Bloodline (8 page)

“Surprise, surprise,” Eugene said sarcastically. “How come Martinez couldn't locate him using some sort of electronic device? He had access to CIA technology.”

“Pablo used to talk about that all the time. He had a telephone that used a higher range than normal; 120 to 140 MHz, I think. Martinez couldn't trace the calls.”

“Smart fellow, our deceased cousin.” Eugene took a small sip of beer.

“Yeah. It really pissed off Martinez. They talked about the colonel a lot. I could tell whether Martinez was closing in or completely lost by what Pablo said to his son. One time, he said,
We all know what Martinez wants. I should just give it to him.
”

“Now that's an interesting thing to say.” Eugene pondered the statement. Then asked, “When did Pablo start growing a beard?”

Raphael looked puzzled. “He never grew a beard. Just that shitty little mustache that never seemed to fill in. He shaved every day.”

Eugene's mind was racing, but he pushed the issue no further. “He stayed here for two weeks. What the hell did he do all day? This place isn't very big.”

Raphael showed no signs of being insulted by the remark. “I don't know. He slept every day until after noon, got up and showered, drank some coffee and smoked a bit of weed. He stayed out of the sun; almost like he didn't want to tan. He liked to watch movies and just before dinner he rode on his bicycle.”

“What?” Eugene said, sitting up. “What bicycle?”

“One of those stationary ones. You peddle like a crazy asshole for half an hour and don't move an inch. He'd be sweating like a pig when he was finished. Always took another shower, then had dinner.”

“Pizza?” Eugene asked, knowing it had been Pablo's favorite food.

Raphael shook his head. “Never. He ate chicken, vegetables, brown bread and lots of fruit.”

Eugene polished off his beer over the course of the next hour, pumping Raphael for anything else he could remember about Pablo's stay. Mostly it was useless information, but the trip yielded more than he thought it would. He shook Raphael's hand at the front door, waved and slid into the backseat of the taxi. It was late afternoon and cooking odors wafted out from the neighboring houses into the street. He gave the man an address on Carrera 51 and sat back, watching the residents of one of the world's most infamous cities go about their daily routines. Things had changed in Medellín with the demise of the drug cartels, at least on the surface. Pablo Escobar, Carlos Lehder and the Ochoa brothers were gone, but in their place were Mario and Javier Rastano, and God knew who else. The drug trade wasn't dead, just legitimized. Javier Rastano had achieved what Pablo Escobar had dreamed of doing: living the life of a respected Colombian businessman while amassing hundreds of millions of
narco
dollars in foreign accounts. At least there was one positive spin to the whole affair. The level of violence was down, and the citizens of Medellín weren't walking about looking over their shoulders.

They arrived at the address and Eugene reminded the driver of his reward for being patient. Again, the man smiled and settled in to wait. Eugene walked across the sidewalk and into the grassy expanse of Cementerio San Pedro. He walked on the winding path until he reached a gravesite adjacent to a large expanse of unused field. Small bushes ringed the site and wrought-iron bars curved over the slightly raised earth. The headstone was average for the cemetery, and above it was a picture of Pablo Escobar in a suit and tie. A few visitors were at the grave, and Eugene waited until they had gone before he stood next to the carefully tended tourist attraction.

He was silent for a couple of minutes, then he said, “You're not in there, are you?” He stared at the picture, a good one of Pablo that didn't show much of his double chin or heavy jowls. He looked like an average Colombian citizen who died at an early age. Eugene was alone at the graveside and he spoke aloud to the testament to his cousin.

“When you were killed, you had a beard. Yet less than two months before you died, you were shaving every day. Look at that mustache, Pablo. It's pitiful. It would take you the better part of three or four months to grow a beard. And you stopped eating pizza. You never ate healthy or worked out in your life. You know what I think? You had some poor bastard altered surgically to look exactly like you, fattened him up and probably even burnt your fingerprints onto his with a laser. Then you set up him and Limón by giving them a phone Martinez could trace. You had the imposter grow a beard to disguise the exact shape of his face. And then you left Colombia, with a smaller waistline and countless millions in banks around the world. Your own words, Pablo:
We all know what Martinez wants. I should just give it to him.
Martinez wanted you dead, and you gave him that. Except you didn't die, you just disappeared. Somewhere.”

A couple paused, hand-in-hand, by the grave, and spoke about the good things Pablo Escobar had done for the city of Medellín, then moved on. Eugene couldn't help shaking his head at the lunacy. Sure, the man had built some soccer stadiums and constructed homes in some of the most squalid slums, but his legacy was one of brutality and conquest, not diplomacy and kindness. He glanced at the grave one last time before leaving the cemetery.

“Where are you, Pablo Escobar?” he asked in a hushed tone. The life of his wife and daughter hung on him finding the answer.

Chapter Nine

Pedro Parada was home.

Home in El Salvador, the country whose government's response to civil unrest was to create death squads that killed indiscriminately and tortured innocent citizens.

Home to the smallest Central American country, but one that bore the dubious honor of being the most dangerous country in the world. A fact backed by statistics that showed a homicide rate almost twice that of Colombia.

Home to a country finally at peace after a horrific twelve-year civil war that threatened to rid the country of any sanity or civility it had achieved since the Mayans ruled the virgin rainforests.

And home to some of the friendliest, most peace-loving, simple people God had ever placed on the planet. It was an ugly irony.

He walked through the San Salvador terminal, his step light and purposeful. The building was similar to many American airports, with wide halls and high ceilings. Restaurants and colorful kiosks stocked with brand-name products were plentiful, and Salvadorians in Armani and Versace strolled the tiled corridors, their arms laden with bags of duty-free merchandise. He passed the open-air patio, an oasis of palms and ornate benches where travelers sat and watched the incoming and outgoing flights.

Outside the terminal was the usual line of taxis vying for business. He chose a brightly painted yellow cab whose driver was young and eager. The driver quoted a price to drop Pedro off in central San Salvador, but Pedro just smiled and shook his head. He turned toward the next driver in the queue and was rewarded with a price almost half the first driver's. Pedro slid into the back seat, a warm sensation running down his spine. It was good to be home.

He had the driver stop at the market midway between the airport and San Salvador, a popular spot for grabbing a traditional meal before hitting the congestion of the city. Pedro searched out his favorite stand and found it still operating, the stooped and aging vendor serving the same pupusas as when he was a child. She gave him a toothless grin when he ordered, and he wondered if she remembered him. He paid for two, but when he picked up his order, three of the cornmeal and refried bean staples were on the plate, with a side of
curtido.
He sat at a picnic bench off to one side, topped the pupusas with the pickled cabbage and a touch of hot sauce and watched and listened to the crowd bartering back and forth over prices and discussing the latest football match. He finished his meal and stopped by the booth, dropping an American twenty on the counter before heading back for the taxi. He gave the old lady a wave as she shouted “
Gracias, gracias.
” The flies were thick, the air was oppressively hot and humid and the roads congested with smoke-belching beaters. God, it was good to be back.

San Salvador hadn't changed one iota in the year he had spent working in Venezuela. When they reached El Centro, he paid the driver and continued along Avenue Independencia on foot. He dodged the buses as they roared down the streets, passengers clinging to whatever handhold they could find, reminded that his father had been killed by a micro-bus that had failed to stop after running him over. Pedro briefly wondered if more people were murdered in San Salvador or run over by buses. Whatever the count, both were high. A couple of gang members approaching him on the crowded sidewalk veered slightly into his path. He looked away and crossed to the other side. Confrontation with anyone who had gang tattoos was stupid at the best of times, but without a gun in your waistband it was suicide. They passed him with some remark about his mother and sister, but Pedro just ignored them and kept moving. He didn't look back, knowing any eye contact at this point would result in a fight. He turned at the next corner and slipped into one of the many bars along the strip. He sat at a table in the back. He could see the street, but it would be difficult for anyone in the bright sun to make out his face. A few moments later the two gang members sauntered past. They glanced in, but kept moving.

Welcome home. He needed a gun.

The bar was one of the nicer ones in El Centro, moderately busy for midafternoon, its clientele a mixture of office workers and unemployed men with a few dollars to spend. Pedro knew that within walking distance were a hundred bars that would make this one look like a lounge in the Ritz. He ordered a beer and nursed it for twenty minutes, time enough for his friends to get their mind on mugging someone else. He paid the tab and walked quickly back to the main drag, his eyes searching out a specific address. He found it halfway down a block a few hundred yards farther to the west. The tiny numbers were nailed above a door squeezed between an electronics shop and a deli that served fresh
frijoles
and
panes.
He knocked on the door and waited. A tiny peephole in the thick wood flipped open, and a moment later the door creaked back on its hinges.

“Pedro?” the woman asked. She was about fifty, with a round face and sagging cheeks. The rest of her body was an extension of her face, flabby with little form. She held out her arms, and Pedro gave her a hug.

“Minerva,” he said, holding her at arm's length. “You look great.”

“Shush, you,” the woman chastised him. “I've grown fat since you left.”

“More of you to love,” Pedro said, giving her a disarming smile. “Is Alfredo in?”

She nodded and pointed to the narrow flight of stairs leading to the apartment above the retail shop fronting onto the boulevard. Pedro climbed the stairs and she followed, puffing by the time she reached the top riser. The interior of the apartment was in stark contrast to the simple entrance. The floors were gleaming hardwood, inlaid with ebony designs of ancient Mayan symbols, and the walls were painted in soft colors and decorated with masks that pre-dated the arrival of the Spaniards. A solitary south-facing window flooded the room with natural light. An overweight man in his late fifties entered the main room from a hallway. He broke into a wide grin when he recognized his guest.

“Pedro Parada,” he said, extending his hand. “You're finally back from Venezuela.”

“Just visiting,” Pedro said, shaking the man's hand.

Alfredo Augustino, a close friend of Pedro's father, shook his head. The rest of him seemed to shake with the same motion as his head, just out of phase. The result was a large, jiggling mass that reminded Pedro of Jabba the Hut. Alfredo ran his chubby fingers through his thinning hair and scowled. “Pedro, this city is crowded with gangs and drug smokers. Those people I would like to see leave. But you, you are a good man, honest and hard-working. It would be nice if you moved back. I would hire you and pay you well.”

Pedro smiled tiredly, a smile he reserved almost exclusively for Alfredo. How many times had the man begged him to move back to the dangerous streets of San Salvador with the promise of good pay and a nice place to live? Pedro had perfected that smile while saying no, although the offer was attractive. Alfredo ran an auto parts store in El Centro, supplying used parts that helped keep thousands of wrecks on the already congested streets. He also had a monopoly providing new parts to the city's Mercedes owners, at jacked-up prices that would make even Bill Gates blush. On the surface he appeared to be completely legitimate. But everyone needs a hobby, and Alfredo was no exception. His hobby was peddling guns.

Guns in El Salvador, especially San Salvador, were as common as cell phones in New York. But the guns Alfredo sold went one step beyond what the average dealer could lay his hands on. Light submachine guns and RPGs were the norm, with heavy caliber fully automatic tripod- mounted weapons on the upper end. He was careful whom he sold to, and a direct result of his discretion was that he was still alive. And very wealthy. He kept a few on hand in his home, but most were in a secure warehouse in an industrial sector of the city. As someone who referred business, and whom Alfredo explicitly trusted, Pedro had visited the storage facility numerous times. But what he needed now was most likely close by, in the house.

“What brings you back to El Salvador?” Alfredo asked as they sat on comfortable brogue furniture. Minerva disappeared into the kitchen.

“A friend lost something. I'm helping him find it and get it back.”

Alfredo adjusted his girth in the seat until he was comfortable. His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head slightly to one side. “Really.”

Pedro drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Really.”

“What sort of item did your friend lose?”

Pedro shrugged. “Something very valuable to him.” He paused as Minerva entered with two trays loaded with bits of fish and freshly cut vegetables. Cold beer accompanied the food. He thanked her and she took a seat next to her husband.

“No games, Pedro. What's going on?”

“His wife and daughter were kidnapped.”

Alfredo nodded. “He's a rich man, this friend of yours?”

Pedro shook his head. “No, not at all. The people who kidnapped his family want information, not money.”

“And this friend of yours, he lives in Venezuela?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you back in San Salvador?” Alfredo asked.

“Javier Rastano was the man who met with my friend. He and his father, Mario, are behind the abduction.”

Alfredo nodded, both his chins moving in unison. “The Colombians. I know these people. They've had a considerable presence in El Salvador for a number of years now. I think they have a house here in the city, in Escalón.”

“Have you ever met them?”

“No. Nor do I wish to,” Alfredo said, popping a bit of shellfish in his mouth and chewing. “I have no desire to do business with Colombians. I don't trust them.”

“My friend thinks Javier Rastano may have brought his wife and daughter to El Salvador rather than keep them in Venezuela or risk being caught holding them in Colombia. From what I understand, they're respected businessmen in Medellín.”

Alfredo laughed. “Respected businessmen from Medellín. Now there's an oxymoron.”

“Eugene is sure they're running cocaine through Panama and into El Salvador. That would explain why they keep a house here.”

“I suppose it would. What do you want me to do? Ask some questions?”

Pedro was hesitant. “Perhaps. But you've got to be discreet. I don't want them to know that Eugene has someone helping him.”

“What kind of info do you need?”

“Without raising any red flags, I need to know something about Javier Rastano. His likes and dislikes. His vices. Things you can find out without Rastano being aware that we're nosing around.”

“I know a few people I could talk to on the sly. Not a problem. When do you need to know?”

“The clock's ticking. Rastano gave my friend two weeks to get him access to a numbered account, or his wife and daughter die. That was Saturday, two days ago.”

“So you want to try to get close to Javier Rastano and see if you can find the two women.”

“That's the plan.”

“Risky,” Alfredo said quietly. “You're dealing with Colombian drug dealers, Pedro.”

“Yeah. I know.” He crunched on a cracker topped with a prawn. “I need one more thing.”

“Let me guess. A gun or two.”

Pedro smiled. “Maybe two or three. And I'd like one to be fully automatic.”

“Okay,” the big man said, rising from the couch. “I'll see what I can find out without causing any ripples on the pond. In the meantime, let's get you a gun.”

Pedro followed Alfredo down the hall and out of Minerva's line of sight. Her eyes were worried for him and it was unsettling. He knew she thought of him as a son, and seeing him in harm's way was difficult for her. They reached a room Alfredo used for his home office and he triggered a hidden switch. A trophy case filled with loving cups and medals from Alfredo's equestrian days swung out, revealing a shallow gap between the false wall and the exterior brick. Alfredo pulled on the glass case and the door opened completely. In the enclosed space were an assortment of guns, mostly pistols and revolvers, with a few automatics and semi-automatics. Alfredo waved his arm at the arsenal.

“Your choice, Pedro.”

Pedro walked slowly to the ensemble, spent thirty seconds looking over the merchandise, then plucked two handguns from where they hung on the wall. Both were Smith & Wesson, one a 9mm carbon steel model 910 with a ten-shot clip, the other a classic .44 Magnum revolver. He set them on Alfredo's desk, then returned to the wall, taking more time in choosing an automatic weapon. The selection was impressive: various Yugos, a couple of Thompsons, a Heckler & Koch and two Brownings. He fingered one of the Yugos, an M-70AB-2 AK, similar to the ones used by the Viet Cong in the Vietnam War. He replaced it and pulled the H & K MP5A3 from its moorings, testing the weight and feel. He nodded and set it on the desk beside the two handguns.

“How much?” he asked Alfredo.

“At cost,” Alfredo said, retrieving a small, orange book from a drawer in a desk in the secret room. He totaled the damage on a calculator. “Two thousand, one hundred. And I'll throw in the ammunition.”

“Hell of a deal,” Pedro said, knowing the same buy on the street would have been at least three times that much. He peeled off the correct number of bills and laid them on the desk.

“How much ammo do you need? Fifty rounds enough?”

“A thousand,” Pedro said. “Nine hundred for the submachine gun. Fifty each for the handguns.”

“What?” Alfredo said. “That's ridiculous.”

“No,” Pedro said. “That's thinking ahead. Remember, they're Colombian drug dealers.”