Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  Irwin Crandle took a few deep breaths, digested the information, then said, “Nothing’s changed. Alexander, you and Cathy get to the airport and take the Lear up to Pittsburgh. Find Eugene Escobar. The three of us will divide our time between taking a serious look at Javier Rastano and using EPIC’s resources to continue tracking possible places where Pablo may be living.”

  Cathy was already up and moving, glad to be out of there. “We’ll call in the moment we have something, Senator.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Javier Rastano was relaxing on a padded chaise lounge when Pedro entered the great room from the patio. His running shoes squeaked on the tile floor and the sound echoed off the high ceiling. Luis was already there, sitting on a wrought-iron chair with a small cushion on the seat. Rastano waved at the chair next to Luis, and Pedro sat. The room was bright and airy, one side all windows. The metal chair was hot from the sun and the ornate design was pushing into his back. But somehow he didn’t think being slightly uncomfortable was the worst of his problems. It was difficult to miss the two cell phones sitting on the table beside the Colombian.

  “Finished your daily run?” Javier asked pleasantly, sipping his coffee.

  “Yes,” Pedro replied, wiping his brow with the towel he had draped around his neck. “The hills are good for my legs.”

  “That’s the most important point in boxing, isn’t it? Your legs.”

  Both men nodded, and Luis said, “You don’t move your feet, you’re dead in the water.”

  “Interesting analogy,” Javier said under his breath. “Either of you gentlemen want coffee?”

  “Please,” Pedro said. Luis shook his head.

  Javier waited until Pedro’s cup was filled and the right amounts of sugar and cream added, then continued. “Any idea why I wanted to speak with you two?” he asked. Both men shrugged. “I’ve got a small problem. That’s why I had my men confiscate your cell phones this morning. Both of you made an early morning call, and I wanted to see who it was you would speak with at this ungodly hour. Luis made a call to a friend of his in Panama City. Pedro’s call was local, to a number registered to a house in El Centro.”

  Pedro kept his breathing normal. Jesus Christ, it was a wrong number. His fingers must have slipped on the keys while he was jogging and he had dialed a wrong number. Pedro couldn’t believe his luck.

  Rastano was talking again. “So the calls didn’t tell me what I wanted to know.”

  “What’s that?” Pedro asked.

  “Which one of you is a spy for Eugenio Escobar.” Javier Rastano’s eyes were busy, pivoting between the two men, looking for a sign of recognition at the mention of the name. Pedro kept his eyes on Rastano; he didn’t glance at Luis to see how the other man was handling the accusation.

  “Who?” Pedro said.

  “Eugenio Escobar.”

  “Who’s that?” Luis asked.

  Pedro took the opportunity to glance at him quickly. The boxer looked genuinely confused. Which, of course, he was. Pedro hoped his acting looked as genuine.

  “Eugenio Escobar is a business associate of mine,” Rastano said, still scanning the two men. “We’re working on a mutually beneficial deal right now. He is in the United States at present, but I’ve been informed that he managed to insert a spy inside my house. The time frames are such that the only new arrivals since Eugenio and I have been involved are you two. So one of you is Eugenio’s man.” He paused and lit a cigarette. “Either one of you wish to tell me who it is?”

  “It’s not me,” Luis said emphatically. “I don’t know any Eugenio Escobar.”

  Pedro shook his head. “No idea who he is.” The coffee cup in his hand was absolutely steady. He noticed that Javier was staring at it.

  “I thought so. It would have surprised me if one of you admitted your involvement. So we’ll have to take care of this problem as diplomatically as possible.” He motioned to one of his men. The guard stepped forward and dropped a coin in Rastano’s open palm. “You two can flip a coin,” he said.

  “What?” Pedro said. “That’s insane.”

  “Perhaps,” Javier said, his eyes locked on Pedro. “But what else can we do. One of you must be held accountable, and other than me guessing at which one, right now I have no other way of determining who is the guilty party. So we’ll let luck take its course.”

  Luis was looking a little less confident now, scared even. “What happens to the loser?” he asked.

  “He dies.”

  Luis started to jump from his chair, but the guards leveled automatic weapons at him, and he returned to his seat. “I didn’t sign on for none of this shit,” he said. He was sweating now, the beads forming on his forehead and wet stains appearing under his arms. “This is bullshit.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Pedro said.

  “I never kid about such things,” Javier said. He glanced back and forth between the two men. “Who wants to call it?”

  Neither man responded and he pointed to Luis. “Call it in the air. If you call heads and heads is showing when the coin lands on the floor, you win. Tails, you lose. Pretty simple, actually.” He buried the tip of his thumb under his index finger and set the coin over the visible portion of his thumb. “Call it,” he said, flipping it in the air. There was no mistaking the authority in his voice.

  “Heads?” Luis said hesitantly.

  The coin landed on the tile and spun for a second, then lay flat. Rastano leaned over and took a good look at which side was face up. He turned to Luis and said, “Heads. It’s your lucky day, Luis.”

  Every gun in the room was immediately pointing at Pedro, who just sat staring at Rastano. The Colombian rose from his chair and pulled a pistol from under his shirt. He slowly lowered it and pointed the barrel at Pedro’s head. He advanced to within a few feet and stopped. “Anything you want to say?” he asked.

  Pedro shook his head. “This is stupid,” he muttered.

  Javier’s finger tightened on the trigger, then in a flash so quick that no one in the room could react, he swung the barrel about and pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into Luis’s head and sent the man flying backward onto the floor. Blood and brain matter poured out the gaping hole in the rear of his skull and after a couple of involuntary twitches, the body lay still in a growing pool of blood.

  “What the fuck?” Pedro said.

  Javier smiled and sat down. He picked up his smoldering cigarette and took a long drag, then crushed out the butt. “It’s my game, I can play it however I see fit,” he said, leaning forward and staring into Pedro’s eyes. “I still don’t know if it’s you or him, Pedro. But I do know this. If I want to promote a fighter, I want to promote the best I have. Even though you lost the coin toss, I’d much rather have your talent and good looks in the ring than that acne-scarred piece of shit. It’s all an image thing, you know.” He lit another cigarette, still staring into Pedro’s eyes. “I just hope I killed the right guy.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Eugene sipped the coffee and cut into his over-easy eggs. They were a little too runny for his liking, but he didn’t feel like causing a scene by complaining. The waitress already had it tough enough, working in a run-down diner that served breakfast twenty-four hours a day. He finished his meal and left a twenty-dollar tip on a seven-dollar tab. Hell, it was Rastano’s money.

  There was a stiff breeze from the north, off the lake, and he buttoned his coat against the chilly air. He darted across the almost empty street, amazed at the cold. He had seen television shows on the Arctic, and Rochester in the spring reminded him of those shows. He jumped in the cab and, after the dry heat of El Paso, appreciated the warmth of the back seat. He had time to kill, so he asked the driver to give him a tour, promising a good tip if he kept things interesting. He wasn’t let down. The man was Robin Williams with a good tan and a Pakistani accent.

  At ten to eleven the car pulled up a block from the intersection of State and Andrews. Eugene waited until three minutes to th
e hour, paid the driver, then walked briskly along State until he reached number 125. He pulled open the door and slipped inside, out of the wind. The shop was long and narrow, with rows of shoes against both walls, each one with a white tag tied to it. The odor of adhesives and thinners was strong, and it tickled his nostrils. It reminded him of the shoemaker who lived a few blocks from his parents’ house in Venezuela, and for a moment he felt an intense longing to be with his family. He shook off the feeling and approached the small wooden counter. A dark-skinned man in his late fifties or early sixties was writing a number on one of the white tags. His stubby fingers had trouble grasping the pencil, and he carefully formed each number before looking up.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice heavily Italian.

  “I was supposed to meet my cousin at your shop,” Eugene replied. “His name is Mario.”

  “He’s here,” the shoemaker said. “In the back.” He motioned to the door behind him. “He’s waiting for you.”

  “Thanks,” Eugene said. He walked around the counter and through the door into the rear of the shop. A row of machines—insole and outsole stitchers and a Sutton 2000 finisher—were crowded into a small space on the right of the long, narrow bay. The smell of acetone and contact cement mingled with the burnt odor of rubber and leather. A small, stained table covered with dyes and preparer sat next to the finisher. On the other side of the work area was a desk covered with receipts and bills. An adding machine, a telephone and a desk lamp were half buried by the paper avalanche. Mario Correa was sitting in a ratty chair. The casters squeaked when he rolled it back from the desk.

  “Hello, Eugene,” he said. He did not look great. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his lips were drawn tight across his teeth, revealing age lines. Mario was older than Eugene by a few years, but his hair was still dark, with no signs of gray. He was well dressed, in Armani dress pants and alligator loafers.

  “Mario,” Eugene replied, wondering why the man had worn such nonfunctional shoes to northern New York State.

  “Let’s take a walk, shall we,” Mario said, moving toward the back of the shop. Eugene followed him into the alley. It was narrow, sheltered on both sides by multi-story brick buildings, and garbage was overflowing from the Dump- ster a few feet from the door. Mario turned to his right and set a quick pace. They exited the alley, then branched off the sidewalk onto a path that ran parallel to the river, only a few yards from the water’s edge. Naked trees, with tiny buds that had yet to open, lined the path. The only sign that heralded spring was a hint of green in the narrow band of grass between the path and the water. Eugene was surprised to find that there was even more of a chill to the air close to the water.

  “What do you need, Eugene?” Mario asked.

  “I need to find Pablo.”

  Mario took a quick stutter-step. Then his pace returned to normal. He looked sideways at Eugene as he walked. “You sound pretty sure that Pablo is alive, Eugene.”

  “Let’s not play that game, Mario. We both know he’s alive. My wife and daughter have been kidnapped. The guy who has them says he’ll kill them this weekend if I don’t deliver Pablo or the code to a Swiss bank account. The person holding my family is Colombian. He moves a lot of cocaine to the States, so I don’t think he’s bluffing.”

  “Probably not. Who is it?”

  “Javier Rastano.”

  There was a noticeable hesitation in Mario’s stride at the mention of the name. “Definitely not,” he said.

  “You know Javier Rastano?”

  “Yes, I know him.” They reached a bench by the water’s edge and Mario sat down. The translucent water was shallow at this point and it rushed over the rocks, creating a wall of background noise. Eugene realized that Mario had chosen the spot in case anyone was trying to listen. “Everything we talk about today stays confidential, Eugene. You agree to that on your family honor?”

  Eugene nodded. “Of course.”

  Mario looked at the water rushing past, heading for the Great Lake just to the north. “Pablo and I were a lot tighter than anyone ever knew,” he said quietly. He looked back at Eugene. “Not so much in the earlier days when he was getting established, but later, in ‘89, when the cartel started to run into problems. When Pablo called me for help, our government didn’t even know who was running the cartel. They thought the number one man was José Rodríguez Gacha, but when he got killed the cartel didn’t even blink. Col. Martinez caught on real quick after that, that Pablo was the man. And once they’d pegged him, his days were numbered. That’s when he called me.”

  Mario paused, then asked, “This team you’re working with. Who’s in it?”

  “Mainly American agents who were chasing Pablo in Colombia, in the ’80s and ’90s. Alexander Landry, Bud Reid, Cathy Maxwell, Irwin Crandle.”

  “Eugene, these guys, along with a handful of others, were responsible for destroying the cartel. There were lots of soldiers running around with guns, but not many chiefs. The group you’ve assembled were the chiefs.”

  “And one of them is in bed with Pablo. Otherwise how could you have known we were on our way to Miami to visit you? Unless they called Pablo and he called you.”

  Mario did not dispute Eugene’s remark. “He’s got a source all right. And whoever it is, their information is extremely accurate.” He paused as a woman pushing a baby carriage walked by. She smiled at the two men and said good morning. They both returned the salutation, then waited until she was well out of earshot before continuing. “Is there anyone else in your little team?”

  Eugene shrugged. “A junior DEA agent I met when I arrived from Venezuela to ask for help. Eduardo Garcia is his name.”

  “He works out of EPIC in El Paso,” Mario said matter-of-factly.

  Eugene just stared. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “You’re talking about the DEA here, Eugene. I’ve been sitting on the fact that Pablo Escobar is alive for the last twelve years. I know who the opposition is.”

  “But Garcia is just a kid. He’s too young to have been involved with the DEA in the early ‘90s.”

  “He is, but his uncle isn’t.”

  “Garcia has an uncle who was in Colombia with Landry and the others twelve years ago?”

  “Yes, he does. Fernando Garcia. Just ask any of your team about Fernando and you’ll get a response.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Garcia had little respect for laws or statutes. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. I’m sure the others would describe him as a loose cannon. It’s unfortunate he died while on the job.”

  “So Eduardo Garcia isn’t as lily white as he appears,” Eugene said under his breath.

  Mario ignored the comment and continued describing his involvement with Pablo. “I was his ears and eyes for the year and a half he was in hiding, before he surrendered and moved into La Catedral prison in June ’91. I kept him in the loop as best I could, but the cartel was reeling from his absence. Finally, he decided to broker a deal with the Colombian government and turn himself in. He thought that living inside a prison would be safer and more comfortable than living on the lam. He was right. All the guards were on Pablo’s payroll, and he had a huge cache of guns buried on the grounds. La Catedral provided Pablo a safe haven from which to run his business. Once he was inside La Catedral, he was back on top. Gacha was dead, the Ochoa brothers in custody, Carlos Lehder extradited to the United States, and the Galeano and Moncada families were working with him. The long list of people who wanted him dead were out of luck. It was a brilliant move.”

  “Did you still help him after he moved into the prison?” Eugene asked, buttoning his coat tight to his throat against the cool wind.

  “A bit, but not much. He knew that he could trust me and he would ask me to do things or get things on occasion. But mostly, he left me and my family alone. And he would have been fine if he hadn’t killed Fernando Galeano and Gerardo Moncada. But he couldn’t leave well enough alone. And the Galeano and Moncada fam
ilies were some kind of pissed at Pablo. And so was the government. He had made them look stupid by killing two people who were in visiting him.”

  “He had another visitor about that time,” Eugene said. “Cathy Maxwell went to see him about the death of her parents.”

  “That was before he killed Galeano and Moncada. But yeah, she saw him while he was in prison. Anyway,” Mario said, continuing his story, “after he killed Moncada and Galeano he had to get out of La Catedral. When he made his getaway from the prison, he began to rely on me again. I arranged for safe places where he could hide and supplied him with the latest communication technology so he could stay in touch with his cartel buddies and his family. Like I said, he trusted me.”

  Eugene sat back on the bench, watching Mario closely. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  Mario was quick to answer. “If not you, Eugene, I’ll be in front of a grand jury with a subpoena in my hand. I want you to find Pablo. But I don’t want you to have the DEA or the CIA with you when you do. They’ll get the press involved, and I’ll be up the creek. Get the code to the bank account and give it to Rastano. Maybe he’ll give you back your family. I hope so.”

  “Where is he, Mario?” Eugene asked.

  Mario shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. This is where I always met him. Rochester, New York. That’s why I wanted you to meet me here. This is the closest I’ve been to where he lives.”

  “Where did you meet him in Rochester? At the shoe repair shop?”

  “Christ, no. That’s just someone I pay to use his shop as a meeting place. Pablo always stayed at the Clarion Hotel Riverside.”

  “What name did he register under?”

  “No idea. We met in the lobby. He was always waiting for me in the chairs by the restaurant. I never had any reason to ask for him at the front desk.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Mario was thoughtful. “About four months ago. He called me and dragged me out of Miami into this snow- encrusted hole because he wanted a new Renault. I could have killed him. I had someone else drive the car up a couple of weeks later.”