It was at moments like these that he wished he could pray the way his father had, with the firm conviction that there was a saint out there listening, offering help. But prayer was a hole to bury hopes in, there was no reason to think that his daughter was in any more danger than anyone else, and there were decisions to be made.
The restaurant was one of the most expensive in Bogotá, and everything from the view to the china to the paintings on the wall was beautiful. Everything except for his dining companion, a round, mutton-chopped man whose weathered face and red-veined nose were so ugly it seemed like a provocation, as if he were deliberately insulting the world with his ugliness.
The lawyer ordered for both of them, choosing a tasting menu in which each item was followed by a description of where in Colombia the dish came from—four varieties of fish from the coast, lemongrass-scented rainforest ants from the Amazon, delicate wild rodent meat from the semitropical forest, and so on.
“I can’t believe rich people eat this garbage,” Juan Pablo said. Circumstances, he thought, merited the rudeness. He wanted to signal where things stood.
“That man you asked me to look into,” the lawyer said, smiling. “What was his name?”
“Jefferson Paúl López Quesada. The head of—”
“He’s a businessman now,” the lawyer said. “Confessed in the demobilization, served time for his crimes. But—and you may find this interesting—he’s old friends with General Baute, from his days back in Cesar. And the rodent meat? It’s delicious.”
Baute. Of course. Cesar. Of course. There was a little town in Cesar that had been held captive by the paramilitaries for a full four days. They raped women in the streets. Dragged a mother through the dirt, tied her, naked and bleeding, in a pigsty. They executed fourteen townsmen they accused of being guerrilla supporters—shooting some, taking a chainsaw to others, and in one case forcing a man to drink acid that tore through his mouth, esophagus, and stomach, killing him from the inside. It was one of the cases the left like to yowl about, since some para boss had later said the army was involved. Baute, specifically.
“I read Jefferson’s file from the demobilization,” Juan Pablo said. “General Baute should get better friends.”
“Would you like me to pass that on to him?”
“If the general wants to share useful information about his friend, he doesn’t need to pass the message through you.”
The lawyer laughed, and a runner appeared with the first of their dishes. The ants. Even though he knew they were on the menu, it surprised Juan Pablo to see them, sitting there. They weren’t dressed up or mixed with vegetables or anything. They were just ants. On a plate. The lawyer reached over and waved his hand, wafting the odor into Juan Pablo’s nostrils. Lemongrass.
“It smells good, yes? In Bucaramanga, they say eating queen ants puts steel in your dick.”
The lawyer grabbed one of them and popped it into his mouth, cracking into the shell with his teeth and then slurping up the protruding legs, finishing the performance off with a smile and a sip of wine.
“Listen to me,” he said. “The Jesúses have no need, no reason to kidnap a reporter. This is the truth.”
“So who did?”
“Who knows. There are so many problems out there. Especially outside the main towns.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Elenos. Crazy cocaleros. They have these little unions up there now, filled with ex-guerrillas. Remember when they shut down all the roads? The coca price has gone down, so the countryside is very angry.”
“Who, specifically, do you suspect?”
“I only know who didn’t do it.” The lawyer plucked another ant from his plate, flourished it in the air, and dropped it in his mouth. “Has Representative de Salva contacted you?”
Juan Pablo laughed. Of course her name would come up. Honestly, he should have thought of her before. “It’s none of your business who I’ve spoken with.”
“Don’t trust her.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” Juan Pablo said. He decided that de Salva would be the first person he called as soon as he left this dinner. Then he picked up an ant with his fingers, inspected its crisped, lemongrass-scented head, fought down his disgust, and popped it in his mouth. As he bit down, the flavor flooded in, not just of lemongrass but of other, subtler textures, a slight acidity tinged with sour notes but also some creaminess from the insides of the abdomen. It was revolting, yes, but that was mainly because of the idea of it.
“This is much better than I thought it would be,” he admitted.
“Rich people don’t eat garbage,” the lawyer said a bit testily. “Rich people know how to live.” He picked up another ant and held it up for inspection. “If life isn’t about hunting down every strange pleasure and tasting it, then what is it about?”
• • •
As it happened, Juan Pablo didn’t have to call Representative de Salva. There was a request waiting for him. This time, the meeting happened in her office, and was straight to the point.
“Have you heard?” de Salva asked. “The Americans want the Jesúses to be moved up to a Class A.”
Juan Pablo sat back in his chair. He hadn’t heard that. Categorizing the Jesúses as a Class A Organized Armed Group meant the military could target them with everything from raids to aerial bombardments.
“That’s fast.”
“No,” de Salva said. “I don’t think it’s fast at all. I think it needs to happen, and as a member of the Second Commission I can assure you that there would be support.”
“I see,” Juan Pablo said. “We don’t even know if they’re involved.”
“The classification doesn’t mean you have to target them. It simply removes bureaucratic obstacles if you need to act quickly. That’s all it means.”
“True,” Juan Pablo said. But it was also false. The classification merely changed the
