Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  Alexander Landry didn’t like the accusations. He looked like he was going to come out of his chair and use his immense size to pulverize the senator. Veins stood out on his forehead and, by the look on his face, his blood pressure was peaking at a dangerously high level. Finally he said, “You’re an asshole, Irwin.”

  Silence descended. The hum of tiny fans in the desktop computers was the only audible sound. Crandle scanned each face, taking in eye movements and body language. He backed off a bit. “The point I’m trying to make is that none of us is above suspicion. Not one of us.”

  “Including you?” Cathy asked hotly.

  “Yes, Cathy,” he shot back, “including me. Only I know if I’m clean. But to everyone else in this room, I must be considered as likely as anyone to be feeding Pablo information. We all know whether we’re clean or dirty, but no one else does. So I expect you to suspect me, just as I suspect you.”

  “This is quite the situation we have here,” Landry said disgustedly. “How are we supposed to share sensitive information if one of us is a sell-out?”

  Crandle was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “We need to keep the avenues of communication open. We can’t afford to shut them down by compartmentalizing data flow. We’ll continue to work in groups so no one person is privy to information without someone else knowing. But I want to stress this: all information is still pooled and all six of us have access to it. I don’t think we’ve got a crisis at this point, as we’re still a long way from figuring out where Pablo is living. The closer we get to that, the more we’ll look at isolating information.”

  “Who works with whom?” Bud Reid asked.

  “We’ll draw straws,” Crandle said. “Agent Garcia, get six straws and cut them into pairs of differing lengths. Whoever has the same length of straw is your partner.”

  “Works for me,” Landry said. Maxwell and Reid just nodded, and Garcia left the room in search of some straws. He returned a couple of minutes later and showed the group the six straws. Two were fairly short, two medium length and two uncut. Crandle took the straws and arranged them in his hands so that no one could tell their lengths. He offered the first choice to Cathy Maxwell with the comment, “Ladies first.” She drew a medium straw. Bud Reid pulled out a full-length one. Garcia followed with the second full-length straw, and Eugene selected a short one. With two straws left, Crandle gave Alexander Landry his choice. He drew a medium one, putting him with Cathy Maxwell. Crandle held up the second short straw.

  “Okay, I’m with Eugene. Cathy, you and Alexander stay together, no change there. The final pairing is Bud and Eduardo. Anyone have a problem with their partner?” No one challenged the selection and Crandle continued. He looked to Eugene and asked, “Your friend in San Salvador, how is he doing?”

  Eugene hesitated for a second, then decided that giving the group a vague idea of how Pedro was doing wouldn’t endanger his friend. “He’s in San Salvador now and he’s looking for Julie and Shiara. I think he said he’s concentrating his search in Colonia Escalón, one of the city’s more upscale neighborhoods. He told me he’s making progress, getting closer all the time. But that’s all I know right now.”

  “Does he know the kidnapper’s name?” Landry asked.

  “Yes,” Eugene replied.

  “But we don’t,” Landry added sarcastically.

  “No, you don’t.” Eugene looked him directly in the eyes. “And the way things are going, I’m glad of it.”

  Landry bristled at the comment, but Senator Crandle interjected. “Stop it right now. Cheap comments will not be tolerated. Not even from you, Eugene. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Eugene said.

  Crandle addressed Bud Reid. “The disks from Jorge Shweisser’s house in Zurich, where are they?”

  Reid fished in his pocket and pulled out a CD-RW in a clear plastic case. He handed it to Crandle who in turn set it on the central table. “Cathy, you’re probably the best in the group at computer work. Can you and Alexander have a look at the files on that disk and see if there’s anything that might point to Escobar’s location?”

  “Sure,” Cathy said, leaning over and picking up the CD. Her jaw was set, her teeth clenched, and everyone in the room knew she was biting her tongue to keep from exploding at Crandle.

  “Bud, you and Eduardo get on those transit codes for the funds transfers. Contact Hyram Ockey at the National Security Agency and see if he can crack the encryption algorithms. We need to find out which bank handled the cash from the two recent withdrawals from Pablo’s account.”

  They drifted back to their desks where stacks of paper awaited them, the mood more than a little tense. Six people brought together by a situation that would quickly become front-page news across every continent if it were to leak outside the thin walls that contained it.

  Six people.

  One of them a simple man, thrown into a complex web of cunning and violence by his blood relationship with a ruthless drug dealer.

  Five others.

  Professionals from the past and present who dealt with death and treachery on a daily basis. Four men and woman who had seen more atrocities and suffered more losses than any normal person would in ten lifetimes. Yet despite the scars the narcos left on them, one of the five was a traitor, an informant to the most dangerous drug lord who ever lived. And now, after a dozen years, the killing had started again. A banker in Zurich was on a slab of cold metal because CIA records had identified Pablo’s account.

  Who was next?

  That was the question on every mind in the room.

  Every mind but one.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The sun poked over the mountains surrounding El Paso on Tuesday morning, five days from Javier Rastano’s deadline. Eugene could feel the intense heat the moment he opened the sliding doors and leaned over the balcony railing, coffee mug in hand. He gazed at the city, seeing a jumble of buildings and houses but nothing in particular. It all melded together, a mixture of adobe and brick, asphalt and concrete and glass and steel. He thought of the group of five, also varied and unique. Five individuals who had chosen careers fighting the proliferation of drugs. Yet one of them was a traitor. That was the best word he could find to describe the informant.

  A traitor.

  A traitor to the DEA, to their country, to the small group tracking Pablo and, ultimately, a traitor to Julie and Shiara. The lives of his wife and daughter rested with the group of professionals who would be meeting at EPIC in a couple of hours, determined to find and eliminate Pablo Escobar. He needed them, that was without question, but how much damage would be done in the interim. Pablo would know their every move and would react as he always had. He would run. Leaning on the balcony, he realized the futility of the search. No matter how successful they were, Pablo would remain one step ahead of them.

  Unless they could unearth the informant. That was the key. But how? If it was one of the three veteran narco chasers, their covers were so well established that it would be impossible to rip the façade off in five days. And if the leak was Eduardo Garcia, well, Crandle was probably right that Pablo had informants in other DEA offices as well. As much as their small group was trying to stay transparent, a computer expert could easily be watching their progress online. As sick as it made him feel, he wondered if the leak was one of the veterans. If that were the case and they could identify who it was and neutralize them, the connection to Pablo would be severed.

  “Christ,” Eugene whispered under his breath to himself. Neutralize. He was starting to think like Maxwell and Landry. His phone rang and he checked his watch. It was time for Pedro’s call. He finished the last sip of coffee, and hit the send button. “You exercising again?” Eugene asked his friend.

  “Yeah,” Pedro said, slowing to a quick walk, his breath coming back quickly. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got problems at this end,” Eugene said, filling Pedro in on the latest subterfuge.

  “Shit,” Pedro said. “Have you told anyo
ne at El Paso anything that Rastano could use to identify me?”

  “No. Nothing other than the very basics. I told them that I’ve got a man on the inside in San Salvador. They don’t even know who it is. You should be okay for now.”

  “That’s good, because these guys would kill me in a minute if they knew who I was.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll keep your identity safe. Any sign of Julie and Shiara?”

  “No. But that’s not to say they’re not here. This place is huge. There are parts of the house I haven’t been in yet. I’ll keep looking.”

  “Okay. I’m counting on you. Things are unraveling fast on this end. With someone feeding Pablo information, even if we find him, he’ll be gone before we get there. It looks like you’re the only one who can keep Julie and Shiara alive.”

  “I’m doing the best I can, Eugene. Trust me.”

  “I trust you, my friend. Ciao.”

  “Talk to you soon.” Pedro hung up and deleted the call from the phone’s memory.

  Eugene snapped the phone shut and stared at the city, now even more melded as heat waves rose from the buildings and distorted the view. He returned to his room and turned on the shower. He slipped under the cold water, appreciating the coolness, and a sudden thought occurred to him. Maybe he didn’t need the covert team as much as he had initially thought. And once that idea had planted itself in his mind, he encouraged it to germinate and grow and spread into different courses of action. Leaving the group gave him options that he didn’t have with them, and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

  By the time he finished showering, the only question that remained was when he would leave.

  A tiny parabolic microphone jutted out from the gap in the driver’s side window. When Eugene Escobar closed his phone and disappeared into his hotel room, the microphone was retracted into the car and the window rolled up. The engine was started and the car pulled away from the curb. The lone occupant drove through the early morning streets with a glimmer of a smile. Javier Rastano would be pleased with this information. Not pleased that someone had infiltrated his private residence, but relieved that the treachery was unveiled.

  The driver checked the dashboard clock and decided it was too early to call Javier. Later in the day would be fine. Once Rastano knew he had a rat in the house, it wouldn’t take long to eliminate the problem. And once again, Javier Rastano would be grateful and would forward the money. Always the money.

  Such an excellent working relationship.

  The driver pulled in to a nearby restaurant and ordered breakfast, asking the waitress to put a rush on the order. The group would be meeting at EPIC soon, and it wouldn’t do to be late.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Shiara inched forward through the duct, her hands feeling the way in the total blackness. She felt a sharp edge and yanked her hand back before the metal cut through the skin. She used one of the Band-aids her mother had given her to cover the sharp metal, then continued on through the narrow ductwork.

  She had been in the duct for about fifteen minutes, having passed the three-pronged split in the cooling system about five minutes ago. Her mom had been emphatic—no more than thirty minutes total, including time to get back to the starting point. It was midafternoon and leaving the room to enter the duct was risky. But on her second trip through the series of rectangular metal, she had reached a grate that opened into another room. Unfortunately, she had been unable to see the interior of the room for lack of light. They had to risk a daytime excursion. Julie had determined the guard’s schedule and found that they seldom visited between two and two-thirty in the afternoon. They decided that was their window of opportunity. At precisely two o’clock Shiara had crawled into the duct and heard her mother twist the screws back in, effectively sealing her inside the walls. She was close to the grate now, just around one more corner.

  Hints of light cut through the darkness as she neared the corner. As she rounded the bend, muted light from the grill partially illuminated the metal shaft and Shiara felt less claustrophobic. She hurried now, knowing she would be lucky to make it back in the half hour her mom had allowed. But to come so close to seeing what was in the other room and turn back now was madness.

  She inched ahead, her arms and fingers aching from the exertion. She finally reached the grate and peered through. She was suspended above the center of a large utility room.

  The construction of the walls and floor was entirely cement, with two boilers hooked in tandem against the far wall, some twenty feet distant. Numerous dials and valves peppered the input and output lines. A strange-looking machine was tucked in the corner next to one of the boilers, round and over six feet high. Shiara guessed it was the air-conditioning unit, as a number of tin ducts led from it to the series of ducts which took the cold air throughout the house. One of the input lines came in right around where her feet were, and when the fan started on the large, round machine, she felt the cool air entering the duct near her ankles.

  She pushed her face against the grate and scanned the outer walls. There. She thought she saw the edge of a window. She pushed harder and was rewarded with a glimpse of sunlight. There was definitely a window to the outside world.

  She pulled back slightly and focused on how the grate was attached to the duct. It was difficult to see, but after a minute or two she was sure that the grill was held on by four screws. And the slats were far enough apart that she could probably get her mother’s home-made screwdriver at the screw heads.

  She pushed back, feeling the sting of the cold air as she passed over the intake shaft. She kept moving, knowing that her mother would be frantic. But the important thing was, she had found a possible way out of their prison.

  Javier Rastano took the phone call in his study on the main floor. He waited until the servant closed the door, then said, “Hello.”

  “Javier, it’s me,” the distant voice said. “I’ve got some news for you.”

  “What?” Rastano asked, knowing his contact was edgy about spending too much time on the phone.

  “The person that Eugene Escobar has looking for you is inside your house.”

  Rastano stopped breathing. “What?” he finally said. “What do you mean, inside my house?”

  “I don’t know who it is, just that somehow they’ve made it inside your house. They’re staying at your place.”

  “One of the boxers,” Javier said aloud, but to himself. “Anything else?”

  “Whoever it was has a cell phone and was exercising early this morning. About five-thirty El Salvador time.”

  “Okay,” Javier said. “Thanks.”

  The line went dead and Rastano replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. He leaned on the edge of his polished teak desk and fingered his Rolodex. Both Luis and Pedro were strangers to him, referrals from friends in San Salvador. He leaned over and checked his calendar. Luis had first been introduced to him at the club on March 14, three days after he spoke with Eugene Escobar on Isla de Margarita. It was tight, but possible. Pedro had first shown up at the club on March 18. More probable, but he was still unsure. Both men had cell phones, he had noticed that as they worked out or strolled about the grounds. And both fighters were up early, working out. Pedro liked to jog through the streets surrounding the house while Luis preferred the stationary cardio machines in the gym. Still, at that time of the morning, either man could have taken an incoming call or made an outgoing call without arousing any suspicions.

  What to do? He could kill both men and rid himself of the problem, but that held a certain degree of risk. Even in El Salvador, cold-blooded murder was still a crime. Javier kicked around the idea of arranging a double murder; it would appear that Luis and Pedro had shot each other. But even that was tempting fate. He suspected the police would make a perfunctory examination of the murder scene and come to whatever conclusions he wanted them to, but there was still an element of risk he didn’t like. The other option was to watch the two men over the next day or tw
o and monitor the conversations on their cell phones. If he could determine which man was tied in with Eugene Escobar, he could kill him and report it to the police as a suicide. The more he thought about it, the better that option appeared. When he left his office ten minutes later, he was convinced that taking his time to remove the rat was the way to go.

  Javier cut through the foyer and down the curved staircase to the basement. He nodded to a couple of off-duty guards who were playing pool in the games room and continued down the long hallway to where Escobar’s wife and daughter were held captive. He pointed at the door and the armed guard twisted the key and opened the lock. He entered the room and stood face-to-face with Julie Escobar.

  “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly. “How are you?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Julie said. “Considering.”

  “Ah, yes. Considering that you’re being held against your will.” He pushed his hair behind his ears with his index fingers and glanced about the room. “Where is your daughter?”

  “She’s sleeping,” Julie replied evenly.

  “Sleeping? It’s two-thirty in the afternoon.”

  Julie gave him a look of frustration. “You stick us in a room without windows and expect us to keep the same schedule we did when we had access to the sun. Other than that clock on the wall, we have no idea what time it is. What does it matter when she sleeps?”