Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  126

  I WALKED TOWARDS the gate, suddenly fearful. I’d assumed that Beta would never tolerate narcotraficantes. But then, why was he here?

  Beta was unpredictable; once I told him about the cocaine, he was quite capable of phoning Trigeño and then slitting the Díaz brothers’ throats. On the other hand, if he was here on Javier’s behalf, he might be just as capable of slitting mine.

  ‘Let Beta in. His men stay at the gate.’

  Beta strolled up the drive with a self-satisfied swagger. He’d grown fatter since we’d last met and now wore a gold Omega watch. He stomped to a halt and planted his feet apart, aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘If there’s illegal activity occurring anywhere in this region, you should inform me before anyone else.’

  ‘I wanted to hear Javier’s explanation first. Besides, it’s on my base.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Cocaine.’ I pointed across the grassy field to the henhouse. ‘It’s over there—’

  Beta held up his palm to silence me and deliberately looked away from where I was pointing.

  ‘You’re not going to take a look?’ I asked.

  ‘I see only what I need to see, and nothing more.’

  ‘But you will inform Trigeño?’

  Beta removed his sunglasses and looked me in the eye. ‘Pedro, our job is to protect our patrón – not only from danger, but also from damage to his reputation. If this gets out, it could taint Trigeño by association. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘How many people know?’

  ‘Me, Palillo and Ñoño.’

  ‘And Buitrago?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then I suggest you keep it that way.’

  It was unbelievable – I had hard evidence implicating the Díazes but Beta was asking me to cover it up. Not for a moment did I swallow his arguments about protecting Trigeño’s reputation. Trigeño could shoot the brothers and no one would ever know about the cocaine. Or he could hand them and their merchandise over to the police. Of course, I knew Beta wasn’t involved in trafficking, but it seemed he was prepared to turn a blind eye.

  ‘So you’re saying I should ignore what I saw? Is that an order?’

  ‘No, it’s not an order. It’s a decision you have to make with your own good conscience,’ said Beta significantly. ‘I suggest you think it over and choose wisely.’

  He turned, walked back down the drive and sped off in his red SUV, taking his phalanx of bodyguards with him. I stood there, staring after him, marvelling at how he’d turned the tables on me.

  Beta had intervened to protect the interests of his new benefactors. But he’d also covered his own backside by declaring he was acting in the interest of his official boss, Trigeño. All this without actually seeing the cocaine or making a decision himself. Whatever I chose to do about Javier’s cocaine, and whatever the consequences, all the risk was on me.

  Only thirty minutes later, two vehicles pulled up to the gate: a new champagne-coloured armoured BMW, driven by Javier, and the repaired Mercedes Fabián had driven on the day of the Zorrillo operation. Javier drove directly to the bunker where I stood waiting and emerged wearing leather shoes, pleated trousers and a crisply ironed white shirt. I studied his face, but Javier displayed no anxiety. In fact, he appeared curious, almost excited.

  ‘Cigar?’ said Javier, nonchalantly flipping open his silver case.

  ‘I told you already; I don’t smoke.’

  ‘I shouldn’t either. But it helps me relax.’

  I descended the ladder and Javier followed. When his foot touched the cocaine, he reached into a concealed cavity in the wall and flicked a switch. A bulb on the wall lit the bunker. That confirmed it! If Javier knew about the switch, he knew about the bunker.

  Standing with his hands on hips, he surveyed the walls of cocaine in apparent wonderment and emitted a low whistle.

  ‘Beta said you’d found contraband,’ he said. ‘I was expecting a few kilograms. But this …’

  He stabbed his car key into one of the broken bags, sniffed some powder from its tip and then dabbed the remainder on his tongue.

  ‘Like a true professional,’ I said. ‘Well?’

  ‘Uncut.’ He stabbed the key in again, holding it out to me provocatively. I slapped his hand away.

  ‘Then you admit it?’

  ‘That I’ve tried cocaine …’ He raised his hands in fake surrender. ‘Guilty. But doing an occasional bump at a fiesta doesn’t mean I’m the head of a cartel or that I have anything to do with this.’

  Javier was a consummate actor, but I wasn’t buying tickets to his show.

  ‘It’s on your property.’

  ‘My father’s property.’

  ‘Which your mother inherited and which you had access to for a year before we set up this base.’ I flicked the light switch off and on. ‘You knew about this bunker.’

  ‘About its existence, yes. About its current contents, no.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I don’t care what you believe.’

  Javier vaulted from the pallet, went down on one knee and removed a brick from against the wall, which he tossed to me. In the gap was a layer of yellowed newspaper. He removed more bricks and ripped away newspaper until a small wooden door became visible. The bricks above the door remained stacked on its lintel. Javier twisted the doorknob, revealing a narrow cavity with a blue sports bag at its entrance.

  ‘This tunnel begins in the house behind a false panel in the cellar. My father built this bunker when I was five. He made us do regular drills, crawling in here to practise in case the Guerrilla came to kidnap us. These were our supplies.’ He unzipped the sports bag to reveal torches, candles, tins of tuna and bottles of water.

  ‘That proves its original purpose. Not what you’ve used it for since.’

  ‘I’ve told you already, this cocaine is not mine.’

  ‘And I’ve told you already, I don’t believe you.’

  Javier looked around the bunker in genuine exasperation. Then his eyes lit upon the torn newspaper. He picked it up, read it and smiled victoriously.

  ‘Clearly, you’re determined to think the worst of me, Pedro. But perhaps you still trust the news.’

  He stood and handed me a page. The newspaper was dated two weeks before Humberto’s death. I’d made a gross miscalculation – the cocaine had been here before Javier took control of the finca. But I was still convinced in my gut that Javier was a trafficker and that this bunker was strong leverage.

  ‘Even if this belonged to your father, it won’t make a difference. I’ve seen Trigeño execute two brothers just because they were related to a traficante.’

  ‘And you’d do that to us? You’d have us killed? But … we … your mother …’

  ‘And I’m grateful to you. But I can’t keep this from my commander.’

  ‘Trigeño doesn’t need to know. I’ll move this stuff elsewhere. And you’ll receive a reward for finding it.’

  ‘I don’t want your dirty money.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘What I want from you … no, what I require, is for Fabián to withdraw from the elections. I want no more threats against Felix Velasquez. And I want Beta and his growing army of men on your payroll to leave your hacienda for good.’

  Javier clicked his tongue. ‘So that’s what this is about. I know nothing about any threats, but as for the rest, you’ve overplayed your hand. Trigeño not only needs Fabián as senator, he needs our money. We agreed to pay him three million dollars over three years in monthly instalments. If you turn him against us, our alliance will disintegrate and he’ll lose the outstanding payments. Your patrón is spending our funds to keep the Autodefensas functioning – not just here, but in other regions too. Once that tap is turned off, you’ll have to abandon Llorona. And we both know Buitrago can’t hold this region on his own.’

  This time I
could not disguise my shock. I thought I’d had Javier. Four tonnes of immovable evidence lay before us, but he’d spun it around on me a hundred and eighty degrees.

  If the Autodefensas withdrew from Llorona, Caraquemada would retake control. I could only imagine the Guerrilla reprisals against those who’d helped us. But even worse, I’d lose my shot at Papá’s remaining killers. All those years of sacrifice and suffering – completely wasted.

  I was defeated and Javier knew it.

  ‘Board this up,’ he said magnanimously. ‘I’ll have the contents removed under cover of dark so you’re not compromised … any more than you already are.’

  Presumably, he intended to sell it, which would compensate him for every dollar he was spending on the alliance, plus a few million more. Javier extended his hand, but when I didn’t shake it he patted my back like we’d made a deal anyway.

  ‘You’re losing sight of what’s important here, Pedro. We’re not your enemy. It’s Caraquemada and Buitre you want. We promised to help you, and we will.’

  ‘Help me how?’

  ‘In two days, Beta will bring you a gift as reward for your silence. Something that will be very useful to you. You have my word of honour as a man.’ When I looked sceptical, he added, ‘Then I swear to you on my mother’s life. And one more thing: I saw those wanted posters. You obviously need protection from Caraquemada, so I’m lending you the Mercedes.’

  For the next two nights I slept in twists and knots. Of course I was grateful for the armoured vehicle, but I still didn’t trust Javier. His word was as solid as smoke. As for Beta, I had more faith in a mirage.

  Four tonnes of pure cocaine lay hidden beneath my base and I hadn’t informed Trigeño. I’d done as Javier suggested, boarding the bunker up and dragging the henhouse back into position above it, although not before crawling through the tunnel and locating the false panel in the cellar.

  Were Javier and Beta setting a trap for me, planning to tell Trigeño or Buitrago about the cocaine themselves? I was wary when, two days later, Beta’s caravan reappeared in the late afternoon. This time I authorised the entry of his men and he drove to the main farmhouse, accompanied by two utility trucks, each with eight soldiers seated in the tray.

  The steely-eyed soldiers formed up in four lines. I didn’t recognise any of them. They’d begun calling themselves the Escorpiones Negros and now wore an upper-arm patch with a black scorpion insignia.

  ‘I have a little present for you,’ Beta said. ‘In appreciation of your loyalty to La Empresa.’

  He waved towards his SUV and two of his men sprang forward to open the rear door. They dragged out a male prisoner whose head was covered with a pillowcase and whose hands were cuffed in front of him. He was dressed in faded blue overalls streaked with motor grease.

  ‘Look familiar?’ said Beta, grinning slyly as he yanked off the pillowcase. When I saw the gagged and blindfolded man beneath, blood surged to my temples.

  He had blond hair.

  127

  WHEN I RAISED the blindfold, however, it revealed a young man of about sixteen, with the same emerald-green eyes as Buitre but too young to be him. The boy blinked a few times and then, without looking directly at any of us, closed his eyes.

  ‘Who’s he supposed to be?’ I asked, unable to mask my disappointment.

  ‘Buitre’s brother. The one we’ve had under surveillance in Barrancabermeja.’ Beta told me his men had kidnapped the boy from work, marching him away from his colleagues at gunpoint. As I began removing the boy’s gag, he added, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  Immediately, the boy’s mouth opened and words chugged out in bursts, like water from an upside-down bottle.

  ‘I’m innocent! I’m not responsible for what my brother does. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in seven years. I’m an apprentice mechanic, not a guerrillero!’

  ‘¡Oye!’ Beta slapped him lightly across the cheek and leaned in close. ‘Have we mistreated you? Have we denied you food or water? Have we tortured you?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘So shut up then.’ Beta replaced the blindfold. ‘I know you’re not Guerrilla.’

  My mind began racing. Having his brother might result in a sudden leap forward in my hunt for Buitre, but I was shocked that Beta had kidnapped a civilian in contravention of the Autodefensa statutes – and that he’d done this entirely for me, to buy my silence.

  ‘Does our commander know?’ I asked.

  Beta put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

  ‘What do you want me to do with him?’

  ‘Ransom him. Let him go. Chop him up and feed him to the fish, for all I care,’ he said loudly. Then he motioned me out of the boy’s hearing and lowered his voice. ‘But I suggest using him as bait to reel in Buitre.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Remember Rafael, the guerrillero who defected after the Zorrillo operation? At first I didn’t trust that son of a bitch, but his information was gold. He insists the brother is so important to Buitre that he’d give up his own life to save him.’

  He handed me a copy of a property deed, tapping his finger against the name of its owner.

  ‘That’s Buitre’s mother. He sent her the money to purchase this house two years ago. And he paid his brother’s apprenticeship fees.’

  The deed was evidence of two things: that Buitre cared about his family and that his mother, at least, was likely in contact with him. The latter was essential since Beta was adamant that we couldn’t contact Buitre via the Guerrilla’s network.

  ‘Buitre will need to keep this from his group. If Caraquemada finds out, he’ll prohibit Buitre from negotiating. This needs to be personal, Pedro, between you and him. This is family.’

  I was still slightly stunned, knowing the kidnapping of a civilian was wrong, not to mention that we were going behind Trigeño’s back. But Beta told me this was my decision and, despite some misgivings, I didn’t hesitate for long.

  I walked over to the boy. ‘Can you get word to your brother?’

  Nodding his head frantically, he said, ‘I can try.’

  By this time a crowd of my soldiers had gathered around, wondering who this new arrival was. Beta drew his pistol, grasped the boy’s shoulder and marched him into the farmhouse and up the stairs.

  Over the past months, we’d gradually been restoring the dilapidated building for use as an additional barracks when Trigeño sent more soldiers. We’d stripped the putrid carpets, sanded the floorboards and plastered over the holes in the walls. The broken hinge on the front door had been fixed and the missing slats on the wooden shutters replaced.

  Beta shoved the boy, who was still blindfolded, into a bedroom on the second floor.

  ‘You get one phone call,’ he said, slamming the door behind us and grinding his Colt .45 into the boy’s temple. ‘No fucking around. If you’re telling the truth about not being able to contact your brother, I suggest you phone your mother.’

  I cringed, seeing the boy’s cuffed hands trembling, but Beta enjoyed this sort of thing. He reached into the boy’s pockets and tossed me his wallet. ‘I’ve already checked it, but take a look for yourself.’

  I flipped through it, looking for business cards or phone numbers. It contained a small amount of cash and two photographs: one black-and-white shot of an older woman – presumably his mother – and the other of a young pretty girl.

  Meanwhile, Beta coached the boy on the phone call script, warning him not to say anything stupid.

  The boy told Beta his mother’s number and Beta dialled, turning on speakerphone so we could all listen.

  ‘Hola, it’s me. How are you, Mamá?’

  By asking a question, he’d already departed from the script. Beta kicked the boy in the shin.

  ‘Hijo, where are you?’ his mother demanded. Crying and rambling, she was out of her mind. ‘I was so worried. Your boss said bad men took you away. When are you coming home?’

  ‘Mamá, I need you to get word to Kiko.
Tell him the Autodefensas will contact you two weeks from today with a number for him to call.’

  There was a long silence. Finally, she whispered, ‘But I haven’t heard from Kiko in years.’

  This next part would be the most difficult part for the boy – confronting his mother with evidence that she’d accepted financial benefits from her guerrillero son.

  When he hesitated, Beta ground the Colt in harder to his temple and clicked the safety off.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Mamá, they have a property deed with your name on it. They say Kiko gave you money for our house and paid for my studies. I said it wasn’t true, but …’

  There was another long silence, then sobbing. I could imagine his mother sitting on the other end of the line, her face crumpled with anguish.

  ‘Mijito, I’m so sorry. I … I just wanted to protect you. Keep a roof over your head and pay for your education.’

  ‘It’s okay, Mamá. It’s not your fault. But please, whatever you do, don’t contact the authorities.’

  ‘Or they’ll kill me,’ Beta reminded him in a whisper.

  But the boy paraphrased, ‘Or there’ll be consequences.’

  Beta hung up and struck him across the face. ‘Cheeky little hijo de puta, aren’t you?’

  ‘I have a name,’ he said with dignity. ‘It’s Ernesto.’

  I was thankful Ernesto was still blindfolded. That way I didn’t have to meet his eyes. Hearing his mother’s distress had shaken me. I’d sent Mamá my salary, bought her groceries and paid her rent. I thought also of Trigeño’s mother, trapped on La 35 ‘for her own safety’. What son didn’t want to put a roof over his mother’s head? And what mother wouldn’t go to any lengths to protect her son?

  Beta leaned out the window and ordered Ñoño to come up and guard the prisoner. Ñoño stared at Ernesto, but he knew better than to ask questions in front of Beta.

  ‘I’m sorry, comando,’ I said to Beta as we exited the farmhouse. ‘I don’t think I can do this.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ He signalled to two of his soldiers. ‘Do you want your father’s killers or not?’ From the back of a cattle truck, they removed chains and padlocks, a metal window grille and a steel cattle gate, hurling them to the ground. ‘Secure that bedroom properly. You’ve seen how it’s done.’