Bloodline (13 page)

Pedro sipped on his beer and eyed Oscar Bernardo. “You know why I want to get near Javier Rastano, but why are you so willing to help? What's in it for you?”

Bernardo's steel-gray eyes bore into Pedro's for the better part of thirty seconds before he answered. “Rastano is a prick. He's an arrogant, ruthless, Colombian bastard.”

“True. But that doesn't answer the question. What's your motive?”

Bernardo spread out both his arms on the back of the couch. “Three years ago, my little brother was fifteen. He was in Escalón selling raffle tickets for his football team. They were at the gate to the Rastano estate, trying to get the guards to let them in when Javier drove up in his Ferrari. My brother leaned on his car and held up the tickets so Rastano could see what he was trying to sell. Rastano went ape-shit. He jumped out of the car, raced around to the passenger's side and threw my brother to the ground. Then he started screaming that my brother had scratched his car with the rivets on his jeans. He grabbed an M-16 from one of his guards and pumped six bullets into my brother. Murdered him right in the street.”

“But there were witnesses,” Pedro said. “Even in San Salvador some things are too brutal to ignore. There should have been a trial.”

Bernardo laughed. But it was cynical, not joyous. “The police were going to file charges, until the witnesses either had accidents or couldn't remember exactly what happened. Then I got pulled aside and told in very simple terms that if I ever even looked sideways at Javier Rastano, my entire family would be killed. Every brother, sister, cousin, in-law, and my parents. I can't move against Javier Rastano myself. But you can.”

Pedro nodded. “Okay, you set up the bout, I'll be there.”

“I won't be there,” Oscar said. “And whatever you do, don't mention my name.”

“Never,” Pedro said, shaking Bernardo's hand.

“By the way, good luck getting into Rastano's estate. Word on the street is that he's holding a couple of women somewhere inside the house. Could be your friend's wife and daughter.”

Pedro nodded. He thanked Bernardo again, then claimed his gun and left the club. He returned to the street, quiet in comparison to the lively nightclub, and hailed a cab. He gave the driver the address to his hotel and sat back. The cab smelled of incense and a tiny statue of the Virgin Mary dangled from the rear view mirror. Julie and Shiara were probably in Javier's house. That was good news; Eugene would be pleased. But now he had to think about boxing. He hadn't set foot in a ring for almost two years. True, he had been an excellent fighter back when he made his run at the Olympic boxing team, but never quite good enough. And two years was a long time without lacing up the gloves. Still…

He dialed Eugene's number on the cell phone, and when his friend answered he asked the driver to stop at a small park and jumped out of the cab. The last thing he needed was some cabbie going to Javier Rastano with a story of what he overheard in the back seat of his hack. He strolled across a stretch of grass to a bench and sat down, watching the cab and the street traffic as he said hello.

Eugene's first words were, “Do you have any information on Julie and Shiara?”

“Not for sure, but the word on the street is that Rastano has a couple of women at his estate. Might be Julie and Shiara, but no guarantees. And I may get a chance to meet personally with Javier on Friday.”

“That's excellent news,” Eugene exclaimed. “Let's hope the word on the street is right.” He paused for a second, then asked, “How could you meet him? Rastano, I mean.”

Pedro explained the meeting with Oscar Bernardo at the club, minus the young woman with the sore head. “This Bernardo guy absolutely hates Javier Rastano, but he can't do a thing or his entire family gets whacked. Pretty sick stuff.”

“Typical for Colombians. What are your chances of turning Rastano's head at the bout?”

“I don't know,” Pedro said, his voice now uncertain. “I haven't been in the ring in two years, and I have no idea whether the guy I'll be facing is a good fighter or a bum. I won't know until I'm face to face with him.”

“Well, don't get your head pounded in,” Eugene said.

“I'll try not to. This is going to be my only shot at getting a look at how Rastano lives.”

“Beat him senseless, Pedro. Impress Rastano.”

“Yeah, okay, Eugene. But how are you? How are things in El Paso?”

“Oh, man, you won't believe what's happening here. One of the top DEA guys in the United States flew in from Washington, and a high-ranking CIA agent is here as well. They worked together in Colombia back when the U.S. was helping the Colombian army find Pablo. They seem to be taking my situation pretty seriously.”

“That's great news,” Pedro said. “Have they got any ideas?”

“Well, they knew about the bank account the Rastano's insist is theirs. They were monitoring it and saw the debits.”

“More good news, Eugene. Anything else?”

“Nothing right now.”

“I'll call again on Friday. Maybe later in the day. I'm not sure.”

“Okay, talk to you then.”

The line died, and Pedro snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into his suit pocket. Things were moving ahead for both of them. Now all he had to do was keep from getting his ass kicked on Friday, and maybe he'd get an inside look at Javier Rastano. That or one hell of a headache.

Chapter Fifteen

Julie Escobar slowly turned up the volume on the television. It helped cover the sounds of her scraping metal against metal. A slight noise at the door caused both her and Shiara to jerk around and stare at the door handle. It didn't move and Julie returned to the task at hand.

“We'll never get it to fit the screw head,” her daughter said quietly. “It's too thick.”

“It'll fit,” Julie said, taking a moment from rubbing the two pieces of metal together to stroke her daughter's hair. “And when we get it to fit, we'll find a way out of here.”

The basement room in which they were imprisoned was well designed, most likely for exactly its current use. It had no windows and only one door, which was constructed of steel. The interior walls were cinder block covered with drywall, the exterior was solid concrete. There were no telephone jacks or cable connections, just a DVD hooked up to the solitary television. A convection microwave substituted for a stove, and although there was a fully stocked fridge, not one container was glass and all utensils were plastic. The mirrors were stainless steel. But even with such foresight, their prison still had one weakness: the heating and air-conditioning system.

To supply the five-room suite with enough fresh oxygen, and to keep that air at the correct temperature, required a larger than normal duct. That duct was positioned about six inches from the ceiling in the main room, and covered by a heavy metal screen. The opening was less than two feet across and eighteen inches high. It was too small for a man to navigate, but just big enough for a small woman, or a fifteen year-old girl. The grate covering the duct was tightly affixed by eight heavy screws, and fashioning a tool to twist those screws out of their housings was what Julie Escobar was working on. Her screwdriver was a metal clip off the back of the fridge and she was using the rough, rear edge of the DVD player to shape the end of the clip to fit the screw heads. It was slow going, but after four days, it was close to becoming usable.

“What's going to happen to us, Mom?” Shiara asked. “Why are we here?” It wasn't the first time she'd asked the questions.

Julie set the clip on the carpet and pulled her daughter close. Involuntarily, her hand went to her daughter's bandage and lightly touched it. Both women's hands were healing now that the doctor had visited and left them salve and clean bandages. “Whatever it is your father is doing for these thugs, he'll be successful. He won't fail us, Shiara. He never has, and he won't start now.”

“I want to believe that, Mom, but we're completely at their mercy. And we're a long way from home. We flew on that plane for hours. How will Dad ever find us?”

“Have faith, Shiara. And don't forget we've got a shot at freeing ourselves.” She tilted her head slightly toward the air-conditioning duct. “That has to go somewhere.”

“Yeah. To an air-conditioner.”

“Every cooling and heating system needs fresh air, Shiara. There's a vent to the outside somewhere along the line. We'll find it.”

“I'm so scared.” She grabbed Julie and held her tight. “I don't want to die, Mom.” Tears flowed and Julie dabbed at them with a tissue.

“Have faith in your father, Shiara,” she said softly. “He's a resourceful man.” She didn't tell her daughter that her father could also be more dangerous than a cornered wolverine. Could be something to do with the Escobar blood that ran through his veins.

Chapter Sixteen

They occupied a room especially designed for research by a small team. Six computers sat on the polished oak desks, all tied into EPIC's mainframe, and capable of accessing restricted databases at Langley and ten other agencies. All six had dedicated ADSL lines and color laser printers and scanners. To highlight the urgency of the situation, they set up a calendar on Landry's desk and X'd off each day with a red pencil. A large whiteboard covered one wall, a twelve-by-twelve cork board another wall, and the final two walls were home to hundreds of research books and catalogs. Every subject, from serial killers to the chemical composition of illicit drugs, was there for the asking. A few of the texts, those concerning the Medellín and Cali drug cartels, were spread over the central table, but most of the research data was coming from DEA and CIA databases.

Cathy Maxwell was working the case files from 1981 to 1993, both DEA and CIA, while Alexander Landry pieced together where Pablo Escobar's immediate, and not so immediate, family were living. Eugene was working with Landry, identifying the huge assortment of uncles, aunts, cousins and so on, while Eduardo Garcia was the gofer. He was enjoying the role, which gave him the opportunity to rub shoulders with the brass from two of the country's premier spy agencies.

After a few hours, Eugene and Alexander Landry had split the family into two distinct divisions on the white board. On the left side were the relatives who had shown disdain for Pablo's career choice. On the right side was a much smaller collection of names: those who found the money and power that emanated from Pablo too much to resist. Pablo's immediate family—his wife, Maria Victoria; his son, Juan Pablo; and his daughter, Manuela—were all on the right, as was his brother Roberto. His sister, Luz Maria, and another brother, Argemiro, were firmly planted on the left.

“Argemiro and my father would have nothing to do with Pablo's lifestyle. When he called and asked us to visit him at Nápoles, you didn't refuse. But my father hated the violence. So did Argemiro. In fact, Argemiro and Luz Maria fled Colombia to Costa Rica. But the Colombian government found them and complained to the Costa Rican government, and had them deported. The government thought immediate family would provide good leverage for bringing Pablo out of hiding. They liked to keep us close by.”

“But your family lived in Venezuela,” Landry pointed out.

“My mother was a Venezuelan citizen, so they couldn't deport us. My parents were much happier in Venezuela than in Colombia. We were almost totally removed from the
narco
violence.”

“Okay,” Landry said to Eduardo Garcia, looking over the eleven different names on the right side of the whiteboard. “I want telephone logs from everyone who supported Pablo's drug business. Land lines, cell phones, the whole enchilada. I want to know who called them, when and how long they stayed on the phone. I'm really interested in any calls coming in from South or Central America.”

“Yes, sir,” Garcia said, pleased to have a specific task assigned to him. “It's going to take a day or two at least. Each person is going to have a different telephone provider.”

“Get it done as quickly as you can,” Landry replied.

“If Pablo is alive, do you think he'd risk talking to his family?” Eugene asked Landry.

Landry shrugged. “Maybe. I think Juan Pablo is the most obvious. When Pablo was on the run in the early '90s, he found ways to speak with Juan Pablo despite our efforts to pinpoint him. He drove Centra Spike crazy with his technology. Whatever money could buy, Pablo had it. And even though the Centra Spike guys had the newest gear from the U.S. military, they still couldn't catch him. So if he took the risk of talking with Juan Pablo back when he knew we were listening, he could well be talking with his son now.”

“The risk is probably greater now,” Cathy Maxwell interjected. “Back then we knew he was alive. Until two days ago, we thought he was dead. He's got a lot more to lose now that he's living a secret life somewhere.”

Landry gave her an inquisitive look. “You sound convinced he's alive.”

Maxwell's face flushed. “It wouldn't surprise me.”

Landry chewed on the end of his pen for a minute, then said, “Why don't we look closely at Pablo's supporters at the time he was supposedly killed. Who was still on good terms with him?”

Cathy shook her head and her hair whipped about her shoulders. “I can hardly think of one person of any importance who wanted Pablo alive. The Ochoa brothers were his partners until the bitter end, but I think they stayed with him out of fear rather than loyalty.”

“You're kidding,” Eugene said. “Are you talking about Jorge, Fabio and Juan David?”

“Yes, the Ochoa brothers. That surprises you?”

“That the Ochoa family was scared of Pablo, yes. Christ, they were billionaires and all three of them were equally as ruthless as my cousin.”

“Don't bet on it,” Landry said, leaning on the central table. “Nobody, not even The Mexican was in the same league with Pablo when it came to terrorizing people. I don't think there was a soul on the planet who didn't take Escobar seriously. One word from him and you were a dead man. No exceptions, no exclusions. He liked killing people, Eugene. Do you know what his favorite way was of disposing with those he disliked?”

“Can't say I do,” Eugene replied, not really wanting to know.

“He liked to hang them upside down and set them on fire.”

The room was silent. Then Cathy said, “Suffice it to say he was, or is, a heartless creature. If he's alive, we need to find him and kill him.”

Eugene's face suddenly flushed. He said, “That's why you don't want to pull in any more agents. You don't want your hands tied when you finally track him down. You want to dole out your own justice on the spot.”

Maxwell looked like she was going to erupt. “He's not getting away again, Eugene.”

Eugene held his hands up. “Okay. But let's not forget what the objective is here. We need that ten-digit code. Without it, or Pablo alive and kicking, my wife and daughter are dead.”

“It's a big world out there, and he could be anywhere. You need us to find him. And when we do, we'll get your ten-digit code. But after that, I suggest you turn your back or leave the room.”

Eugene, Eduardo and Alexander stared at the woman. Her veneer of civility was gone. Her hands were clenched in tight fists, the single sheet of paper she held was crushed beyond smoothing. Slowly, she relaxed and set the crumpled ball on the desk next to the printer. Then she calmly maneuvered the mouse to the print button and reprinted the page.

“I may want him dead, Eugene,” she said, her voice smooth and steady. “But there is another reason why Alexander and I want this operation to stay completely covert. During the time we were tracking your cousin through Medellín and across the Colombian countryside, we had a leak. Someone inside one of our organizations was dirty. They were feeding Escobar information that allowed him to stay ahead of us. And I'm not willing to have that happen again. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“I understand,” Eugene said, glad for the explanation.

Landry brought the conversation back on topic. “While Agent Garcia looks over the phone logs, I'll be checking with Customs and Immigration to see which of Pablo's relatives have been using their passports in the past few years. But that only gives us the international flights.”

“Check their frequent flyer miles,” Cathy Maxwell said. “They may have used frequent flyer miles from their credit card or one of the airlines to take a domestic flight.”

“Excellent idea,” Landry said, making a note in his book. He swiveled around in his chair and directed his next question at Eugene. “Have you heard from your friend in San Salvador? The one trying to track down your wife and daughter.”

Eugene had given this a fair amount of thought and knew exactly how to answer. Pedro was
his
ace in the hole, and he wasn't about to hand over control of his inside man to the task force. He could sense by now that it was in Maxwell and Landry's nature to take charge of situations, and that wasn't going to happen with Pedro. “No, I haven't,” he replied evenly. “I thought he might have called by now, but we agreed that if there was nothing to talk about, we wouldn't call.”

“You should try calling him,” Landry said. “You never know.”

Eugene shook his head. “No. He may be in a compromised situation, and a phone call could raise suspicions. I'll just wait for him.”

“Okay,” Landry said, irritated at Eugene's firm stance. “Whatever you say.”

A knock on the door interrupted them, and one of the junior agents stuck her head in. She held a page off a memo pad in her hand.

“Mr. Landry, this gentleman called for you a few minutes ago. I thought you'd like to know.”

Alexander Landry took the paper, thanked the woman, and glanced at the name. His lips turned down, and frown lines appeared on his forehead. He swallowed and said, “It appears our little group just got bigger.” He handed the paper to Cathy Maxwell. She looked at the name and shook her head.

“What's wrong?” Eugene asked.

“It's a summons from one of our old colleagues. He wants us to fly up to Kentucky and meet with him concerning our sudden interest in Pablo Escobar.”

“You don't like him for some reason?” Eugene asked.

“He's just not someone you trifle with,” Alexander said. “We've just lost control of our investigation.”

He handed the scrap of paper across to Eugene. On it were three words and a telephone number.

Senator Irwin Crandle.