With my thumb, I had flicked off the protective caps of two more phials of morphine, injecting them, as I had the others, directly into her thigh. Then I had cradled her head with one hand while I had gently caressed her bloodied bruised face with the other – all the time talking to her in a soft low voice.
“El sueño, Rosa – cierra los ojos lindos y para dormirse, Rosa – sueño de Rosa, sus adorar que toda la espera para aliviarle – Sueño, Rosa.” – ‘Sleep, Rosa – close your pretty eyes and go to sleep, Rosa – Rosa sleep, your loved ones all wait to comfort you – Sleep, Rosa.’
Rosa had exhaled just the once and then her savaged body had relaxed, completely, as her soul and spirit had moved on, leaving the discarded garment of her mortal flesh behind.
We had rounded up half a dozen of the Contras and, at gun point, Carlos and I had supervised the digging of a large deep grave for Rosa, in a small clearing by a fast running stream. One of the Contras had kindly said Mass for the dead nurse, reading out of a battered well thumbed bible. Of the two Contras that we had killed, we had neither care nor concern about their disposal – we would be moving on as soon as the other members of the team had rejoined us. With the two remaining Sandinista captives securely bound, Carlos and I had escorted Phil N…Jnr and his prisoners back to the rendezvous point with the helicopter. Discretion, being the better part of valour, I had though it prudent not to return to the rebel camp, that night – no knowing what they might have had in store for us! So, we had camped out a few klicks upstream, from where we had buried Rosa, the nurse.
“You have good Spanish, my friend,” Carlos had commented, interrupting the background hum of the jungle’s countless insect population, which had seemed to emanate from all around us.
It had been reassuring to hear the insects. They would act like a host of minutia guard dogs – their instant silence warning of us of something, or someone’s approach. We had also taken the precaution of sitting opposite, facing each other, our backs protected by the trunks of the trees that we had been leaning up against, our M4 carbines providing mutual cover of the dark dense vegetation of the jungle. No camp fire either – so, when I had replied back to Carlos, I had replied back to a dark indistinguishable shapeless form, sitting opposite me.
“You heard what I said to Rosa?”
“Si, you’re a good man.”
“And you are a good tailor,” I had replied. Because of the dark, I had not been able to gauge his reaction to my remark, but I could sense that he was smiling.
“I have something that I would like to ask of you.” Carlos had always spoken very clearly and very slowly, as if he had been thinking through every vowel, every consonant, and every syllable – each and every word, carefully balancing and measuring the content and pitch of exactly what he was going to say next. “Would you allow me to become a member of your Family?” he had asked.
It had been Hughie who had originally given our eclectic group of assassins the name: ‘the Family’ – ‘A home for waifs and strays…and poor little psychos, just like us,’ he had put it, so eloquently.
I had already discussed with Patrick the merits of inviting Carlos to join the Family. Carlos had precisely matched the exacting profile that we had looked for in all prospective members, an exacting profile which we all had shared. An absolute unique individual – a loner, who could work equally well in complete isolation, or as a valuable integral member of a team. Our exclusively select team – our ‘Family’!
“Why?” I had asked, almost curtly.
In the insect chattering dark of the jungle, there had been an almost indiscernible intake of breath from the man sitting opposite me.
“Because I am selfish,” Carlos had finally replied. “I like the feeling of belonging that you and you’re Family have given me. I like the feeling of having brothers, that I can, and do, love. I like the feeling of being able to feel, once again – and it’s been so long since I have been able to feel anything,” he had paused. “And now, I don’t want to give it up.”
“Carlos, you won’t have to give anything up,” I had responded, leaning across the space that had separated us, taking his right hand in mine. “Welcome to the Family,” I had said…greeting him as I would a long lost brother – a fellow kindred spirit. “Long life, or a happy life – it’s our call, at the end of the day.”
“Si – long life or a happy life,” had come the emotional reply from the darkness opposite me.
But events, that were to shortly follow, very nearly resulted in an entirely different outcome for Carlos – an outcome that could have easily resulted in his death.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
In Nicaragua, we had roamed where ever the work had taken us, only associating with the various rebel factions when there had been a specific need – generally a need to have some readymade cannon fodder to draw fire for us.
We had been asked by the CIA to go to the Ocotal region of the country, where the Pan-American Highway enters into Nicaragua from Honduras, and travels south through the country, linking up with many principal roads and cities. The intention had been for us to cover the Highway where it had cut through the steep hills in the north of the region, where we would be best placed to carry out military interdiction on this vital arterial link into the country. The main Contra group operating in the Ocotal area had been the ‘Nicarao Regional Commando’, a commando unit of the Nicaraguan Democratic Force – ‘Fuerza Democrática Nicaragüense’ – the FDN. At that time, the FDN military had been under the command of a former National Guard colonel – in fact, most of the command structure of the FDN military had been heavily made up of elements of the former Somocista National Guard. The Nicarao Regional Commando had been no exception to this rule, with all of their commanding officers having once been serving members of the Somocista National Guard.
At the time, I had no idea of Carlos’s past history with the National Guard – if I had of done, then I most definitely would not have brought him to Ocotal with us!
The Nicarao Regional Commando camp, set in the forested foothills overlooking the Pan-American Highway, had looked like a proper military camp. Suitably camouflaged from view, either by air or by land, it had offered outlying picket lines of sharpened stakes, which had been supported by the cross fire of fortified defence bunkers. Within the perimeter, the camp of crudely made huts had been constructed in an apparent random manner. But there had been no randomness of layout here. Each hut had been carefully positioned to offer maximum obstruction to any attacking force, preventing them clear means of access or egress through the camp and, more importantly, effectively denying a direct line of fire on to the central huts – huts which had housed the living and operational quarters of the rebel group’s commanding officers. It had been to one of these central huts that we had been taken – the full team, including Carlos.
The veranda to the hut, the biggest in the camp, had been empty. It had been near the end of the rainy season, but the constant shower of fine rain had obviously driven the hut’s occupants inside, out of the unpleasant drizzle. Leaving Patrick and the rest of the team outside, ‘safeties’ off – you should never take for granted the intentions of strangers – I had been ushered inside the large hut. Although my Spanish had been good, I had taken Carlos in with me, as well – just in case I had problems understanding the local colloquial dialects. Behind a large grand mahogany table, in equally fine and resplendent, tall backed, carved mahogany chairs, had sat the five company commanding officers of the Ocotal Company of the Nicarao Regional Commando – three, sitting facing me, with the other two sitting at either end of the table, their chairs also turned to face me. Behind the table, a screen of plain fabric had run the width of the hut, presumably separating off their sleeping quarters. Piled up on either side of the hut had been an assorted store of gasoline cans, munitions boxes and crates of wine.
Nobody seated at the table had stood up…nobody had formally greeted me – nobody had removed their caps, out of common courtes
y.
Standing there, bereft of even a token of decent politeness, I could fully appreciate why Vlad the Impaler had nailed the hats on to the heads of those who refused to take them off, in his presence!
While they had all worn the flashes and epaulettes of the Nicaraguan Democratic Force, they all had also worn the badges of the Somocista National Guard and the ‘Fifteenth of September Legion’. They were so arrogant – so rude. Carlos, standing just behind me to my right, had deepened his breathing, slightly.
Well – I can be as rude as the next man can.
I had waited, standing in silence, waiting for one of their number to address me – and eventually they did. The officer sitting at the centre of the table, a Captain, in his mid fifties with greying stubble and pot belly, had looked to his left, directly at the man seated at the end of the table. Indeed, as if prompted by the glare from his senior commander, the junior officer had suddenly spoken. In clipped schoolboy English phrases and sentences, he had introduced his commanding officer to me as Captain Ricardo C…, and had then paused waiting for a response from me – but there was none. Continuing in his grammatical English, he had then informed me that a hut had been prepared for us, inside the camp. He had then gone on to tell me that his Captain had fully expected me to make myself, and my men, available for his command and instructions, at first light.
My turn to be arrogant!
Looking directly into the large yellowed eyes of the Captain – I had spoken clearly and slowly in English, giving each statement time to visibly register with him. I had begun by informing him that we were under the direct command of the CIA and only answerable to them and Enrique Bermúdez, the supreme military commander of the FDN…and, if we experienced any lack of cooperation – it would be directly to him that I would go to, personally. He had understood that all right, his eyes widening when I had mentioned his commander’s name. Next, I had declined the offer of a hut for our accommodation – asserting that, to maintain strict security over our operation, we would set up our own bivouac outside the camp. I had not waited for his reaction to that, but had turned on heel and walked out of the hut, Carlos following me, moments later.
“Are you alright, Carlos?” I had asked him as we had joined the others in the unyielding drizzle. “Is there anything wrong – you look troubled?”
“Los demonios del pasado,” he had quietly whispered back to me. ‘Demons from the past.’
“Si le molestan, espero que usted rápidamente los pueda colocar para descansar – Mi Amigo,” I had commiserated with him. ‘If they are troubling you, I hope that you can quickly lay them to rest – My Friend.’
“Sí, yo rápidamente los puedo colocar para descansar – de que es asegurado,“ he had softly replied. ‘Yes, I can quickly lay them to rest – of that be assured.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
That night we had set up our bivouac a few hundred metres from the main Contra camp, up a shallow wooded rise, where we had been ideally positioned to clearly observe any approach, and defend ourselves – if necessary.
Having set up crude makeshift shelters, in amongst the pine trees, we had sat down to chew on our hard tack rations and eat unheated food straight out of the can – a fire might have posed a risk. Then we had settled down, as best we could in the damp conditions, sentries allocated for two hour shifts. I had taken a two hour watch at midnight, being relieved promptly by Joshua, at 0200 hours. The miserable drenching drizzle had stopped then. So, instead of using my poncho as an improvised caped shelter, I had been able to lie down out on it, its nylon material protecting me from the numbness of the damp ground. Patrick should have relieved Joshua at 0400 hours but, instead, I had woken from my shallow sleep to find him crouched down beside me.
“What,” I had greeted him; in the manner that he had always greeted others.
“It’s what? – not what,” he had replied – there was no smile on his face.
“What – what do you mean ‘what’?” I had asked, sitting upright – Patrick had completely lost me.
“I think that we might have a bit of a problem.”
“What sort of a ‘bit’ of a problem?”
“It’s Carlos – I think that he may have gone and renewed a few old friendships,” Patrick had said. “According to Joshua, he left camp about two-thirty. Said he was going to look up some old friends – and he’s not been back since.”
Joshua and Carlos had become quite close, and Joshua had probably not given it another thought – to all intents and purposes, Carlos had gone out meet old friends, or so Joshua had believed.
“And?” I had asked.
“I went looking for him – and found him down in the Contra camp.”
“Is Carlos okay?”
“Oh – he’s okay. But I think that we may have a bit problem with exactly how ‘okay’ he is.”
Now, I’d heard that somewhere before – about someone being far more than just ‘okay’!
Patrick had led me down into the sleeping Contra camp. It had just turned 0410 hours…and there wasn’t a sole about, not even a sentry – this group of rebels partied hard every night and would sleep late into the day. I had followed Patrick into the FDN officer’s hut to be greeted by a carefully staged scene.
“It’s a Teddy Bear’s picnic, so it is” Patrick had quipped, a wry smirk breaking out on his stubble covered face.
Seated around the grand mahogany table, as they had done so on the previous evening, had sat the five FDN officers. This time, however, they had not been wearing their round peaked military hats. Instead, they seemed to be wearing headbands of torn cloth – headbands that had firmly secured their heads tightly to the tall backs of the carved mahogany chairs. Their arms and chests had also been restrained in a similar manner, cloth and rope binding them to their own individual chairs. The light from the sole kerosene lamp, positioned in the centre of the table, had been sufficient to illuminate the scene – its flickering glow bringing life to the characters that had made up the tableau. The glow of the lamp had also been subtly mirrored by its reflection in the dark congealing stains that had emanated from the neck of each officer – their flaccid tongues protruding from out of the gashed openings of their collectively butchered throats.
Shit – I need to think fast, the Contras will kill Carlos out of hand for this.
“Patrick – get back up to the team – put them on full combat readiness and have them take up defensive positions,” I had calmly ordered. “You were right – we could have a bit of a problem, here,” Then, just as he had turned to leave, I had added. “Patrick, could you ask John-Luke to come straight down here – I need him.”
“Anyone else?” Patrick had asked.
“No, thanks. John-Luke will do just fine, for the moment”
“Shout me, if you need me,” Patrick had said, before ducking out of the hut into the cool dawn air.
Carlos had been sitting on his haunches, just inside the hut’s door, holding his bloody Columbian machete downwards in front of him, its tip resting on the wooden floor of the hut.
“I see you knew the Captain, then?” I had asked, squatting down on my haunches next to him.
“I knew of him,” Carlos had replied, his speech slow and deliberate. “He is a Captain in the FDN, now – was a Captain in the FDN,” Carlos had corrected his tense. “When I knew of him it was in 1968. Then he had been a Sergeant with the National Guard Unit, based at the barracks in Matagalpa. In the afternoon of Monday, the eighth day of July, nineteen hundred and sixty-eight, he had led a mounted troop of National Guard to my family’s ranch, thirty kilometres from Matagalpa – up in the foothills. There, they had slaughtered every living thing. The people, the cattle, the horses, the chickens – even the dogs they slaughtered. They slaughtered every living thing, without mercy, without grace or compassion…even my sweet mother.” Carlos had paused, lifting up his bloody machete to point at his handy work. “Now, without mercy, without grace or compassion, I slaughter them, like the dogs tha
t they are.”
“¿Le tiene colocó por fin a sus demonios para descansar? “ I had asked him. ‘Have you at last laid your demons to rest?’
“Sí, yo por último los he colocado para descansar ahora,“ he had replied, quietly, very slowly. ‘Yes, I have finally laid them to rest now.’
“Bueno – ahora consigámosle limpió y apoya al resto de la Familia, donde usted pertenece,” I had smiled and had patted him on his shoulder. ‘Good – now let’s get you cleaned up and back to the rest of the Family, where you belong.’
With an explosive cocktail of phosphorus grenades and the gasoline cans, John-Luke had blown up the hut. In a vivid explosion of bright white light and searing heat, the hut, all of its contents and all of its dark secrets, in an instant had been incinerated. The explosion had been so devastating that we had told the shocked waking rebels that the camp was under attack from Sandinista mortar fire, and to flee – which they all did. The resulting fire would have been seen for miles, so we too had to vacate, before government dive bombers and helicopter gunships had arrived on the scene. In an orderly manner, the team had made its way north, into Honduras – and safety.
***
Carlos’s spare time is now devoted to Abby Farm, which he shares with Joshua – Joshua growing his crops of Sunflowers, and Carlos, with his overwhelming love for animals, running a low intensity breeding programme for rare and endangered breeds of cattle and livestock. He also makes regular trips to Spain, to administer the affairs of the vast family fortune and businesses that he inherited from his late aunt.
Carlos’s predominant area of work, as an assassin, is generally throughout the whole of Latin America, including Mexico, although he also operates in Europe and North Africa, from time to time. He is also available for covert operations, and is always there to support other Family members, whenever the need arises – but, perhaps not with a neck tie, though!
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 18