Ghost Order

Prologue

Prologue

(AUC) Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia base camp

Putumayo, Colombia

June 1999

Through the window, the rain cascaded down in continuous waves, battering the tin roof with its insistent drumming, pouring down onto the wooden steps.

Outside, a group of soldiers in deep green fatigues moved across the camp and hurried inside one of the long huts that made up part of the barracks, slamming the door behind them. A small bedraggled dog, having made the camp its home, scavenged around a pile of rubbish piled up at the side of a smaller hut. Under the torrential rain, a sodden flag of the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia – representing the new umbrella organisation that brought together a large number of right-wing paramilitary groups – hung lifelessly on a pole fixed to the barracks hut wall.

To the agent present, it made no odds that this paramilitary group was connected to the cartels or the wealthy Colombian landowners or even that they were responsible for tens of thousands of deaths inside the country. He had a job to do; even if that meant aligning with the Devil. So be it.

He had been fully briefed on the backgrounds of the leaders he was addressing now; how they had amassed their fortunes through emerald smuggling, kidnapping, arms dealing, robbery and, of course, the default source of income for many cartels; drug trafficking.

Yes, it was clear who he was dealing with. No one needed to remind him how precarious the tightrope of influence was over the muddy waters of South America and he knew he had to be careful how he handled the upcoming meeting.

He drained his coffee mug with one long pull, put it down and reached in his shirt pocket for yet another cigarette.

Through the window, the agent could see a black 4X4 pull up. Two men in AUC uniform jumped out and hurried across to the hut where the agent waited.

The two Colombian paramilitary leaders entered and shook hands with the agent, formally introducing themselves according to the expected military protocol, even though everyone in the room knew who each other was.

Gustavo Bejarano, the leader of the AUC, a tall, gruff-looking man with pockmarked cheeks shook the agent’s hand. His subordinate, answering to the name Moreno, was a stout figure wearing mirrored sunglasses, which the agent would later figure out was a permanent fixture of his appearance no matter what the weather. Both men looked like gangsters in their ill-fitting uniforms. The agent also knew from his file that Bejarano had once been a member of the Medellin drugs cartel and had built a significant power base in Colombia off the back of it. The leader of the cartel, Pablo Escobar, lured two of Bejarano’s allies to the self-built La Catedral prison, accused them of betrayal, then murdered them both with his own hands. Bejarano had also been summoned on that day but strongly suspected he was in danger and didn’t go. After that incident, Bejarano allied himself with the rival Cali cartel against Escobar and from then on, the drug lord’s days were numbered.

“We welcome you to our base of operations,” grunted Bejarano, glancing down at the empty coffee mug on the table along with an open map.

“Well, I see you’ve had your coffee, so what have you got for us?”

The agent leaned over the map and pointed to a spot marked with a red cross. It was the identified location of a FARC camp (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia or Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia in Spanish), the Marxist-driven force that had plagued Colombia since the sixties.

“Our surveillance has identified this base where Commander Jiménez is in hiding – a mile over the Ecuadorian border across the Putumayo river. I’ll take point on the mission but leave the tactics to your excellent team,” he continued, deliberately stroking their egos. “However,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “I insist on going in with the first wave. I’m sure you’re well aware of the high possibility of detection by the FARC camp as well as from the Ecuadorian authorities, so I’d suggest finding a point to land the teams at least five klicks away and we make the rest of the way on foot. The terrain isn’t ideal, but the cover is good enough.”

“And what happens to Jiménez?” asked Bejarano, studying the agent closely with his beady eyes.

“As per our arrangement. We need an interrogation window to get what we want from him. After that, he’s all yours,” the agent replied, knowing full well that would be a green light for Jiménez’s death.

Moreno turned towards him, a flicker of a smile forming.

“So you know. We don’t f**k about down here. We will drain the sea to kill the fish, my friend.”

The agent nodded as if in agreement, but was not entirely sure of his meaning.

***

At dawn, two squads of six men moved silently through the jungle as they formed a dragnet around the FARC camp. As planned, two choppers had carried in the soldiers, dropping them off in an open clearing on the far side of the muddy Putumayo River, just inside the Ecuadorian border.

The agent, armed with standard-issue AK47 and dressed in AUC fatigues, tucked in just behind the main advance. When the camp was under a kilometre away he split off with a three-man squad of Moreno’s men in a pincer movement towards Jiménez’s supposed location at the East side of the camp.

They crouched down within sight of their target location – a long Nissen hut draped in camouflage nets. Behind it lay another cluster of smaller huts, all with the same netting. In the fresh morning air they heard the snuffling of pigs from some unseen stall and through the gaps between the buildings they caught a glimpse of an antenna dish.

The agent was concerned.

Too quiet.

Where the hell was everybody?

They didn’t have to wait long for the fireworks to begin. The first contact came within minutes. Crackling gunfire ripped apart the peaceful dawn, causing a chorus of animal screams and howls at their rude awakening. The small arms fire from the AUC gunman, west of the camp, increased in intensity.

The thump of explosive force ripped through the trees then a fireball engulfed one of the outside perimeter huts. That was the RPG team unleashing hell and their signal to move.

The squad leader, followed by the two privates, moved quickly to the target hut, weapons focused on the shuttered windows. There was a loud crack as a boot broke the door down and the soldiers stormed inside. The agent followed them in, his pistol in front of him.

The paramilitaries cleared each area inside the sparse accommodation that consisted of two bedrooms, a living area, toilet and a kitchen.

Empty.

No one home.

The agent in frustration kicked an empty crate that careered across the floor.

“Whatever was happening here is gone, we f*****g well missed it,” he hissed.

One of the soldiers glanced around casually, almost as if their enemy’s disappearance was entirely expected.

“All right. Go join your commander,” the agent said, reluctantly, before pulling open a bag of clothes that was lying on the floorboards.

The soldiers left just as a staccato of small arms fire resumed in the background. Commander Bejarano’s men were clearing out the last remnants of resistance and searching the camp.

The agent continued searching but found nothing except the evidence of a quick escape; strewn clothing, a broken radio, a coffee pot with still-dirty mugs placed on top of a makeshift table made from boxes and a section of flat wood. He reluctantly gave up and headed to the middle section of the camp to find Moreno.

The AUC soldiers had rounded up a small group of FARC survivors; all young, both male and female dressed in civilian clothes. Another three AUC men were stripping off the dark olive uniforms from the dead bodies of FARC guerrillas, leaving their corpses strewn on the ground dressed only in their underwear, limbs flailing in the mud. The agent counted ten men and four young women among the dead.

Another soldier came with a jerry can found amongst the camp supplies and placed it on the ground. Moreno looked up.

“No sign of our friend?”

“No, they must have had lookouts by the river,” the agent replied.

Moreno let out a low, guttural laugh. “Si, that is most likely. Your gringo technology doesn’t work so well out in this country. Perhaps you should leave the insurgent hunting to us.”

The agent ignored him and glanced around the now-quiet camp. There were cables tied to tree branches that led to the satellite dish he glimpsed earlier creating some early warning system for their communications. As smoke drifted lazily through the camp from the earlier explosion, he followed their line with his eyes and saw the cables led directly into the hut he had just searched.

Another FARC prisoner, a bit older than the others, stumbled into the central circle of prisoners, shoved by an AUC soldier who had found him. Moreno gestured impatiently to the soldier, who pushed him into a line with the other prisoners, then gestured at the gasoline.

The agent watched as the first male prisoner was doused in gasoline, the liquid running freely over his hair, face and exposed body. The man sobbed and begged, evidently realising what was happening.

“Where is Commander Jiménez?” Moreno demanded.

The man shook his head, refusing to open his eyes. “Please! Please! I do not know!”

This is interesting, the agent thought, taking out his cigarettes. A small part of him wanted to stop this apparent insanity, this drift into evil. The prisoners were all so young.

Yet it was also intriguing. Would these “hard” tactics produce the information needed? How many of them would Moreno burn to get what he wanted? These were unfortunate circumstances, and this was war, he reasoned. Even so, the agent steeled himself to watch.

Moreno asked again.

“Palma Roja, they went to Palma Roja!” the man blubbered between rapid gasps.

“Bullshit,” Moreno countered. He wore an expression of boredom as he fished out a box of windproof matches from his pocket.

The agent saw the match strike in Moreno’s hand, the flicker of flame drew all eyes toward it like bees to honey.

There was a pause, the silence thick with tension.

We will drain the sea, to kill the fish.

Then, with a casual flick of fingers, the match flew through the air. A small, fragile dancing flame – almost dying – just before the fuel on the prisoner ignited it back into life.