“Porras’s father was mayor of a rural town near La Vigia,” the sergeant said. “A guerrilla sympathizer. He supplied the ELN with weapons. He was executed by the paramilitaries in 2002. She’s in La Vigia now, they say to interview victims of the FARC, but their office has seen a parade of former guerrilleros coming in and out. And we have a source that claims her relationship with Jefferson goes back fifteen years.”
“Back to when he was in the paras?” Juan Pablo broke in. “Really?” The sergeant was spinning bullshit theories as real intelligence, trying to fit a narrative on top of a set of facts that didn’t yet make any sense. Was he the only one who noticed?
“It’s not impossible,” Colonel Carlosama said. “The paramilitaries and guerrilla could work together sometimes, especially the factions more interested in narcotrafficking than in politics.”
The colonel raised an eyebrow, awaiting a response. Juan Pablo could feel the eyes of everyone in the room. Everyone in the room expected him to defend Jefferson. They expected it not because they thought he had good arguments that he was convinced by, but because he had a daughter with the foundation and it made him emotionally compromised. He knew he should hold his tongue, but he couldn’t stand stupidity.
“If Porras’s father was executed by paramilitaries back when Jefferson was running the paramilitaries in that region, chances are that it was Jefferson himself who ordered the killing. And now you’re saying they’ve been friends for fifteen years?”
Colonel Carlosama, no fool, nodded his head in agreement. Juan Pablo felt the pressure ease, fewer skeptical eyes on him and more on the briefing intelligence sergeant as the room of military men instantly adjusted their mood to the mood of their commander.
“At some point in the previous decade he underwent an ideological shift,” the sergeant said. “Perhaps he felt betrayed by the jail time he had to serve after the demobilization. After prison he went to Venezuela, and there he became radicalized and developed deep links to the Venezuelan military. We think that La Vigia is his beachhead for exporting the Bolivarian Revolution to Colombia, and Luisa Porras Sánchez is helping prepare the ground for his expansion throughout the department.”
Colonel Carlosama put a finger to his lips and sat back in his chair, eyes on the picture of Porras Sánchez. He leaned back in his chair, stretched slowly, and then sat forward. “These days,” he began, “the main thing the Venezuelan military is exporting is not revolution but black market petroleum.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “But Venezuela is also importing cocaine. Now with the help”—the sergeant clicked to another slide, this showing the thread on Twitter and the photo of Jefferson—“of local organizations like this foundation.”
The pitying glances returned. As the sergeant went on about the foundation where his daughter worked, and how tracking the foundation had generated leads, Juan Pablo realized that he was not simply present at a wrongheaded intelligence briefing. This was an attack on his own credibility, on the reputation of his family, and perhaps on his career.
Afterward, Colonel Carlosama invited Juan Pablo to share a cigar outside the operations center. Carlosama came from a wealthy family and usually stocked the best brands, but the cigar he handed Juan Pablo after rummaging through his desk was nothing special. An Occidental Reserve Robusto. A good enough brand. But cheap.
The colonel lit his own cigar, a Quai d’Orsay, by putting it right into the flame like an amateur. Then he handed over the matchbook.
“It’s a different country now,” Carlosama said. “Less than thirteen thousand murders across Colombia last year. When I was commissioned, the number was closer to thirty thousand. So it’s a different war, too.”
What was he driving at? Juan Pablo struck the match, held his cheap cigar above the flame, and spun until he got an even burn.
“The other day General Cabrales and I had drinks with the commander of second division. He told us, ‘The army of speaking English, of protocols, and human rights is over.’ He thinks if we’re going to keep the peace, we’ll need a freer hand.”
“And General Cabrales?”
“He had concerns. If the peace goes through, we’re going to be responsible for controlling parts of the country we have never really had under control. Places where sometimes”—Carlosama waved his expensive cigar—“the army has made mistakes.”
He was talking about civilian massacres, extrajudicial killings, and the rest of the litany of accusations people like Juan Pablo’s daughter’s professor liked to hurl at the army.
“It happens,” Carlosama said, “when you’re fighting that kind of war. But now . . .”
“Those kind of mistakes will cause more problems than they solve.”
“In the long term, yes. The army as a whole needs to be more disciplined. But I think most officers would not agree. They want more freedom.” He smiled. “If your daughter goes into human rights work, she can help keep the pressure on us to stay disciplined.”
“She comes home in two days. After that, she won’t be doing any more of that work.”
“Hmmm . . .” Carlosama puffed on his cigar. “You’re up for promotion to colonel again. Of course, they’d be fools not to promote you, but have you thought about what you might do if they don’t?”
Juan Pablo raised an eyebrow. This thing with the foundation had compromised him.
“A man with your skills,” Carlosama said, “would do very well even out of the military.”
“A contractor job?” Juan Pablo said. He’d always sneered at those. Officers trained by the Colombian state only to turn around and offer their skills to the highest bidder. A former boss of his was currently luring officers away with promises of high wages in the United Arab Emirates. But he didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think about operations. Especially with his daughter being where she was. “Any luck with the beacon?”
Carlosama smiled. “Our
