When the news of the failure of the attempt to take Phillip filtered back to Medellín, one man must have been furious. Not only had the would-be kidnappers failed in their objective but the collateral damage was massive; one dead, three others in custody.
They had not gone for half-measures in this attack. Apparently, all those on the mission were trusted sicarios. Pablo Escobar had known the kidnapper killed by Barandiga for years; he knew the man’s mother. The pain Escobar himself must have felt would have gone way beyond his frustration at a job gone wrong. The others he didn’t know as well and, although he was probably confident they wouldn’t give too much away about who was behind the mission, he wouldn’t have been thinking of the personal cost. He would have been thinking about retribution. This would not be allowed to pass. This death would be avenged – and quickly.
By the time Pat found out about Escobar’s reaction it was too late to stop the devastating repercussions. An opportunity for revenge came even sooner than Escobar expected. When he was told about the plan, he thought it sounded perfect. Not only would he be able to take a hit at the very person who must have infuriated him the most at that moment – Pat Witcomb – and remind him exactly who held the power in their special relationship, but he was also given a chance to remove a very stubborn obstacle standing in the way of his ambition. Above all, however, this opportunity presented the possibility of vengeance for the death of a loyal companion. With one meticulously planned attack, Escobar would be able to strike fear into the organisation that he must have thought had taken too many liberties. He would show them that they weren’t the only ones with spies and connections.
When Silvio explained how it would play out, Escobar loved what he heard. According to intelligence their target was going to be in a particular armoured truck and they knew the job and the time. The intended route, which changed daily, would only be confirmed on the morning of the cash collection. However, their informant told them that the trucks almost always passed one particular junction next to a railway crossing. An ambush had a high chance of success.
A team was sent ahead to ensure there were no cock-ups. They had positioned themselves early and, leaving nothing to chance, another member of the team was posted on the gate of the headquarters at Avenida de Las Américas. They confirmed the truck had left on time and was headed in the direction that matched their intelligence.
Using walkie-talkies, the lookouts kept in contact as, at 8 a.m., the first of the trucks rumbled out of the security gates. At first it seemed as if the conspirators might have to abandon their plan as the vehicle did not take the direction they had expected. Had De La Rue been tipped off? Had another change been made in addition to the one already implemented that morning? The lookout on the gate jumped on his scooter and tailed the truck, being careful not to be spotted. All was as they had hoped. After a short detour, the truck rejoined its scheduled route. The biker raced ahead to make sure the vehicle did indeed reach its intended pick-up. Once the bags of cash were loaded, the biker ensured the truck followed the route indicated via their intelligence. Once he was satisfied there would be no further complications, the biker radioed in his confirmation. It was on.
The men on the junction did not have to wait long. In under ten minutes the truck came into view. Just then, a school bus pulled up just beyond the junction, at the precise spot they needed the truck to be. The three men desperately debated what to do. Their instructions had been to keep it clean. No one would have wanted to inform the boss about collateral damage or, worse, a change of plan. Running out to tell the driver to move – revealing their hand in the process – was not an option. The truck trundled closer. They conceded they would have to let it pass. The vehicle came to a halt. At first, the men didn’t understand what was happening. Then they realised. The driver was letting the school bus pull out. The small gesture of courtesy would be his last act of kindness.
With the bus gone, the junction was clear of traffic and the truck edged forward.
The explosion echoed around the streets. The truck rose into the air and bounced once before coming to rest on its side, its security doors hanging open. There was no time to sit back and admire their handiwork. The men’s instructions had been clear: ‘Take everything. They have stolen from me. I will steal from them.’ Two of the men donned motorcyclist helmets and ran forward and the third member of the team backed the van up to be nearer to the truck. A small group of onlookers began to gather round as the men loaded three bags of cash. Once that task was complete, one of the men ran to the front of the vehicle. To gasps of people staring from the roadside, he fired two shots through the windscreen, just to make sure.
*
Pat could scarcely believe it when Gregorio broke the news. He had not expected such a brazen and vindictive act. When he heard who had been targeted in the truck, his shock turned to anguish, not just for the victims and their families but for Phillip. How would he explain this to his already traumatised son?
His devastation quickly gave way to anger. He knew exactly who was behind the senseless act of violence, and why. He wanted to fly to Medellín confront the man and have a bullet put through his skull. Which was why Sir Arthur, on hearing what had happened, said he was going to fly out immediately. A powder keg was threatening to explode. He must have feared that seventeen years of hard work would be lost if he didn’t defuse the situation – and fast.
*
I was at school in England at the time that Pablo Escobar dramatically broke the uneasy truce that had existed between my father and him, although I knew nothing of what was going on back in Colombia. I was still at St Hugh’s, although it felt strange to have to be there when I knew I would be soon moving on. If I’d found it difficult to concentrate before it was even doubly difficult. Although the kidnap attempt on our estate had terrified me, the longer I spent away from home the more I missed it. I counted the days until I could see everyone again. By the time the autumn term ended and I boarded the flight home I was excited to get re-acquainted with my friends and family.
We crossed the Atlantic without any problem but as soon as we touched down in Bogotá I could sense something wasn’t right. Dad came to meet me in the Chevrolet as usual. Martinez was driving and there was the Jeep with the armed escort. Dad greeted me with a smile and a warm embrace that felt tighter than his normal hug.
‘Where’s Barandiga?’ I said, climbing into the car and noticing my bodyguard was absent. I could tell by the look on Dad’s face that something terrible had happened. His mouth moved but no words came out. For the first time in my life I thought I was about to see him cry.
‘I’m sorry son,’ he said eventually. ‘Barandiga’s gone.’
‘Gone? Where? He wouldn’t leave me.’ Tears were already streaming down my face as I demanded answers, even though deep inside I knew what Dad was going to tell me.
‘There was an incident. One of our trucks was attacked. He didn’t survive. I’m so sorry. We’re all so sad.’
‘An attack? When? Why was he on the truck? He’s meant to be protecting me.’
My whole body lurched into deep sobs. I couldn’t breathe. Barandiga was my friend. He had twice saved me from being abducted. This wasn’t happening. It surely wasn’t true.
‘I know, but with you not here, his job was on the trucks. He was our best man – but he didn’t stand a chance. It was not fair.’
I couldn’t take any more information. I cried for the duration of the journey home. I got out of the car still half-expecting him to be standing there, waiting on me. He had been a constant presence by my side whenever I was in Colombia. I tried to think of the last conversation we’d had, before we left for England. It seemed so long ago and I cursed myself for not being able to remember the details. If I’d known it would be the last time, I would have said more, hugged him tighter. When I calmed down Dad explained that his funeral was still to be held, so I would be able to go and pay my respects. That gave me some comfort at least.
I felt miserable for days, although in itself that wasn’t an unusual sensation for me whenever I first arrived back from England. It always took me a few days to acclimatise and get over the altitude sickness I suffered at nearly 9,000 feet above sea level. I’m not sure if my sickness was worse on that occasion or whether it was a culmination of the grief and trauma I had suffered. Thankfully, I improved a little on the morning of Barandiga’s funeral. I wanted to have a clear head for his send off.
De La Rue had made the arrangements for a small church to be used at the end of a road in central Bogotá. There was a large turnout, including senior figures from the company, like Sir Arthur – who had extended his stay – Gregorio and the other British and Colombian executives. This was my first experience of death and of a funeral. I found the service poignant and moving. I would never forget the man who put my safety above his own.
Dad always kept a lid on his emotions but he had been particularly quiet since I’d returned home. I saw him and Sir Arthur locked in deep conversations before the funeral and when the formalities were over they resumed their discussions.
I didn’t know it but our future life in Colombia was on the line.