Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  Shiara nodded and stepped up on the cushions. She pulled herself into the duct headfirst, her arms in front of her. Once inside, she pulled with her forearms and pushed with her toes and made good progress for about twenty feet. Then she reversed and pushed with her arms, using her toes to keep her centered in the shaft. Moving backward was actually easier than moving forward and she dropped back to the cushions, the front of her jeans and shirt a bit dusty, but otherwise, she was fine.

  “It’s not that bad,” she said. “I can feel the air moving through the shaft. It was cold and it was blowing in my face”

  “That makes sense,” Julie said. “That vent is for the fresh air to enter the room.” She pointed to a much smaller grill just above the tile floor on the opposing wall. “That’s the return air. You have to find a return air shaft, Shiara. One where there is no cold air and the flow is away from the room toward the outside of the house.”

  Shiara shook her head. “I don’t think so. The two systems will be independent of each other. The only place they’ll meet is at or near the air conditioning unit.”

  “How do you know that?” her mother asked.

  Shiara grinned. “That boy you saw on a bike at the house the other day, his father has an air-conditioning servicing business. He showed me a few things.”

  “About air-conditioning, I hope,” Julie said.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course. Can I try again?”

  Julie glanced at her watch. “Fine, but keep it to about a half hour tops. And when you’re in the shaft you can’t make any noise. These ducts go through the entire house and the sound will carry.”

  “I understand,” Shiara said, gulping back some water, then hoisting herself into the shaft for a second time.

  “Be careful,” Julie said as her daughter disappeared into the darkness.

  Shiara carefully slid her hands along the metal surface, aware that any sharp piece of tin would slice her hand open before she could react. She used the bandage over her severed finger, which was also wrapped around much of her hand, to her advantage. Leading with it, but still using caution. She kept her weight to the edges of the duct as best she could, to keep from depressing the tin and having it pop back.

  After crawling for a number of minutes, she wasn’t sure how long, she came to a junction in the duct. The shaft split off in three separate directions, each one identical in size. The air was swirling about and she couldn’t tell the direction of the flow. Shiara stayed at there for a minute or two, thinking. If she were to try one of the other shafts, the problem would be finding the correct one on the way back. Unless she somehow marked her conduit.

  She ripped a small piece of cloth from the bandage on her hand and tucked it into one of the joints, then picked a shaft and kept moving. Maneuvering around the corner was difficult, but her back was quite flexible and she managed to drag herself around the corner. She could feel the air flow coming from behind her now, which meant she was heading toward another room that needed cold air, and not toward the source. She was intrigued to see which room, and crawled for another three or four minutes before arriving at the grate.

  The results were less than she had hoped, as the lights were off in the room and she could see nothing. Shiara returned to the junction and tried to discern which of the other two shafts fed the cold air. But it was impossible to be sure and she picked another shaft. Again, once well into the shaft she felt the air pushing from behind her. This time she stopped immediately and retreated. It was getting difficult to breathe; the movement of her body had stirred up some dust and she could feel it stinging her throat and lungs, aggravating her asthma. She pushed back to the last shaft and, once inside and moving, felt the air gently pushing in her face. This was the conduit to the air-conditioning unit.

  She reversed directions and slowly crawled back through the narrow passage to the junction. She felt around until she found her bit of cloth, then moved cautiously back down the shaft toward where she knew her mother was anxiously waiting. When she arrived, her mother helped her out of the opening. She swallowed back half a glass of water, realizing now how thirsty she was.

  “What took you so long?” her mother asked. “You were in there over an hour.”

  Shiara was shocked. “It didn’t seem like that long. Sorry. But there’s a junction in the ducts about fifteen minutes from here that splits into three other shafts. I found the one leading to the air conditioning unit, but the dust was getting thick and I came back without going all the way.”

  “That’s okay. You can try it another night. Let’s get you cleaned up and put the grate back on.”

  They fixed the cover back in place, and Shiara had a quick shower, washing away the dust. They sat and talked for a while, then Shiara yawned and headed off to bed. Julie sat up in the darkness, looking at the walls of her prison and wondering if Eugene was making any progress.

  She knew he was a resourceful man. And that he loved his family beyond anything else on the planet. But was that enough? Whatever he had to do, she was sure it was against almost incalculable odds. She felt depressed and alone. She and Shiara had been counting the days and she knew today was Sunday, six days from the deadline for Eugene to come through with whatever it was their captors wanted. A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of the consequences. Not for her, but for her daughter. She hadn’t missed the looks from the guards, their eyes glancing over her young body. They were eager and wanting.

  Finally she rose and headed to her bedroom. Aside from having a finger cut off they were being well treated, and now there was the possibility of escaping if the air- conditioning duct led somewhere useful. Things could be worse. They still had six days.

  But then what?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The main branch of Banque Suisse de Zurich was located six blocks from the northern tip of Zurichsee, in a baroque-era building on Bahnhofstrasse. The structure was an ornate box with nine evenly spaced windows that had fluted sashes on each of the three floors. The cottage roof had three dormers on the north and south sides, but just dark slate on the other sides of the steeply pitched roof. The stone itself was a drab gray. The Swiss flag flying outside the main door provided the only color.

  At precisely nine o’clock Monday morning a bank employee dressed in a conservative pinstriped suit opened the doors to the public. Since Banque Suisse de Zurich was primarily a corporate bank, no customers were waiting as the bank opened for business. But at three minutes past nine, a taxi pulled up and a solitary man exited and hustled up the stairs and through the main doors.

  Bud Reid walked up to the young man at the information desk. “Excuse me. I need some information on who is handling one of your accounts. Who could help me with that?”

  The blond man, in his late twenties with round spectacles, checked a list and said, “That would be Greta, but she’s not in this morning.”

  “Is there anyone else?”

  He shook his head. “This is not a good day, sir. One of our employees had an accident yesterday and quite a few staff members were called on to volunteer information to the police this morning.”

  “An accident? What sort of accident?” Reid said, his mind already racing to the worst possible scenario: that the person he wanted to contact was dead.

  “The police didn’t say. They were here at seven this morning and asked anyone who worked with Jorge on a daily basis to accompany them to the precinct.”

  “Jorge?”

  “Jorge Shweisser. He’s the man who died.”

  “I see. What exactly did Herr Shweisser do for the bank?”

  “He was an account manager. He handled our private clients.”

  “As opposed to corporate?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He left the bank and found the nearest phone booth. He checked the residential listings for Shweisser, and found a listing for Jorge on a side street a coupe of blocks off Bahnhofstrasse. He checked his map and flagged a cab, reciting the address
to the driver. It was a short drive, less than five minutes, and when they arrived he told the driver to keep moving. The front door had a band of yellow tape stretched across it and a police squad car with two constables sat at the curb. It was no accident that had killed Jorge Shweisser.

  Bud Reid’s job in Zurich had just radically changed. Jorge Shweisser was probably Escobar’s contact inside the bank, and now he needed proof. In his line of business, Bud Reid didn’t believe in coincidences. A banker dying the day before he arrived to ask questions was incredibly coincidental. He needed access to the man’s house, his computer and his personal files. And he needed it quickly. That would mean breaking and entering, theft, and hacking into secure computer files. Bud checked his watch and mentally calculated the time difference to El Paso. He had about six hours before daybreak in Texas. Six hours to secure results, so he could phone them in to Landry and Maxwell. He felt the adrenaline start to flow, just as it had when he was in the Colombian jungle with the boys from Delta and Centra Spike. To most people, the thought of breaking into a house in broad daylight that was being guarded by police would be daunting. To Bud Reid it was simply a problem that needed a solution.

  And if there was one thing his tenure with the United States government had taught him, it was how to solve this kind of problem.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Pedro awoke at five-thirty, showered and dressed in sweats and a loose-fitting T-shirt. He laced his Nikes, grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen fridge and quietly let himself out the back door. He moved around Javier Rastano’s house at an easy jog, then down the driveway toward the main gates. The two guards working the early morning shift saw him approaching and swung the gates open. He passed through with a perfunctory nod and hit the asphalt.

  This was a new world to him, the decadence of wealth and power. He had never even driven into Colonia Escalón before now, let alone lived in one of the houses. Now he had his own room inside Rastano’s mansion, the run of the grounds and a new set of clothes from yesterday afternoon’s trip to the upscale Galerías shopping mall. He still wore no jewelry. In San Salvador that was simply an open invitation for a bullet in the head. His baggy sweats covered the new Nikes as he pounded the pavement outside the massive walled estates. He increased his pace as he approached a driveway manned by two guards dressed fully in black. Their hands were on the stocks of their M-16s as he passed. But the look they gave him was cold and condescending. It was the look a lesser man on the financial totem pole gives the man on the top. And then Pedro realized: for this slice of time, he was one of them, the privileged with money. For a brief moment he stood atop a pedestal looking down at El Salvador’s poor. And for that moment it felt good. Then the image tarnished and he saw the rich for what they really were: Hoarders. They were the keepers of the money that could transform his country into one of haves, rather than have-nots. The rich had the power to enact great change, but they would never dream of opening the vaults and letting their wealth trickle into the gutters. They were happy and insulated in their mansions, behind gates and high walls. They lived a world apart from the good people of San Salvador who struggled every day to survive the harsh streets of the city. Pedro felt a surge of hate for the rich and increased his pace.

  He was past a cardio workout now, and pushing his heart rate into the extreme range. The roads were hilly and the uphill climbs were leaving him gasping for air. His heart was pounding so hard his temples pulsed and his head throbbed with the surging blood. He slowed slightly, realizing that even with his athletic body he was pushing the limits. The road forked and he took the branch that curved back toward Rastano’s house. Three hundred yards along the tree-lined street he placed a call on his cell phone. He slowed to a walk as Eugene answered it.

  “You’re up early,” Eugene said cheerfully.

  “Getting in shape,” Pedro said. “Rastano thinks I’m some sort of prize fighter and I don’t want to damage that image.”

  “How’d the fight go on Saturday?”

  “Good. I beat the guy, but not by much. Rastano asked both of us back to his house. He wants to promote us and from what I can gather, he’s got some pretty good connections in the U.S. He’s talking getting us on the same card as a title bout. That’s big-time.”

  “So you considering his offer?” Eugene asked.

  “Of course not. The guy’s a pig. He’s a rich schmuck who needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “And you’re the guy.”

  “I’m the guy.” Pedro was breathing normally now.

  “What about his house? Did you see anything suspicious while you were there?” There was a pause, then Eugene asked anxiously, “Any sign of Julie or Shiara?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to look yet. But I’m staying inside the house. I’ve got a room on the second floor that looks out over the backyard. The size of this place is unbelievable. And security is tight everywhere. I’d say at any given time Rastano’s got twelve guys with automatic weapons patrolling the grounds and watching the front gate.”

  “Are the guards professionals or rent-a-cops?”

  “Strictly professional. I’ve seen guys like this before, Eugene. They’re ex-army, well trained and well paid. They’ll kill you without even thinking if Rastano gives the order. And they’re not going to let me just walk around the grounds poking my head in anywhere I please. I’ve got to be careful or I’m a dead man.”

  “Well, my friend, you’ve certainly delivered on your end. You’re inside his house. Be careful and don’t get hurt.”

  “How are things with you?” Pedro asked.

  “Excellent. Landry and I are flying out to Florida today. We’re going to see one of my distant cousins. Eduardo Garcia uncovered a few suspicious calls and trips that don’t jibe for someone who owns a Florida car dealership. There’s a chance Pablo’s been in touch with him as recently as a few months ago.”

  “So the DEA and CIA guys are convinced Pablo’s alive?” Pedro asked.

  “I’m not so sure they’re convinced as they are scared. They are absolutely petrified that Pablo may be alive, and as more and more evidence points that way there’s this controlled panic starting to surface. It’s really interesting watching them work. They analyze everything, leave no physical evidence untouched. But at the same time, they have gut feelings that are amazing.”

  “How’s that?” Pedro asked.

  “Like when Landry and I were poking through the list of my family members. He was the one who singled out Mario Correa, not me. He said there was something about the guy, and the more we dug, the more we found.”

  “Like what?”

  “He lives in Florida, imports his Renaults from Europe, yet three of his trips last year were to Detroit. And two of those times were in the dead of winter.”

  “Why would a Colombian living in Florida travel to Detroit in the winter?” Pedro asked.

  “That’s what we’re wondering.”

  “You think Pablo’s in one of the northern states?”

  “No idea. I doubt finding him will be that easy, but talking with Mario is a good starting point. And there’s something else. Remember that Bud Reid guy I was telling you about when we talked on Friday? Well, Crandle sent him over to Switzerland. He’s going to track down Pablo’s contact inside the bank and have a chat. He should be calling in anytime now.”

  “All pieces in the puzzle,” Pedro said. “And those pieces are starting to fit together.”

  “A bit, but we’re a long way from knocking on Pablo’s front door.”

  Pedro rounded a corner and the edge of the wall surrounding the Rastano estate came into sight. “Yeah. Hey, listen Eugene, I’ve got to go. I’m back at the house.”

  “This a good time for you to call?”

  “The best. I’ll go for my morning run at this time every day. That way I can talk without anyone around.”

  “Give me a call tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” Pedro flipped the phone shut and slipped it into his p
ocket. He increased his pace slightly, jogging the final quarter mile to the front entrance. He was barely breathing hard when he arrived and the guards hit the switch and the massive gates swung open. He thanked them and sprinted the final two hundred yards from the road to the house. His pulse was up slightly as he entered the rear foyer. He was surprised to see a barefooted Javier Rastano in the kitchen, wearing a silk dressing gown. He was slicing a grapefruit as Pedro entered.

  “You can use the front door, Pedro,” Javier said. “You’re not part of the staff.”

  Pedro shrugged. “This door’s closer to the kitchen.”

  Javier laughed. “You hungry?”

  “Famished. I just had a run around the neighborhood.”

  “You like it?”

  “Of course I like it. It’s beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a nicer place to live in my life.”

  “You can have whatever you want, Pedro,” Javier said, leaning on the counter and scooping out a small bit of grapefruit. “You just have to want it badly enough.”

  “You mean in the ring?”

  “I mean in life,” Rastano said, his smile turning dark. “But specifically in your case, yes, in the ring. You’ve got excellent skills. I like the way you fight.”

  “Thanks,” Pedro said, opening the fridge and taking out a couple of fresh oranges. “Okay if I have these?”

  Rastano waved his hand. “You don’t have to ask. Whatever you want, you take. I want you to make yourself at home.”

  “I’ll do that,” Pedro said, sliding a knife from the butcher block and carving up the oranges. He was hungry and gulped them down. “You have an exercise routine set up for Luis and me, or do we just do our own thing?”

  “You and Luis can do as you wish. You’re already in excellent shape. You know what you’re doing.”

  Pedro finished the last of the second orange and set the plate and the knife in the sink. “The swimming pool open?” he asked.

  Javier motioned toward the grounds. “As I said, it’s all yours.”