THE FOLLOWING MORNING – Thursday – I received a call from Colonel Buitrago’s assistant. ‘The colonel has returned from Bogotá. He’s requesting a meeting with you at his private residence.’
I’d never been to the colonel’s home; it was a small, austerely furnished apartment within the army barracks. I almost did a double take when Buitrago greeted me at the door dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. I’d never seen him out of uniform. In fact, as he led me inside past framed photos hanging on the wall – of his children at different ages and the colonel in uniform at various promotion ceremonies – I realised I knew nothing of his personal life.
‘Your wife’s beautiful,’ I said, pausing to admire a picture of a young Buitrago kissing his bride on the steps of a church.
‘Ex-wife,’ he corrected me. ‘I don’t need to tell you that military life is tough on women.’
In the dining room, a bottle of single malt whisky was sitting on the table.
‘Are we celebrating?’ I asked. ‘Are the generals sending you more men?’
Buitrago shook his head and pointed to the bedroom where empty moving boxes lined the carpet. ‘Quite the opposite,’ he said despondently. ‘Twenty-seven years of loyal service and they give me my marching orders. I’m being transferred effective ten days from now.’
‘What?’ I said in dismay. ‘They can’t do that!’
‘They can and they did. I was saving this for when we got Caraquemada,’ he added, reaching for the whisky bottle. ‘But we might as well open it now.’
My heart sank as I contemplated the consequences. If Buitrago left and Fabián seized power, he’d ensure Beta took charge of Llorona and the river villages. I’d have no control – that is, if I were even allowed to stay on. The pressure on farmers to sell land to the Díazes below market value, the disappearances of dissenters and the abuses against civilians would continue completely unchecked.
But all wasn’t yet lost; I wanted to tell the colonel that Fabián’s seat in the Senate was no longer assured – not after my meeting with Yolanda Delgado – but I couldn’t. If elected, she was unlikely to help save his job; she was the one who had pushed for charges against the colonel for ‘neglect of duty’ over the limpieza.
Before he could twist the cap off the whisky, the colonel’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me for a minute,’ he said, stepping into the bedroom to take the call.
I heard him talking in a low voice. When he returned, standing erect, it was as though I were looking at a new man.
He snatched the whisky off the table. ‘Looks like this bottle’s fate will be decided five days from now – along with our own!’ he said, shelving it in a cabinet then pulling on his khaki shirt. ‘That was my colleague in Bogotá. Caraquemada’s lover, Tita, just received a phone call. The rendezvous has been arranged for Tuesday night. The North Americans have agreed to send us a Beechcraft surveillance plane and lend us three Blackhawks. We have only one shot at this, Pedro. This is make or break.’
I knew he was right. Bringing down the region’s highest Guerrilla commander would make him a national hero; his generals couldn’t transfer him. In fact, after such a victory he could demand whatever resources he needed. And with Delgado’s interview the following evening, the scandal could be enough to tip the election. Buitrago might find it difficult working alongside Delgado, but Fabián would be defeated and Beta ejected from the towns for good.
‘And your own news?’ asked Buitrago. ‘Your voicemail said it was urgent.’
I told him about the earth-moving equipment. The colonel doubted it would be enough to bring the Díazes down. ‘An investigation would take months. A court case could take years.’
But it was worth a try. The colonel promised to search and then impound the machinery on its next journey through his checkpoint in Garbanzos.
However, riding back to the base, I checked in on Old Man Domino and the barn and phoned Buitrago back immediately.
‘It’s gone! The shed’s empty. They’ve moved it.’
‘Let’s hope they’re not on to us,’ he said grimly. ‘We’ve underestimated the Díazes and Beta before. I forgot to tell you – one of my lieutenants is dating a kitchen hand at Javier’s hacienda. She said that every mealtime she washes three hundred plates. Pedro, you need to watch your back.’
On the Friday at 6 pm, Yolanda Delgado went on local Garbanzos radio for her joint interview with Fabián Díaz. It was supposed to be a civilised, supervised debate in which the announcer asked each candidate for their respective views on various topics. Delgado knew it was all a grandiose, well-orchestrated show in which she was cast as a dull background prop to make its star, Fabián, shine brighter. But immediately she rushed to centre stage.
‘Why should people vote for you?’ asked the interviewer.
‘Because I’m not a cocaine trafficker,’ she said, ‘and, if elected, I am offering to work without a salary. I respectfully request that my opponent publicly declare his personal assets and sources of income to prove that, if elected, he’ll have no conflicts of interest.’
‘Aren’t elected officials obliged to do that anyway?’ snapped the interviewer, trying to regain control. But Delgado had an axe to grind – hopefully, I’d sharpened it – and she would not be diverted.
‘If people open their eyes, they’ll see work promised by my opponent – and paid for with our hard-earned taxes – has hardly begun. Bulldozers, steamrollers and graders sit idle next to widening potholes. Meanwhile, Fabián’s head of electoral security, the same man who supervised the Puerto Galán massacre, is parading around town without a single charge against him. Armed men under his control escort those same vehicles up from Puerto Princesa to Llorona, and I have evidence proving the machinery is laden with tonnes of cocaine—’
Suddenly, the interview was interrupted by a beer advertisement. Afterwards, the station played a song. I continued listening, hoping for an explanation but the announcer returned as though nothing had happened.
An hour later the station ceased broadcasting local news, switching instead to a live feed from a national station.
That was the Friday night. The elections would be conducted over the next two days. Thousands of people listened to the radio. Those who didn’t would quickly hear the news. I prayed to God that Delgado’s on-air accusation might just be enough to tip the balance against Fabián. Because if it didn’t, I’d risked my life fighting to evict the morally bankrupt Guerrilla from our region, only to help two corrupt cocaine traffickers and their malignant private army take their place.
On Saturday I walked to the polling booth at our old primary school in Llorona, where green-uniformed policemen and Buitrago’s soldiers stood guarding the perimeter, searching bags for weapons and explosives. Transportadores Díaz offered free bus rides for those travelling to vote. I watched as a caravan of colectivos and chivas – festooned with gold, blue and red streamers and posters of Fabián on their sides – ferried in scores of campesinos from the river villagers and outlying regions.
As passengers disembarked, an army of yellow-shirted supporters thrust How To Vote flyers into their hands. A sixteen-year-old with a military crew cut – one of Beta’s soldiers – blocked my path.
‘Here!’ He reached into a sack and held out a cellular phone. ‘Take this!’
‘What for?’
‘Once you’ve filled out the form correctly, you point the camera lens and press this button here. Show the photo to my colleague over there on your way out. Then collect your recompensa.’
The reward was either ten dollars cash or fifteen dollars’ worth of groceries. I waved the boy away, disgusted that Fabián was now resorting to outright bribery. However, once I was in the privacy of the partitioned booth, I was pleased to see the name of Felix Velasquez still on the ballot. He’d withdrawn from campaigning, but evidently his candidature had not officially been deregistered. Surely people weren’t stupid. Seeing Felix’s name would be yet another reminder to them of the sequence of dirty tactics used by Fabián. I ticked the box next to Delgado’s name, praying other voters would see sense and do the same.
At 6.15 pm, when polling stations had closed for the day, Palillo called me from the Llorona bridge.
‘Get down here now! You need to see this.’
Dusk was falling as I sped downhill from our base in the pick-up. In the fading light, a lone policeman was trying to disperse a crowd that had gathered around a body propped up against a rock beneath the bridge. It was riddled with bullet wounds, staining the victim’s white shirt and green polyester jacket with vivid splashes of blood. The lips were sewn together with blue thread and the head lolled back to one side. In fact, the face was so covered in blood as to be unrecognisable.
‘Who is he?’ I asked Palillo. But even as I spoke I went cold as I recognised the low heels with black bows, one of which had come off and lay several feet further down towards the water. And then I saw the card with the Black Scorpions logo placed beside what I now realised was the body of a woman.
‘Who do you think?’