DESPITE HAVING PASSED the army barracks countless times on my way to school, the following morning I went beyond the three-metre high walls topped with barbed wire for the first time.
At 9 am I was ushered into Colonel Buitrago’s office to find him sitting at his desk, writing. He was in his mid-fifties with a round face, thick silver hair and a grey-flecked moustache.
‘Colonel, I apologise for the voice messages,’ I said, stepping up to his desk.
‘You were angry,’ he stated matter-of-factly, continuing to write. ‘But I wasn’t ignoring you that day. My phone was out of range. I didn’t get your messages until two days later.’
I felt ashamed as I remembered my last message: You’re an hijo de puta and a fucking coward.
‘Thank you for looking in on my mother.’
He finally put down his pen and acknowledged my thanks with a nod. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘I want to make a statement, Colonel. I know some of the names of Papá’s killers – and I can describe the others in detail.’
‘There’ll be time for that later. Let’s take a walk.’
He led the way out of the barracks and down the street towards the central plaza, nodding to street vendors and storekeepers. Despite the Guerrilla having a price on his head, he displayed no fear, eventually perching on a bench in full uniform while having his shoes shined by a young boy wearing a grimy hat. He flicked lint from his three-starred lapel, perhaps wondering whether, despite my apology, I still believed he’d neglected his duty or feared the Guerrilla.
‘I’m sorry about Mario Jesús, Pedro. He was a good friend and a good Catholic.’
‘Gracias.’
‘I see you’re wearing his crucifix.’
Buitrago fingered his own silver cross. Although I was still resentful, I remembered him kneeling with a pair of tweezers beside Papá, pulling shrapnel from the church pews, and my resentment diminished.
‘I started battling the Guerrilla two and a half decades ago, Pedro, long before you were born. The hardest part isn’t the gunfights but the funerals. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve attended.’
‘Papá never had a funeral. I buried him myself on the finca.’
The colonel sighed. ‘Believe me, if I’d been here that day, I would have pursued the men who killed him. I’d have ensured he received proper burial. But I can’t be everywhere at once. Each time the Guerrilla place a collar bomb on an oil pipeline, I have to send a platoon to secure the area while engineers mend the leak. Meanwhile, the guerrilleros blow a phone or electricity tower as a further distraction and take advantage of my overstretched resources to kidnap a new victim, move a cocaine shipment or kill a good man like your father.’
I nodded.
‘It mightn’t feel like it, but I’m one hundred per cent on your side.’
‘Then go after them, Colonel. I told you, I know who they are.’
‘It isn’t that simple. The Guerrilla camps are five days’ march away. We can’t just walk in. The approaches are sown with landmines. They have scouts.’
‘You have helicopters.’
‘Which make noise. They have hostages, and they threaten to kill them if we come too close.’
‘Their urban militia don’t. The commander who operated the radio—’
‘This is not an overnight job. And there’s a correct way of doing things.’
He glared at three Autodefensa recruiters seated at the cantina then flicked two fingers towards them as though they were marbles. The recruiters catapulted from their seats, abandoning their beers on the table.
I was about to tell him exactly where he could find Ratón, but seeing this, I stopped myself. Not every army officer in Colombia was willing to collaborate with the Autodefensas. Buitrago tolerated Autodefensa recruitment since the Guerrilla was their common enemy. But the Autodefensas weren’t going to run the town. Not on his watch.
‘The fact is, Pedro, we have undercover operatives throughout the region, gathering intelligence on enemy activities. This war against the Guerrilla will be won through persistence, and by winning the hearts and minds of civilians. Not by stooping to their level. Or worse.’ He glared once more at the recruiters’ table – now empty – then looked significantly at me, and I realised he knew exactly where I’d been for these past four months.
The colonel was a stainless steel cog in a rust-ridden machine. But his correct way of doing things was frustrating. He didn’t approve of the Autodefensas, but he lacked enough soldiers himself to make Llorona safe for ordinary people.
‘When can we return to our finca?’
He gave me a pitying look.
‘Not yet, Pedro. My patrols have been monitoring the situation. Trust me. It’s not safe.’
‘When then?’
‘My lieutenant will take your statement whenever you’re ready.’ He patted my waist where the Taurus was concealed. ‘Right now you’re on the wrong path. But if you decide to change your life, my battalion gates will be open to you when you turn eighteen.’