Bloodline (19 page)

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 pocket. 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.”

“I wish,” Pedro said, grinning. “I'm going to change and do some laps. See you in a while.”

“You bet,” Rastano said, watching Pedro as he left the kitchen.

Pedro could feel Rastano's eyes on his back as he padded lightly across the cool tile floor. He reached the hall entrance and turned the corner, glad to be away from the man's penetrating eyes. Pedro hated Rastano's stare, it seemed to pierce his defenses and look directly into his deepest thoughts. But as quickly as that occurred to him, he knew it couldn't be true. Because his innermost thoughts centered almost entirely on how much he hated Javier Rastano, and how to find Julie and Shiara. And if Rastano could indeed read his thoughts, then he'd be dead. And so far, Rastano seemed to like his new welterweight boxer.

But Pedro knew one thing. When the time came, and it would, one of them was going down.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Alexander Landry cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he jotted a quick note on a loose piece of paper. By the look on his face, he was not a happy man. It was early Monday morning and the team, minus Irwin Crandle, was gathered around a central table in their command center at EPIC in El Paso.

“Yeah, we're off to Florida,” Landry said, as he and Bud Reid wrapped up their international call. How did you know?”

“Crandle told me,” Bud said. “I've already spoken with him this morning concerning this situation.”

“What did he say?”

“Enough. And I'm sure you're thinking the same thing he was.”

“It doesn't take a neurosurgeon to realize we have a problem,” Landry said. “Are you heading back now?”

“My flight's in an hour.”

“See you soon.”

Alexander Landry turned to the room, where all eyes were on him. “Bud Reid located Pablo's banker,” Landry said, his voice monotone. “Someone sliced his carotid artery open in a dark alley Sunday afternoon.”

“Any suspects?” Cathy Maxwell didn't bother asking if Shweisser had survived the attack. People didn't survive a severed carotid artery.

“No witnesses to the murder, but Jorge Shweisser, that was his name, was seen dining with a woman a half hour before he bled out in a nearby alley. She could be our killer.”

“You were quite specific a moment ago, Alexander,” Cathy said. “You said
Pablo's
banker. What did Bud get?”

“He broke into Shweisser's townhouse and hacked into his computer. According to Bud, the man was fastidious in his record keeping. There were a number of secure files showing just over five years of regular deposits. Bud thinks Shweisser had been using that particular computer for that length of time. The deposits all had the same transit number, so they came from the same source, which is, as of right now, unidentified. Bud copied a bunch of floppy disks but didn't have time to look on them and see what he was downloading. Hopefully one of them will be a backup from whatever computer he used prior to this one. But the bottom line is that Jorge Shweisser looks dirty.”

“So we've got our connection to the numbered account,” Eugene said. “Do you think the access code may be on one of the disks Bud copied?”

“Not a chance,” Cathy Maxwell said. “The banks use a completely different set of numbers for their staff to access the accounts than the clients. That way if there's any cash missing, they can trace back to who withdrew it—the client or the banker.”

Eugene looked despondent, but managed a smile. “That makes sense. So we're not much further ahead.”

“We don't know that, Eugene,” Cathy Maxwell said encouragingly. “Bud has the transit codes for the transfers and if we can decrypt them that should allow us to trace where the regular deposits into Shweisser's personal account originated.”

Eugene brightened. “And that will give us Pablo's location?”

Cathy shook her head. “I doubt it will be that simple. If Pablo was sending that money, and right now that's a big if, he probably routed it through a Caribbean country, like the Bahamas or the Caymans. If he was smart enough to do that, then the trail will end abruptly. And the banks have some of the toughest encryption software in the business to mask the account number and the transit codes. It's not easy identifying where the transfer originated. Plus, the offshore banks in the Caribbean are tight-lipped at the best of times, and if Pablo is sitting on money in a Cayman account, it's a well-established account and the bank is going to shut the door in our face when we come poking about. New money, just deposited, is a different story. The banks don't want to be accused of laundering drug money, so they open their books a little quicker if the DEA asks about a recent deposit.”

Eugene ran his hand through his thick, curly hair and let out an exasperated sigh. “This is unbelievable. Banks protecting drug dealers.”

“Why do you think it took us so long to find Pablo back in the early '90s?” Landry said. “We weren't up againstjust banks, but entire governments that didn't want to give him up. Nicaragua and Panama were the worst. They stonewalled us for years, pretending to cooperate, while everything they were feeding us was a crock of shit. Christ, Noriega was a pain in the ass. We never knew what to believe when he opened his mouth. And Noriega didn't just dump on us. He pissed off the drug lords by appropriating the money they had on deposit. Nobody was happy with that prick.”

“He got what he deserved,” Cathy said.

“There are a few
narcos
would disagree. They think a bullet would have been more in line than prison time.” Landry checked his watch and pointed at the door. “We have to go, Eugene, or we'll miss our flight to Florida.”

They collected their bags from the small table near the door and hustled to the front doors. Their cab was waiting and traffic was light, putting them at the airport in plenty of time for their flight. They hubbed through Dallas-Fort Worth and arrived in Miami just after three in the afternoon. Mario Correa's Renault dealership was in Miami Beach, on the busy south stretch of Collins Avenue. They grabbed a rental at the Hertz counter and arrived unannounced at the dealership at four o'clock, five hours before the nine o'clock closing time posted on the main doors. The showroom was quiet; only one salesman was on the floor speaking with a customer. The middle- aged receptionist, her reading glasses perched on her nose, looked up from her computer screen as they entered. She slipped off her glasses, and smiled.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was pleasant.

“Yes. We'd like to speak with Mario Correa,” Eugene said. “I'm his cousin.”

A disappointed look crossed her face. “I'm sorry, but Mr. Correa is not in Miami today.”

Landry took over. “We called earlier,” he said. His voice was anything but pleasant. “We were told Mr. Correa would be in all day.”

“He was supposed to be here, but he got called away to an emergency meeting in West Palm Beach. He has another, smaller dealership up there.”

“When will he be back?” Landry asked, obviously perturbed.

The receptionist shrugged. “I'm not sure. He said he might take a couple of days and play some golf. He prefers the courses north of Miami. He says they're not as crowded.”

“Could you get him on the phone, please?” Landry asked.

She hesitated. “As I mentioned, sir, he's in West Palm Beach for an important meeting. He specifically asked not to be disturbed.” She looked at Eugene. “I'll let him know that his cousin was here,” she said. “I can take your name and phone number, if you wish.”

Eugene glanced at Landry, and stepped forward to give his cell phone number. “Sure,” he said, and gave her his name and number. If Mario knew anything about Pablo, he'd get in touch with him first. And, well, it was one edge he'd have on the team, which just might come in handy. And, unlike Pedro's situation, an incoming call wouldn't put him in harm's way. He joined Alexander Landry, who was leaning over checking out the sticker price on a Vel Satis, the flagship of the Renault luxury line. He looked puzzled.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Look at the price they want for this thing. I could buy four Crown Vics for that.”

Eugene laughed and shook his head. “Americans. The engineering in this car is phenomenal. It's on the same level with top of the line BMW and Mercedes. You're paying for European technology and engineering.”

“I'll still buy American,” Landry said, giving the sheet one last look and heading for the door. They broke out into the late-afternoon Florida sunshine, and Landry flipped open his phone. He dialed long distance and when it connected, he said, “Hi, Cathy, it's Alexander.”

“How are things?” his CIA counterpart asked.

“Not so good,” Landry said, resting against the metal railing and running his free hand along the painted surface. “Correa was gone when we got here, called away to an emergency meeting in West Palm Beach.”

There was a marked silence, then Cathy Maxwell said, “What's going on, Alexander? First the banker, now Correa. Something isn't right.”

Alexander Landry continued running his hand gently back and forth on the railing, his face a mask. Eugene was watching him closely and on the other end of the line, in El Paso, Cathy Maxwell waited for his response. Finally, he said, “Maybe, after all these years, we still have a leak.”