Killing Kings

by Don Pendleton

  “That is the name he gave you?” Cabrera wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be amazed.

  “Diego Esguerra,” confirmed the man who called himself Cooper. “You’re surprised?”

  “Perhaps ‘shocked’ is a better word for it.”

  They sat together in room twelve of El Gallo Rojo—the Red Rooster—a motel on the Medellín–San Pedro Highway in San Felix, ten miles north of Antioquia’s capital.

  “Why shocked?” Bolan asked.

  “Mainly because, like Escobar, Diego is a corpse,” she said.

  “Explain.”

  “Until he dropped from sight, about two years ago, Esguerra was a narcotrafficante on the rise. Then...nothing. He mysteriously disappeared, and everyone seemed to believe he’d been eliminated.”

  “When was this?” Grimaldi asked.

  “The latter part of April 2017,” she said. “I can recall reading his file in Bogotá. His car was found, with bloodstains on the driver’s seat that matched Esguerra’s, although not enough of it to indicate that he was dead. Still, newspapers suspected some kind of cartel involvement. He has not been seen again, and did not surface when his wife divorced him last year, claiming he was dead in fact.”

  “I have a call in to the States,” Bolan said, “deep-diving on this guy. But in the meantime, would you say that he resembled Escobar?”

  “Not in the photographs I’ve seen, but they were approximately the same height and build. According to the file I’ve seen on Escobar, he measured five feet five inches and weighed about 150 pounds—so call them both average size for men in Colombia. Esguerra was a little shorter, five feet four inches, and somewhat heavier when last booked in for questioning.”

  “Was that related to cocaine?” Bolan asked.

  “A double murder of alleged competitors, two brothers, I recall. The crime was drug-related, but a spokesman for the prosecutor’s office claimed they had no evidence for trial. That’s a familiar story here in Antioquia.”

  “A little shorter, a little heavier,” Bolan said. “Get some exercise and shoes with lifts, he’d fit the bill. As for the face...”

  “With plastic surgery,” she said, “he would have ample time to heal by now.”

  “How old was Esguerra when he disappeared?” Bolan pressed.

  “Age forty-three,” she said. “A year younger than Pablo when he died.”

  “It’s adding up,” Bolan granted. “But if this Diego is fake Pablo, we still have to crawl inside his head and find out where a ghost might go to hide.”

  “I can request his file from Bogotá,” Cabrera said. “If Esguerra had someplace he favored for vacations, say, or possibly a mistress on the side...”

  “No need to ask the embassy,” Bolan said. “Our people in the States are checking all of that right now. We should be hearing back from them within an hour or so.”

  “And in the meantime?” Cabrera asked.

  “I still owe Sarmiento one,” the Executioner said.

  “We both do,” she replied. Her voice carried a hint of tempered steel. If Sarmiento stood before her now...

  “If I could get in touch with him by phone,” Bolan told her, “I think we could draw him out.”

  “How so, after you missed him twice? I don’t mean to be critical, you understand, and I’m glad you came for me, but—”

  “Understood,” Bolan interrupted her. “My thinking is, he must have had a reason for blowing the whistle on Bacal, linking him up to Pablo’s ghost.”

  “He never thought I’d have a chance to share that information,” Cabrera said.

  “But he still had to spill it. Couldn’t help himself. He needed somebody to hear how smart he was, even if that knowledge was supposed to die with you.”

  “You think Rodrigo’s helped this fraud along?”

  Bolan shook his head. “That doesn’t track. I think, if someone could direct him to Don Pablo’s look-alike, Sarmiento would regard it as an early Christmas present.”

  “How so?” she inquired.

  “Off-hand, I can imagine two scenarios. One, he tips off the Mexican cartels Esguerra has been shadowboxing with. They either take Esguerra down themselves, or Sarmiento does it, to avenge their losses and his own, while the cartels’ leaders trying to kill him now see they were wrong about Rodrigo, and he’s back in their good graces with some payback on the side, to boost his reputation.”

  “And the alternate scenario?” she asked.

  “A variation on the theme,” Bolan answered. “Sarmiento does the job himself and tells the Mexicans about it afterward, skewing the proof however it looks best for him. Maybe he sends Esguerra’s melon to them in a cakebox, whatever it takes. In which case they not only not reinstate their trading with The Office, but Rodrigo might pick up some reparations for their move against him at his house.”

  “And your plan is...?”

  “Facilitate his move,” Bolan replied. “If I could talk to him and tell him where Esguerra’s hiding out, I bet he’d jump on it and we could be there waiting for him.”

  “Two birds, one stone,” Grimaldi said.

  “Then you’re in luck,” Cabrera said. “Sarmiento always carries three cell phones. I have the numbers memorized.”

  * * *

  Bolan’s callback from Stony Man, Aaron Kurtzman on the line, came through sixty-eight minutes after Bolan had submitted his inquiry. Not an hour on the nose, but it was close enough.

  “It’s good news, bad news,” Kurtzman said, when Bolan picked up on his sat phone’s second buzz.

  “I’ll take the bad news first.”

  “Okay. From all appearances, Diego Esguerra is dead. His files are marked ‘Deceased/Inactive’ at the DEA, the Hoover Building and at Langley. When his wife filed for divorce last year, Colombia made it official. No remains were ever found, but there was a memorial service for friends and family. Officially he’s history.”

  “So, what’s the good news?”

  “You already know most of it,” Kurtzman answered. “No remains discovered, and the blood found in his car—a Bentley Azure T, if that’s important—measured out less tan one.”

  “And was there any way to age it?” Bolan asked.

  “Afraid not. If refrigerated properly, red cells can be stored for six weeks, give or take. Frozen plasma is usable up to a year or so after collection.”

  “So, he could have faked the disappearance and be out there somewhere, as we speak.”

  “With could being the operative word,” Kurtzman replied.

  “I don’t suppose he had a plastic surgeon waiting in the wings?”

  “No one the government’s been able to identify. Of course, being a multimillionaire when he dropped out of sight, he would’ve had his pick among the best. Latin America isn’t the only place where nip-tuck artists value dollar signs over the Hippocratic Oath.”

  Bolan knew that from personal experience. He had changed faces more than once.

  “We’d have to start from scratch,” he said.

  “If it helps, I’ve emailed you a copy of his file, including former hangouts, but he’d have to be a fool, hanging around them now.”

  “But if he’s playing Pablo...” Bolan hesitated, and left it hanging there.

  “You’re thinking that he’d gravitate to Escobar’s old haunts?”

  “It’s like you know me,” Bolan said.

  “I should,” Kurtzman said, “after all this time.”

  “We know a DEA informer spotted him outside a club in Medellín called Pies Llameantes. That means—”

  “Flaming Feet,” Kurtzman cut in. “I saw it in the file.”

  “Apparently the staff and customers all claim they never saw him, or were vague about it.”

  “Likely drunk or stoned,” the cyber expert said.

  “He turned up in a
black Hummer, supposedly, but no one will admit seeing the plates.”

  “They wouldn’t, would they?”

  “Doubtful. And I don’t suppose there’s any hope of tracking down domestic sales in Medellín, for instance.”

  “We thought of that,” Kurtzman said. “In fact, we’re looking into it, but with the widespread trafficking in stolen vehicles, plus private sales that could be off the books, counterfeit plates, etcetera, you shouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  “Something else, then. Did Esguerra have a squeeze besides the missus, when he did his disappearing act?”

  “Hang on.” Kurtzman was tapping on computer keys, then said, “One Paula Janiot. The DEA’s file on her might be out of date, but last time they looked at her—in December of last year—she had the same address.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  “You got it.” Kurtzman rattled off a street address on Calle 7, adding, “That’s in San Antonio Prado, a southern suburb. Any farther south, and you’ll be out of Medellín.”

  “I’ll check it out and get back to you. Thanks.”

  “It’s what I’m here for,” Kurtzman said. “No point in telling you to watch your six, I guess.”

  “Jack’s got it covered. Later, Bear.”

  The line went dead and Bolan, having stepped outside to make the call, returned to the motel room to find Grimaldi and Cabrera eyeing him expectantly.

  “We may have something,” he informed them. “Iffy, but it’s an address.”

  “When do we leave?” Cabrera asked.

  Bolan frowned. “About that...”

  Chapter Twelve

  San Antonio Prado, Medellín

  “Paula!” Diego Esguerra called to his mistress from the parlor of the home he’d rented for her, back when he was still officially alive. “Two more beers, if you don’t mind.”

  He felt her glaring at him from the kitchen doorway. “And what if I do mind, eh?” she challenged him.

  Esguerra flashed her a shark’s smile that made her blink, then answered with a voice like honey. “You are much too sweet for that, Paula,” he said. “Too generous and kind with all your worldly goods.”

  Reminding her that she owed everything she had to him, and if she left him—or he kicked her out for being insubordinate—she would have nothing left. The subtle undertone: they both knew that if she tried leaving, or should he grow tired of her, it meant her death. Paula Janiot simply knew too much to walk away and live.

  Facing Esguerra from an easy chair that matched his own, Luis Medina—presently Esguerra’s second in command—seemed to consider whether he should smile or not, wisely deciding to maintain his poker face.

  Janiot sashayed out of the kitchen, carrying their bottled beers, and set them on the glass-topped coffee table, where both men could reach them. Before leaving them alone, she made a point of bending down and planting a chaste kiss upon Esguerra’s brow. The smile he showed her this time conveyed warmth, no cold-blooded intent to rend and slay.

  “Your face,” she said. “I still have trouble getting used to it.”

  “You think I am more handsome now?” he asked.

  “Perfection cannot be improved,” she replied.

  And with that, she was gone. Medina watched her go, then said, “I’m still not used to it, myself.”

  “But it’s achieved our purpose, eh?” Esguerra said. “Some fools believe that Pablo has returned. As for the rest...those sons of whores don’t know what to believe.”

  The surgery had not been cheap, but Esguerra received what he had paid for. His doctor in Asunción, the capital of Paraguay, had learned plastic surgery from his father, a die-hard Nazi sympathizer whose clients, after the last world war, included Joseph Mengele and Martin Bormann, Klaus Barbie and Adolf Eichmann. Some journalists now claimed that even Hitler had escaped from Germany in 1945, his bunker suicide a staged event to throw the Allies off his track, and had availed himself of several corrective surgeries before he finally gave up the ghost at eighty-two.

  Esguerra didn’t care about his surgeon’s politics, whether he hated Jews or drowned stray cats for sport in his bathtub. Only his skill mattered, and his continued silence, once the patient he’d transformed into a dead ringer for Pablo Escobar resurfaced in Colombia.

  And in Esguerra’s world, no cash payment could guarantee eternal silence. Thus an “accident” had been arranged, the brake lines on his doctor’s Rolls-Royce Wraith coupé failing on cue as he returned one evening from his mountaintop retreat near Limpio. And thus a wraith destroyed a Wraith, solving Esguerra’s personal dilemma.

  The mechanic who had rigged that crash was slain a few days later, personally executed by Luis Medina, dumped into the Río Magdalena, carried by its waters into the Caribbean, where sharks feasted.

  Now only Medina knew the full story—Paula being content with bits and pieces, plus more jewelry and special treatment in the bedroom—but if Esguerra ever had cause to doubt his chief lieutenant’s constancy, another death was easily arranged.

  All men were mortal, after all...except, perhaps, for Pablo Escobar.`

  “What next, then, Diego?” Medina asked. “Or should I call you Don Pablo?”

  Esguerra shrugged off the question and said, “We have toyed with Sarmiento long enough, I think. The stupid Mexicans failed to kill him at his home, and now are in the morgue themselves. It seems he also managed to escape a second trap in Los Colores. That one claimed Omar Roldán and Mauricio Yépez.”

  “The Butcher?”

  “None other,” Esguerra said, nodding. “According to my police contacts, it appears the Butcher had begun to work on someone for Rodrigo, but the victim wasn’t found. In fact they say Yépez was killed and mutilated with one of his own toys, custom-made.”

  “Incredible. How do they explain it?”

  “They cannot, as yet.”

  Medina was frowning now. “Two hits on Sarmiento, and two misses, this recent attempt killing the Butcher, a man known and feared by everyone in our business. Has it occurred to you...” he said, then stopped himself and shook his head. “No, never mind.”

  “Speak freely. We’re alone here.”

  “Ah. I’ll sound like an old peasant woman spinning fables.”

  “Humor me.” It came out sounding like an order, as Esguerra had intended.

  “Well...have you ever thought, Diego, that reviving Pablo as you have, although it’s nothing supernatural, might somehow have triggered other strange events?”

  “You’re right, Luis.”

  “I am?” Confusion on Medina’s face.

  “You do sound like an old woman. Listen to yourself.”

  Medina’s face flushed with embarrassment. “It’s why I didn’t wish to say it, Diego.”

  “No, it’s okay. If you, knowing the whole truth, could think such things, imagine how the masses will respond.”

  Sounding relieved, Medina asked, “So, what should we do next?”

  “What else? Find Sarmiento, wherever he’s hiding out, and crush him like the insect he is.”

  Calle 7, San Antonio Prado

  “The lady wasn’t pleased,” Grimaldi said, stating the obvious. In fact Agent Cabrera had been spitting nails when Bolan told her that she wouldn’t be accompanying them on their run to Paula Janiot’s last known address.

  “And why not?” she’d demanded.

  “First,” he’d told her, “we’re collecting information, not making a raid. You likely won’t miss anything but small talk and denials. I’ll be glad to fill you in on that, for what it’s worth, when we get back. Also if something pops, you’ve just taken a beating and butchered the slob responsible. No shrink alive would say you’re fit for frontline duty till you’ve decompressed from that and gotten your head on straight.”

  “My head is straight, as you put it,”
she’d snapped at him. “And I insist—”

  “On nothing,” he had cut her off. “In case you missed the memo, we don’t work for you. You haven’t even told your boss what’s going on, or that you suffered injuries on duty.”

  “I. Am. Fine!” Her anger radiated from the way she spaced those words.

  “No sale. You’re sitting this one out,” he’d said, before departing with Grimaldi on their drive to Southern Medellín.

  “You figure this is really a wild-goose chase?” the Stony Man pilot asked from behind the Mustang’s steering wheel.

  “We won’t know till we get there,” Bolan granted. “But whichever way it goes, I don’t want Carolina getting underfoot and making one of us look after her.”

  “Hey, I’m with you,” Grimaldi said. “You may have noticed, though, she’s gotten fond of you.”

  “Says who?”

  Grimaldi smiled across at him and said, “The Shadow knows! Bwhahaha!”

  “Now you’re into old radio shows?”

  “That classics, man. Dig it.”

  “Dig this,” Bolan replied. “That’s the number Kurtzman gave us, two doors down and on your left.”

  “Got it. Just park in the driveway, should I?”

  “Why not? We’re going in as FBI, remember?”

  “How could I forget? Being a G-man was my childhood dream.”

  Grimaldi swung into the level driveway, switched off the Mustang’s engine and sat with Bolan for another moment, checking out the house. “It doesn’t look like anybody’s fortified it,” he remarked.

  “Neither did Sarmiento’s place,” Bolan reminded him.

  “You think we’ll have to chase another Mad Max biker?”

  “One’s enough for me. Let’s see who’s home.”

  A curving, paved walkway led over manicured grass to Paula Janiot’s front door. The house was well maintained, but nothing ostentatious by comparison with its neighbors on either side, or facing it across the two-lane width of Calle 7. When they ran the doorbell, chimes somewhere inside the house pealed out the refrain from “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.”

  “If Evita answers,” Grimaldi said, “it’ll be official. We’ve been operating in a parallel dimenson.”