AT FIRST, NOTHING happened. We continued our patrol, there were no more slip-ups, and we were granted two days of rest leave. Culebra was now the senior-ranking commander at La 50, while Alfa 1 and Beta remained hidden uphill at Trigeño’s personal farm.
One afternoon, an army truck covered with a green tarpaulin – the same one that had been used to return the five deserters – arrived at the gates. Behind the steering wheel sat the same flat-faced man, Lieutenant Alejandro.
Culebra told me that the lieutenant wanted to speak privately to Alfa 1 on a matter of national security. Culebra had sent for Alfa 1, but in the meantime I was to show our visitor to the commanders’ quarters.
I climbed into the truck’s cabin and Alejandro drove around the camp’s outskirts before reversing up to the door of the dormitory. Without asking permission, he searched inside the room before returning and peeling back a tiny corner of the truck’s tarpaulin.
‘It’s clear,’ he whispered.
I watched in astonishment as a wrinkled male hand emerged from the dark interior and gripped the wooden grill. Then the corner of the tarpaulin was thrust outwards to reveal a silver-haired man wearing an immaculate green officer’s uniform. His buttons shone and his black leather shoes were polished to perfection. My mouth fell open as the sun glinted off a row of medals pinned to his chest and the metal stars that graced his epaulets. Standing before me was a three-star general of the Colombian National Army.
Even for a three-star general, there is no dignified way to climb out of the back of a truck. Lieutenant Alejandro offered his hand. The general waved him away and jumped down. Once on the ground, he preened himself like a fussy bird, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves and pulling down his jacket to straighten it. Then he removed his hat, tucked it under his arm and stepped into the dormitory, followed by Alejandro.
I introduced myself and offered the general a chair.
‘I’ll stand, joven,’ he stated defiantly. ‘Where’s Captain Murillo?’
Alfa 1’s voice boomed from the doorway. ‘That’s Alfa 1, General Itagüí, now that I’m no longer under your command.’
I realised who the general must be – Alfa 1’s former chief, the one who’d discharged him from the army for human rights abuses.
‘Good to see you, Alfa 1,’ said the general cautiously.
Alfa 1 sauntered into the room, followed by Beta and Culebra. ‘It’s good to see you too, General, being smuggled around in the back of a truck. Ever heard of a phone?’
‘It’s this peace process. Our phone lines are monitored and I can’t be discovered communicating with the Autodefensas at such a critical juncture.’
Itagüí told us that the President had forbidden the army from going after the enemy. Eighteen generals had already resigned.
‘But I’ve spent thirty years risking my life for this county. I have to keep fighting the Guerrilla in any way I can.’ The general nodded to Lieutenant Alejandro, who left the room and returned with two heavy cardboard boxes. ‘To that end, I’m providing you with our intelligence on the Guerrilla. Details of their command structure, transcripts of radio and phone intercepts, and satellite images from the North Americans.’
I was stunned. My hopes of tracking down all Papá’s killers, not just Zorrillo, reignited.
The general unfurled an aerial photograph of dense jungle with several rivers cutting through it. ‘Somewhere in this area, our analysts believe there’s an important base that may house up to five hundred guerrilleros. We’re under strict orders not to attack while peace talks continue, but you, on the other hand …’
Since the Autodefensas didn’t legally exist, the peace process didn’t bind us. We could do the army’s dirty work for them while they obeyed the ceasefire.
Itagüí had one condition for his offering: no copies were to be made. He’d already photocopied his originals and marked a green triangular stamp over the text in the middle of each page. If our copies fell into the hands of the Fiscalía – the Public Attorney’s Office – or the press, the general would know the leak had come from us.
‘If all goes well, you can expect more of this. One good thing might come of this peace process after all. For thirty years we’ve known next to nothing about the Guerrilla high commanders. But if the politicians grant them their demilitarised zone, they’ll have to show their faces. And we’ll be there recording every intonation of their voices, collecting each fingerprint left on a mug and storing every hair that falls from their heads. Anything we find we’ll pass on to you. Someone has to continue this war while we can’t.’
The general extended his hand to be shaken. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Alfa 1 paused, and I remembered how proud he was. His discharge from the army had scarred his life. ‘You come here asking for my help,’ he began, ‘and yet …’
Itagüí’s hand became a fist. ‘I won’t beg, Captain Murillo, you son of a bitch!’
Alfa 1 laughed and gripped his hand around Itagüí’s fist. ‘That’s what I like. A bit of the old fight!’ Their eyes met and they smiled then shook hands.
Alfa 1 ordered Beta to fill two glasses with aguardiente.
‘To peace,’ Alfa 1 proposed, holding up his glass.
‘To peace and war,’ countered General Itagüí, clinking his glass against it. ‘Since one can only be purchased at the price of the other.’
They drained their shots. Then Alfa 1 walked his guests outside to their truck.
‘I have one more present for you,’ said the general. He ripped back the truck’s tarpaulin. A man in camouflage uniform lay flat on his stomach with a blue pillowcase over his head. His wrists were bound and a long rope was tied around his neck. A soldier sat with a rifle trained on the prisoner and a boot on his spine.
‘We captured this hijueputa in Puerto Vallarta waiting for a food drop that we intercepted,’ explained the general. ‘He’s admitted to being a guerrillero, but hasn’t said much else. We think he might know about that big base, or at least a smaller, half-way base that supplies it.’
The guard now ordered the prisoner out, jabbing him in the ribs with the muzzle of his rifle and forcing him to grope his way blindly over the back of the truck.
The general nodded to Alejandro, who removed the pillowcase to reveal a blindfolded man in his twenties. He had a thick beard and smelled as though he hadn’t washed for several weeks. The general ripped off the blindfold.
‘He hates us taking this off. The Guerrilla have brainwashed him into thinking that if he sees our faces, we’ll have to kill him. But after thirty days, the law requires me to either hand my prisoner to the Fiscalía for charges or release him. Those thirty days are up.’ The general cut the man’s bindings. ‘I’m hereby releasing him from government custody without so much as a scratch on his face.’
The general held the front page of that day’s newspaper under the man’s chin while Lieutenant Alejandro took a photo as proof that their prisoner was in good condition on the date they released him.
‘What do you mean I’m released?’ said the guerrillero. He opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly against the light.
‘I mean you’re free to go wherever you can!’ declared General Itagüí, patting him on the back. Then he climbed into the truck and drew the tarpaulin across.
As the guerrillero heard the truck rattling towards the gate, his eyesight began to adjust. He squinted around cautiously, taking in the vast plains and rustic farm buildings. Joy spread across his face. He must have thought he’d been dumped on a finca in the middle of nowhere and could walk to safety. Then he saw us. When he spotted our black armbands with the white letters AUC, all colour drained from his face.
Suddenly, the guerrillero bolted, sprinting after the truck’s dust trail, his rope leash swishing in the dirt behind him like a startled snake. Beta gave chase and stamped on the rope, jerking the prisoner to a halt by his neck. The man fell backwards, choking. Beta tightened the rope and forcibly marched him over to stand before Alfa 1.
‘What do we do with this one, jefe?’ he asked, drawing his serrated hunting knife. ‘I think he saw my face. Yours too.’
But Alfa 1 shook his head. He didn’t go in for unnecessary cruelty.
‘Put that away! We phone Trigeño. If this man knows about their mother base, it could change everything.’
An hour later, as Trigeño’s helicopter landed, the President was announcing the appointment of a High Commissioner for Peace who would ensure that negotiations were fair, transparent and free of corruption. But with the Autodefensas and army backed into a corner, the start of the squeaky-clean peace process signalled the beginning of an even dirtier phase of the war.