The Night Will Be Long, page 34
At around midnight, they called us in. The men were a little drunk now, and Egiswanda put on some music. I looked at them closely and tried to assess them. The oldest one was named Pedro, and he looked like your typical man from Cali: light-colored linen pants, yellow shirt, and white loafers without socks. The next one, Samuel, looked like he’d come straight from the office. Then Horacio, who was younger, around forty, with an athletic build and a blue striped shirt, and finally Abdón, very young, in a collarless shirt and jeans. I didn’t know who was who or what they did, but I observed them all carefully.
As far as I could figure out, they had called us in once they’d finished talking. Sometimes one of them would say something. They mentioned some lots in Menga, near the church, that Pastor Fritz would be interested in buying. It was the pastor himself who first invited me to dance. I agreed shyly, of course—he was the great guru, and Egiswanda was in the room. We danced, and he asked me how I felt, what I planned to do in the future, whether I’d found peace in the word of Christ. I replied enthusiastically that I had, and I even asked if the other people were pastors.
Not all of them, just him, he said, pointing to the youngest. He’s from Barranquilla. We’re going to build a branch of New Jerusalem there; that’s why he’s here.
After a little while, the party started heating up. Through dancing with the guests a bit and asking them questions, I was able to figure out that Samuel was from the legal team at the mayor’s office, a respectable-looking civil servant who spent his Saturday afternoons at work; Horacio, though, was in banking, and I figured he must be there for the financial aspects of the pastor’s real estate projects. Pedro, in the white loafers, remained a mystery, though my guess is he was police.
It was around then that the doorbell rang and Egiswanda opened the door. A short man with a clumsy, crooked tie that made him look like a low-level bureaucrat was there. When they saw him, the pastor and Pedro walked over and greeted him, but instead of inviting him into the living room they led him down one of the hallways farther into the apartment. Seeing that Egiswanda had gone to the women’s lounge, I decided to take my chances. I left Abdón, the young man from Barranquilla, saying I had to use the bathroom, and went down the same hallway. There were several doors, and one was the bathroom, but I kept going a little farther and saw another one ajar. They were inside; it was an office. Pastor Fritz was talking. “Are we sure everybody made it out?” he asked, and the newcomer said, “Yes, pastor, they’re all across the border. We’ll look after some of them in Quito and some in Cuenca until things calm down here.” The man in loafers broke in, patting the newcomer on the back. “I told you, Fritz, Gustavo’s a trustworthy guy. Plus he helped us shut down the police investigation into the Valle del Cauca incident. Let’s go back to the party. Everything’s good.” I managed to leap into the bathroom before they emerged, pulled out my cell phone, and sent my first message requesting identification of the person they were calling Gustavo.
When he got Wendy’s message, the prosecutor alerted Laiseca, who was hiding near the building entrance. He’d already made a note of and photographed the man’s arrival. But it wasn’t possible to identify him since he arrived in an SUV with tinted windows and was surrounded by a throng of bodyguards when he climbed out. The photos didn’t capture him clearly. All they had was his name. Jutsiñamuy texted his undercover agent, asking her to try to get a better photo there inside the house.
Agent KWK622’s account continues:
Feeling my phone buzz, I went out onto the balcony and read the boss’s message. There were bodyguards on either side of me, which made things a little difficult, but I managed to place my cell phone against the glass and take several photos without them noticing. I sent the photos and went back to the party, but soon another text arrived. “They can’t really make out the face of the man named Gustavo. Try to figure out his identity.”
In the living room, aguardiente was flowing freely. I had to have several glasses, though I watered them down. At one point the newcomer, sweating profusely, removed his jacket and hung it on the back of a dining-room chair. Here was my chance. I approached slowly, dancing, and patted it as I moved past. His wallet was there. I used Abdón, the pastor from Barranquilla, as a cover to move close to the jacket again, and I managed to pull the wallet out with two fingers and stick it under my skirt. Then I went to the bathroom, took photos of his ID card and driver’s license, and sent those, keeping an eye on the bodyguards on the balcony. When I returned to the living room, I saw a terrifying sight: at the other end of the room, mid-dance, the man called Gustavo was patting his pants pockets and then looking over at his jacket. He walked toward it, but I was closer. I pretended to trip on the chair and knock it over; the jacket fell to the floor, and I managed to slip the wallet into it. He reached me just a moment later and offered me his hand. “Did you hurt yourself, baby?” He helped me up and gathered his things. He stuck his wallet in his pocket and poured himself another whisky (there was whisky for the men).
A little while later I got the message from headquarters saying I should inform them of the number of bodyguards and their locations.
And leave the house immediately.
When he received Wendy’s photo of the ID card the man was carrying, Jutsiñamuy sent it to the technical office and a few minutes later had received a full identification. The ID, which was clearly a fake, claimed he was Alfredo Varela Hernández from Tuluá, but they were nevertheless able to identify him as Gustavo “The Umbrella” Manrique, from Buga, a former paramilitary fighter and army lieutenant, with two outstanding arrest warrants for “false positive” murders. Jutsiñamuy immediately called Laiseca.
“We’ve got to get Wendy out of there,” the prosecutor said. “The guy who showed up is paramilitary with arrest warrants from seven years ago. His name is Gustavo ‘The Umbrella’ Manrique. This pastor’s buddies are something else, huh?”
“Well, boss, all those people are really into Christ—or do you think Carlos Castaño was Muslim? No way.”
“All right, Laiseca,” the prosecutor said, “tell me what you think. Do I call for backup and we do this thing, or do we wait till tomorrow?”
“The problem I see right now, boss, is that the place is probably full of bodyguards, and we could end up in a real bitch of a gun battle, with who knows what outcome. But if we leave it till tomorrow, they’ll disappear. If the man’s been on the run for seven years, he must know how to get around. I don’t know, I can’t decide.”
They let a few seconds pass in silence.
“Let’s wait till they’ve had a few drinks,” Laiseca said, “and we’ll catch them when they’ve got their pants down. Or we can get them on their way out.”
“Yes, that’s great, once Wendy’s left,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Listen, it’s likely someone will take her home—I doubt they’re going to call her an Uber, for security reasons. So we can grab them at that point and return to the building in their vehicle. A Trojan 4x4 SUV with tinted windows.”
“That seems like the best plan, boss,” Laiseca said. “Legally speaking, are we covered?”
“Absolutely,” the prosecutor said. “I’ll get everything set up and request backup for the raid. It would be worth it just to bring Gustavo in. If we can nab the pastor too, that’s a bonus.”
“You’re a Napoleon, boss.”
“Stop fawning, damn it,” the prosecutor said. “Get to work!”
Jutsiñamuy called one of his colleagues at the Cali prosecutor’s office, brought him up to speed, and explained the situation and described the occupants of the apartment. He noted that there were people from the mayor’s office and maybe from the police, so the operation needed to be executed with great care. Highly trusted agents only.
Half an hour later, the Cali prosecutor called back.
“I’ve got it all set up,” he said, “a dozen trustworthy, highly professional men. We got the blueprints for the building. Should we put in for a helicopter?”
“These people are tough, well armed. You can’t be too careful,” Jutsiñamuy said.
Special Agent KWK622’s account continues:
The men started getting really drunk. The first couple to pair up was the pastor from Barranquilla, Abdón, with Piriqueta. They writhed against each other as they danced, then grabbed a couple of glasses of aguardiente and a baggie of coke and snuck off down one of the hallways. I wondered, What do I do? Dredging up my training, I opted for the tried-and-true fainting technique.
In preparation, I wiped all recent information from my cell phone. There’s no real mystery or science to this move. Basically, you do something bizarre in front of everyone and then pass out. So I did. I picked up a glass of aguardiente, which was actually less than a quarter liquor because I’d added a bunch of water, and started dancing with Don Pedro. Halfway through the song I rested my head on his shoulder and slumped to the floor, careful not to hit my head on anything.
From there it was a breeze. I heard someone calling my name, sensed someone kneeling beside me; I was picked up and carried to a bedroom; there I opened my eyes and said I felt sick, with a terrible headache and nausea. “Do you want someone to take you home?” Egiswanda asked, and I said yes. “You’re not used to this, poor thing,” she said.
She got up and called two drivers.
I didn’t go back through the living room, I went out through the kitchen door to a service elevator. They helped me into an SUV, I gave them my address, and we took off. A few blocks later, two SUVs blocked our path. They were full of agents from the prosecutor’s office.
Seven agents returned to the building in Juanambú crammed into a single SUV. This allowed them to enter the parking deck without having to identify themselves. Suspecting nothing, the doorman and three bodyguards in the lobby waved them through.
Jutsiñamuy’s Trojan horse was inside. Two agents headed to the elevator; the rest, having located the cameras, avoided them by weaving between the cars. They all went up together and got off a floor early, on the thirteenth. Stealthily, they climbed up to the fourteenth floor via the stairs. The bodyguards out in the hall put up some resistance, but they’d been drinking and were slow to react. They were disarmed before they had the chance to go for their weapons.
The agents entered the apartment.
The music was pounding, and it was as dark as a nightclub, so they were able to spread out along the sides of the room before anybody noticed them. The bodyguards on the balcony were nodding off and easily neutralized. At an order, the agents turned on the lights and stopped the music. Nobody resisted; instead there was laughter and an angry face or two. Gustavo the Umbrella put up his hands and looked around, but seeing that his people were in cuffs, he moved his hands, calling for calm. The bodyguards from the lobby took off running, maybe on instinct, and additional agents swarmed into the building.
Laiseca and Cancino were with them.
They called Jutsiñamuy.
“We’re in the man’s apartment, boss,” Laiseca said.
“Everybody rounded up?” Jutsiñamuy asked.
“I’m counting and there are two missing,” Laiseca said. “I don’t see the hosts, the pastor and the Brazilian woman.”
They searched the hallways, went up to the roof, went down floor by floor to the parking area. The doorman, who was with an agent, hadn’t seen anybody on the security monitors.
How had they gotten out?
They couldn’t evacuate every apartment in the building. They rewound the cameras and saw only themselves entering.
They searched thoroughly. Not a trace. Pastor Fritz and Egiswanda had disappeared.
If they’d been arrested, Pastor Fritz and Egiswanda would have been held a couple of days at most. All they would have had to do was show they didn’t know about Gustavo the Umbrella’s record, and they would have been released. Same with everybody else. By running, they’d incriminated themselves, justifying the subsequent actions taken. The women were luckier, and were released as soon as they’d been booked.
The arrest warrant was transmitted to the police. At six A.M. on Sunday, twenty-four agents raided the headquarters of New Jerusalem Church and confiscated everything, down to the last notebook. The prosecutor’s office was hoping to prove the connection between Gustavo the Umbrella and Pastor Fritz. Based on Wendy’s testimony, it seemed clear that Gustavo was a secret head of security for the pastor, probably the one who’d led his defense in the combat by the Ullucos River.
Jutsiñamuy was eager to hear from his friend Julieta with confirmation from the Brazilian side. The idea provoked some uneasiness, since despite all the progress they’d made in the investigation, much of it was still only a theory. A house of cards.
On Monday, he got to the office at 6:05 A.M. He was impatient. He knew that at such an early hour it was unlikely he’d get any news that would bolster the weekend’s events. He was walking down the hall to make a cup of tea with water from the urn when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.
A message from Julieta—just what he’d been hoping for!
I have everything now—I’m heading your way. I’ll arrive tomorrow or the day after. We can confirm Mr. F’s identity. Please investigate a Colombian by the name of Arturo Silva Amador.
Despite his excitement, he kept it under wraps. He merely responded, Great. I’ll be expecting you. We’ve got some surprises here too.
Immediately he called the technical unit.
“Is Guillermina in yet?” he asked the secretary, who was probably finishing her night shift.
“Of course, sir, I’ll put you through.”
There was a silence.
“Hello? Good morning.”
Jutsiñamuy recognized the voice and said, “My dear, you and I must be the only ones working at this time of day, ready for action.”
“Oh, boss,” his former secretary said, “that’s because to fix all the messes in this country, you have to get an early start. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a name for you. Write this down: Arturo Silva Amador.”
“Anything in particular?”
“All of it, from his very first baby bottle.”
“Count on me, boss. I’ll start digging.”
He hung up, wondering why the hell Guillermina was no longer his secretary. But he knew: a promotion. If he ever became prosecutor general, he’d hire her to his staff.
It was only 6:27 A.M. Maybe he should go to Cali, he thought. They’d be doing the initial interrogations of Gustavo the Umbrella, and would bring him to Bogotá in the afternoon. Maybe even by lunchtime.
His phone rang again. It was Laiseca.
“Good morning, boss. I’ve got good news for you.”
“Oh, shit, what’s up?”
“Do you remember Beilys David, the Afro-Colombian kid from the Jamundí Inn?”
“Of course, who could forget him?” Jutsiñamuy said.
“He called me a little while ago to say he had information to sell. I’m here with him, because his shift starts in ten minutes. He’s holding a page from El País with photos of the people killed in the cafés, and you know what he says? He recognized them all. They were some of the guys who used to come with the Brazilian.”
“Oh, great. Tell him he won’t be able to work today. I’m leaving for Cali now. Hold him there for me; I want to talk to him.”
“All right, boss,” Laiseca said, dubious. “But remember I made an agreement and gave him my word nothing would happen to him.”
“Tell him he has to stay with you on my orders.”
Jutsiñamuy heard muffled conversation.
“All right, boss. No problem. I’ll take him to pick you up at the airport.”
“Well done, the law comes first,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Tell him I applaud him for doing the right thing.”
“As if, boss. The first thing he did was ask me for more money. This guy’s a real piece of work.”
At 8:45 A.M. the prosecutor landed at Bonilla Aragón Airport on an Avianca flight that, for once, hadn’t been delayed or overbooked. Laiseca and Cancino were waiting for him with the witness.
“You’re sure you saw them?” Jutsiñamuy asked Beilys once they were in the car.
“Sir, look, a man does change when he gets shot in the head,” Beilys said, “but not that much. I saw those men at the Jamundí Inn, and I remember them. They were with the Brazilian and the other guy, the one your partner showed me . . . The one who showed up on the side of the road.”
“Óscar Luis Pedraza or Nadio Becerra?” Cancino asked.
“No, I don’t know his name,” Beilys said. “The guy from before. The one who was the boss.”
Cancino pulled out the photos again. Beilys pointed to Óscar Luis Pedraza.
“That’s the guy who brought them in. I took them to the bungalows, and there was a screw-up because one of the reservations was wrong and they got a room with a double bed by mistake; the men made jokes and ribbed each other, you know? The boss told them, all right, well, you’re stuck with sharing a bed, decide which one’s going to wear the pink pajamas. They joked around for a while, and I had to go back to reception and get them a room with separate beds—there aren’t many because the inn mostly gets couples.”
The traffic was heavy heading into the city, lots of trucks. They passed the Poker beer plant and the Colombina candy factory. The Rey del Mundo Hotel.
