by Jeff Buick
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 ve
ry 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.”
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 esta
te 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.