Bloodline (9 page)

Chapter Ten

“Where is he?” Mario Rastano asked.

“About ten minutes from your house. We had a man tail him to the Caracas airport. He took a flight to Medellín and we picked him up again once he landed.” Javier's voice sounded distant over the phone line.

“What? He's in Medellín? What the hell is he doing here?”

“He visited a fellow named Raphael Ramirez. He's a cousin of sorts, on his mother's side. He stayed in the house a couple of hours, then took a cab to Cementerio San Pedro. Spent some quality time at Pablo's graveside.”

“What did you get from the meeting with this Raphael character?”

“Not much. The street was really narrow and there was no place for us to set up surveillance equipment without being seen. We picked up a few scraps from down at the end of the block, but nothing of any importance. They talked about him renovating his bathroom and a battery must have worn out in some device, because they were talking about a battery. We only got pieces of the conversation so we really don't know much.”

“All right. At least he's on the move, checking things out. Maybe this Raphael knew Pablo before the Search Bloc supposedly killed him. I'll check it out from here. How are things in El Salvador?”

“Fine. Weather's nice, women are behaving themselves. Couldn't be better.”

“Talk to you soon, Javier.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Javier Rastano dropped the phone back in its cradle, interlocked his fingers and stretched his arms above his head. A calm surrounded him on the expansive patio that stretched the full length of the rear of his Escalón mansion. Potted palms and ferns ringed the carefully inlaid bricks that formed the patio and lined a wide path that wound downhill to a kidney-shaped swimming pool surrounded by mature mango and eucalyptus trees. Interspersed in all the shrub and tree beds were thousands of perennials, most of them orchids in various stages of flowering. The gardens stretched for acres, and the twelve-foot stone wall, which delineated the Rastano estate from the main street and their neighbors, was barely visible through the foliage. Javier rose from his chair and strolled slowly down the path toward the pool, admiring the plants in full blossom. He stopped in front of an
Encyclia vitellina,
an orangey-red flower with five distinctive petals and a bright yellow stamen. The flower, native to Mexico but doing well in its new habitat, was exquisite. Immediately adjacent to it was one of the
Restrepia
genus, brought from his Colombian homeland some ten years ago. It was a far more delicate flower, and it resembled a small tongue sitting on a larger tongue, both vibrant red, mottled with brownish spots. Next to the flower was a long bare stem. He scowled at the broken plant and glanced at the bricks under his feet. A light brown stain covered an area a few feet in diameter, blood residue from the gardener who had accidentally snapped the flower off its stem. As a simple, very effective message to the other gardeners, he had slit the man's throat on the spot when he learned of the carnage. He made a mental note to remind one of his staff to pull up the stained bricks and replace them. The reminder of the man's incompetence irritated him. He continued down the path until he reached the pool. He dipped a toe in the water, then slipped off his shirt and dived in. The water was a cool and refreshing break from the incessant humidity. He floated on his back, staring at the cloudless sky and thinking about the day's business.

Fifty-eight kilos of pure cocaine were due to arrive at their warehouse in the coastal town of Puerto Avalós later in the afternoon. The settlement, a quiet fishing and farming community, was well protected from the ocean by a long, narrow entrance through the Bahia de Jaquiisco, and his warehouse was well protected from the government authorities by a long list of bribed officials. No one looked twice at the freighters that docked at Pier 26, loaded up with coffee, and left the port under the cover of darkness. No one cared, so long as the envelopes with American dollars continued to arrive on time. Once the fifty-eight kilos arrived from its overland journey through Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua and Honduras, it would join eighteen truckloads of product already mixed in with the coffee on the freighter. The sea lanes from El Salvador to the United States were heavily patrolled by the U.S. Coast Guard, but vessels were seldom boarded. They reserved that special service for the Colombian freighters, especially those departing from the port city of Buenaventura, close to Cali. No drug smuggler with a hint of intelligence tried to slip a shipment past the U.S. Coast Guard on those sea lanes. But a small freighter registered in El Salvador, no problem.

Javier pulled himself out of the pool and toweled off before making a quick call to see if the truck had arrived in Puerto Avalós. He was informed that it had and the final preparations for sailing were underway. Fifteen hundred kilos of cocaine was a small shipment, but that was how his father ran this pipeline to the United States. It netted the family about three million dollars per shipment, and they had yet to lose any product to the Coast Guard or Customs. All the coffee boats were equipped with an underwater hatch which could be opened, dumping the cocaine in the ocean. And the powder was weighted, as cocaine tended to float. But to date, they had only had to dump one shipment, and that was in open waters when their freighter had been forced to call for help after being disabled in a violent squall. The route was profitable and was working fine. It didn't need fixing, and Javier realized that his father's reasoning was sound. Thirty successful shipments of fifteen hundred kilos with no loss was far better than five shipments of five thousand kilos with one or two of them ending up with the DEA.

He finished drying and donned his shirt before heading back up to the house. The front of the mansion was colonial, with pillars and a massive portico overhanging the main entrance, but the rear was almost all windows. They were thermal glass, with UV protection and heavily tinted to keep prying eyes out. Not that anyone could see the house from the rear, as it was completely protected by the wall and the lush foliage inside the grounds. He reached the rear entrance and padded through the entertainment room, complete with pool and ping pong tables, pinball machines and even a row of slot machines. He headed down a set of curved stairs to the basement. The lower level was fully developed, with a media room and numerous bedrooms where his security staff slept. He walked past the giant plasma screen television and down a long hallway lined with doors to the staff quarters. An armed guard sat in a chair beside a metal door at the far end of the hall. He rose as Javier approached.

“Everything okay?” Javier asked.

“Yes, sir. Would you like to see them?”

“Yes.”

The guard let his M-16 drop to his side and worked the key in the lock. The heavy metal door groaned as it opened. Javier followed the man into the room. It was a self-contained suite, with a small kitchen and a private bathroom, flanked by two separate bedrooms. The main living area was well appointed, with couches and a television. Two women sat close to each other on one of the couches and watched warily as he approached.

“Hello, ladies,” Javier said, sitting on the edge of another couch. “How are you?”

Neither one spoke. They just sat and stared at him, holding hands. Both women had bloodstained bandages on their hands.

“Your husband is doing as we wish,” Javier continued. “If he's successful, we'll release you.”

“And if he isn't?” Julie Escobar asked. “What then?”

Javier shrugged. “Don't be such a pessimist. Have some faith in him. He seems like quite a resourceful man.”

“How long are you going to keep us here?” Shiara asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Javier smiled. “As I said, if your father gets us the information we require, you'll be free to leave. We're reasonable men and we realize this could take some time, so you may be here for a while. If I were you, I'd get comfortable and try to enjoy yourselves. Have you gone through the DVD selection we prepared for you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Julie said. “Could you arrange for a doctor to check Shiara's hand? I think it's beginning to get infected.”

“Yes, of course. I'll see to it.” He rose. “Anything else you need?”

“How about a telephone?”

He grinned and retreated through the door. He heard the guard sliding the bolt back in place as he walked the length of the hallway. The women were his prisoners, and for a moment he wished his father would back off and let him have some fun. But the old man had been adamant that neither woman should be harmed or mistreated until Eugene Escobar had located Pablo or retrieved the number to the account. They may need the women to reassure Eugene at some point that they were alive and well cared for. But once the two weeks was up or Eugene came through with the goods, the prisoners were expendable. And at that time he knew his father would relinquish control. Then he could have his way with them before slitting their throats.

The only decision he had to make was which one to rape first.

Chapter Eleven

The Drug Enforcement Administration had twenty-nine offices across the United States and another twenty-two in foreign countries. Its mandate was to reduce drug usage inside U.S. borders and to halt the drugs entering the country. Faced with having to choose one location to approach the DEA, Eugene opted for the El Paso, Texas, office. His choice was not made without careful thought.

The El Paso Intelligence Center, or EPIC as it was often called, was second in importance only to the main office on Army-Navy Drive in Arlington, Virginia. EPIC was the center for worldwide intelligence gathering and dissemination by eleven different federal agencies, and much of that information concerned activity in and around Colombia. Operation Selva Verde, a joint effort involving the Colombian National Police and the DEA's office in Bogotá, was run from El Paso. And El Paso had been the American office for the senior agents who had been working the Escobar case in 1993, like Joe Toft, the senior DEA official during the years they scoured the underbelly of Colombia for the drug kingpin. Eugene was convinced El Paso was the key if he was to involve the DEA in the search for Pablo Escobar.

There was no direct flight from Medellín to any city in the United States, and the best Eugene could do was to hub through Mexico City and fly into Dallas-Fort Worth. He had a six-hour layover in Mexico and another three in Dallas for connecting flights. Those delays, plus flying time, and he had lost the better part of a day in transit. It was late Tuesday, almost midnight, when he arrived in the border city of El Paso. He grabbed a cab and had the driver pick a reasonable hotel that offered suites rather than just rooms, in case agents from the EPIC center wanted to meet with him at his hotel. His cabbie, a cheerful Mexican who loved to talk, dropped him at the Comfort Suites El Paso, on Sunland Park Drive. He checked in and paid a bit extra for a room on the third floor overlooking the pool. Once in the room, he unpacked his toiletries and lay back on the bed, his body spent but his mind on overdrive.

What was he doing here? Contacting the DEA wasn't his idea, it was Javier Rastano's. And here he was in El Paso, running to do exactly what his wife's kidnapper had suggested. How stupid was that? He tried to clear his mind, to think independently, but nothing would come. The thought passages of his brain were focused on his current course of action, and nothing was going to change that. The DEA had been one of two choices, the other being the Central Intelligence Agency. Both departments of the U.S. government had been extremely active in tracking down Pablo Escobar, and both agencies would have extensive files of that search stored in their computers. It was sheer lunacy to think he could track down his cousin in two weeks without some sort of help. Pablo Escobar had incredible resources at his fingertips. Back in the early '90s, for the better part of three years, the Americans and Colombians had pooled their resources in an all-out search for Escobar, knowing he was somewhere inside Colombia. And it was either a stroke of luck, or Escobar's decision to let them find and kill an imposter, that finally brought the manhunt to an end. How could he hope to find this man now that eleven plus years had passed and the world was Pablo's stage? The odds against success were astronomical.

Yet the consequences of failing to find Pablo were unthinkable. Julie and Shiara were his life. If they were to die at the hands of Javier Rastano because he was unable to find Pablo, his life would be over. He thought of his son, safe with his grandparents in Caracas, and he realized that giving up on life would be impossible. Miguel was another innocent victim in this travesty, and Eugene knew that no matter what happened, he would have to continue. Some shell of his former self would have to guide his son through the loss. Then another thought hit him, one that left his guts churning.

What if the DEA just brushed him off? What if they had no interest in his predicament and simply laughed off the possibility that Pablo Escobar might be alive?

Eugene closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Seething anger mixed with futility and his emotions boiled over. His breathing quickened and his chest constricted as he fought to control the rage fueled by his hatred for Javier Rastano. He leapt from the bed and shot his right foot out in a karate style kick, the sole of his shoe hitting the television screen and smashing the picture tube. The impact sent the ruined television careening off the bureau onto the floor. The plastic housing cracked open, spilling its electronic innards across the tile. Eugene just stared at the mess, his eyes unblinking. In his mind, Javier Rastano lay on the floor, broken and dying. Somehow, that calmed him. He flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes, his breathing back to normal and his mind relaxed as one thought kept synapsing through his brain.

He was going to kill Javier Rastano.

 

Eugene awoke on top of the covers, still dressed in his street clothes. He glanced at the alarm clock sitting on the night table next to the bed. Almost seven in the morning. He got up and walked unsteadily into the washroom, taking time to shower and shave before heading downstairs for breakfast. He leafed half-heartedly through the current
USA Today
before asking the desk clerk for the address to the DEA center.

“First time I been asked that,” she said. “Carlsbad Caverns, that's a different story. Everyone wants to see the caves.” She was Mexican, a little on the high side of thirty-five and still quite attractive. Her long dark hair looked like something out of a shampoo commercial and she had a nice smile. “You talk good Spanish,” she said, smiling as she thumbed through the government pages of the El Paso phone book.

“I'm Venezuelan,” Eugene said. “Spanish is my native language.”

She gave him an inquisitive glance. “From Venezuela, look like an American and wanting the address for the Drug Enforcement people. You're an interesting person Señor…” she took a quick look at his name on the room manifest, “Escobar.” She looked at him again.

“No relation,” he lied. Under normal circumstances the reaction to his surname was predictable, but in this case, with him asking for the DEA's address, he knew she'd ask.

“Okay,” she said, then added. “Here it is. El Paso Intelligence Center.” She jotted down the address and slid it across the desk. “How long are you staying?” she asked.

“A couple of days,” he answered, ignoring the flirtatious tone in her voice. “Thanks.”

On the cab ride to the DEA center, he alternated between watching the brilliant red and ochre hills that surrounded the city and thinking of what to say when he arrived. When the cab pulled up in front of the long, squat building, Eugene still hadn't thought of a really good way to entice the DEA to get involved. The bottom line was, he was going to sound like a lunatic. He entered the building and approached the receptionist.

“Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

“I hope so. I'd like to speak with an agent who has ties to the drug problems in Colombia.”

“What is this concerning, sir?”

“It's confidential,” Eugene said. “No offense, but I'd like to speak privately with an agent.”

She didn't look at all miffed by his comment. She picked up the phone and dialed an extension, then turned slightly so Eugene couldn't hear the conversation. A few moments later a young man in a blue suit entered the lobby through a security door. He was early twenties, with slicked back black hair and deep brown eyes. His skin was dark brown and Eugene suspected he was Mexican on at least one side of the family. He spoke to Eugene in English, but Eugene answered back in Spanish. The DEA agent continued in Spanish and introduced himself as Eduardo Garcia.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Garcia asked politely.

“I'd like to speak with you in private,” Eugene said.

“Certainly. This way, please.” He steered Eugene down a short hall with a metal detector at the end. They both took all metal objects from their pockets and passed through. Three closed metal doors led in different directions and Garcia picked the one on the left, entered a code in the security mechanism on the handle and pushed open the door. “Down here. There's a conference room we can use. I think it's vacant right now.”

Garcia was correct and they settled in at a table with twelve executive chairs, Garcia at the head of the table and Eugene in the first chair to the right. The room was painted the same off-white as the rest of the complex and the carpet was an inoffensive brown. It was the blandest building Eugene had ever been in. “What can I do for you, Señor…?”

“Escobar. Eugenio Escobar. But everyone calls me Eugene.”

“Okay, Eugene. I'm okay with Eduardo if you are.”

“That's fine. And you're one of the agents working Colombia?”

Eduardo laughed. It was an easy-going, soft laugh. “Sort of. I wouldn't say that I'm exclusive to Colombia, but I do work that sector quite a bit. I know my way around the Bogotá field office.”

“All right. I guess I'll get right to the point. I'm Pablo Escobar's cousin.”

Eduardo steepled his fingers and leaned back in the leather chair. “That's interesting. Especially to us at the DEA.”

“I'm sure it is,” Eugene said. “Anyway, if I had to sum things up in one sentence, I would say this: I think Pablo is still alive.”

There was absolute silence in the room for the better part of thirty seconds. The room was so quiet that Eugene could hear the low hum of the ballast in the fluorescent light. Garcia focused on him for a few seconds, then on the table. He made a quick note in the leather-bound book he'd brought with him into the interview, although Eugene didn't think he really needed to write that down. It wasn't something a DEA agent would easily forget. Finally, Eduardo said, “That's quite a statement, Eugene. Do you have any proof to back it up?”

“Yes, and no. My wife and daughter have been kidnapped by someone who is sure Pablo is alive. They've given me two weeks to find him, or they'll kill my family.”

“Who?”

Eugene shook his head. “Sorry, their names are off limits. Part of the deal.”

“Why do they suspect Pablo is alive?”

“They've been watching a numbered bank account for years now. Supposedly at least part of the money in that account is theirs. There was no action for years, but in the last few months there have been a couple of withdrawals. A few million in January and another few million earlier this month.”

Eduardo made a few more notes. “If they have access to this account, why didn't they just empty it years ago? Why wait for Pablo to start withdrawing money?”

“Pablo is the only person with the ten-digit account number. Without that, no one gets in. The money has been sitting, collecting interest, for the better part of thirteen years.”

“How much money are you talking about?”

Eugene shrugged. “I don't really know. Hundreds of millions of dollars. Minimum. Could be a lot more than that now. For these guys to want the account number, it's got to be substantial.”

“Why did you come to the DEA?”

“Believe it or not, the drug traffickers who have my family suggested it.”

“Now that's rather unusual.”

“Not really, when you think about it. Who knew more about Pablo Escobar than the DEA and the CIA? Maybe the Colombian National Police, but I doubt it. You guys, and the administration in power in Washington, D.C. at the time, were the driving force behind the push to kill Escobar. So who would have better files on the manhunt than you?”

“So what is it you want from us, Eugene?”

“I want a couple of agents, as many as you can spare, to help me find Pablo. I want access to your files. Maybe there's something in them that will tell us where he is.”

“If he's alive.”

“Oh, trust me, Eduardo, he's alive.” Eugene stood up and walked the length of the table, lightly touching each of the chairs as he passed. “He's alive and well, somewhere on this tiny planet of ours. Pablo was always a runner, not a fighter. He wouldn't have let himself get trapped on the second floor of a ramshackle house in the heart of Medellín with no means of escape except the front door and a window overlooking the rear courtyard. My father once told me that Pablo was crafty beyond measure. Despite the efforts of your organization, Eduardo, he's alive.”

The young DEA agent scanned his notes. “You have no idea where this account with all the money is located? Cayman Islands, Bahamas, Switzerland?”

“No idea.”

“And you won't tell me who has your wife and daughter?”

“If I do, he'll kill them.”

“This isn't much to work with,” Eduardo said. “Let's go over it once more. Maybe we missed something the first time. When exactly did this man tell you he had your wife and daughter?”

The interview continued for about twenty minutes before Eduardo wrapped it up, telling Eugene that someone from the El Paso office would be in touch with him at his hotel within twenty-four hours. They needed time to pull files from the archives and cross-correlate the data they had stored on their computer's hard drive with this new information. They shook hands and Eugene left the cool building for the dry heat that engulfs El Paso almost daily. Eduardo Garcia retreated for his office with his notebook.

“What was that about?” a fellow worker asked as Garcia passed her in the hall.

Eduardo shook his head and grinned. “Maybe a nutcase. He thinks Pablo Escobar is alive.”

The woman laughed. “Now that's a good one.”

Garcia grabbed a coffee and stirred in some cream and sugar. He walked carefully to his windowless office and dropped his notebook on his desk. A small stack of paperwork, ready for inputting into the mainframe, sat on the edge of his desk. He ignored it and opened a new file, turning to the notes he had jotted down during the forty minutes with Eugene Escobar. He filled in all the necessary blanks, then typed the gist of the meeting in his own words, being accurate and refraining from peppering the interview with his own feelings or emotions. As silly as the whole meeting probably was, his superiors would eventually cast an eye over the report, and the last thing they wanted to see was his opinion of whether this was important or not. Stick to the facts and you got promoted. Get emotional or opinionated and you rot in your cubicle. It was kind of an unwritten rule at EPIC. He finished the report, inserted his DEA number at the bottom of the page, his electronic signature, and hit the enter button. Then he drained the last of his coffee and dug into the pile of paper on the edge of his desk.