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 bargaining 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.