and desperate, but Javier didn’t have to pretend. With a pistol trained on him, his voice quavered. ‘Our family can’t afford the current vacunas, but neither can we afford any more buses or trucks being torched, nor our employees being kidnapped and murdered. I’m prepared to consider your demands provided my brother can speak to you face to face at our hacienda in Garbanzos.’
Trigeño knew that Zorrillo would never agree to enter Garbanzos, and Zorrillo reacted exactly as expected, by proposing a meeting deep in their territory. ‘He can meet us in Puerto Princesa. I’ll call with the time and place.’
‘No! I need Fabián to feel safe. He’ll be in our armoured Mercedes and he’ll bring our bodyguards. He’ll also bring the overdue payments. But the renegotiation of our deal needs to take place somewhere he knows, closer to Garbanzos.’
It was unusual for civilians to make demands of the Guerrilla, but the bait was attractive – a large amount of cash, a kidnappable businessman and his older brother still free to organise the ransom. Zorrillo was probably chuckling at Javier’s insistence on an armoured vehicle. Tyres could be shot. The exit road could be blocked with logs. And even the Mercedes level III’s reinforced glass windows would splinter and shatter after several successive impacts from 5.56mm rounds.
Nevertheless, these demands would reassure Zorrillo it wasn’t a trap. More importantly, they prevented him from deducing the true location we were angling for.
In fact, Zorrillo waltzed into the trap by suggesting it himself. ‘Your father’s old finca then. We’ll phone back with the time.’
He hung up.
Six snipers, including Palillo and me, were to embed at the meeting place immediately.
Zorrillo would undoubtedly send an advance party to sweep Humberto Díaz’s old finca, but travelling from the Guerrilla camps to the meeting place would take at least a day. And on arrival the scouts would be looking for a government army platoon with thirty men, whereas we’d be as visible as six mossy rocks on a riverbank.