Bloodline (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

Pablo Escobar clicked on the banking icon and his balances, both domestic and international, jumped onto the computer screen. He surveyed them coolly, calculating in his mind how much he could withdraw on short notice without attracting too much attention. Some of the international accounts were probably safe and would survive a forensic DEA audit, but others were iffy. He calculated that if he had to yank up his now well-established roots and make a run for it, he would lose approximately twenty million dollars. Not an excessive amount, but a loss that he hadn't envisioned a few months ago.

He rose from the desk and walked across his office to the bank of windows overlooking the lake. God, he missed his homeland. This barren land offered little to stimulate the senses, except perhaps during the peak summer periods when the vegetation was lush and green. Immersed in the forests he sometimes imagined the spruce and fir were actually eucalyptus and banana trees, and that he was wandering the vast expanse of his Nápoles estate in his beloved Colombia. But reality always brought him crashing back to earth.

He had made mistakes, and now he was paying for it.

He had been a dangerous and sadistic man when he floated at the top of the jetsam that was the Colombian cocaine scene. He had indulged in excesses beyond belief. And he'd enjoyed freedom for the first few years, when he controlled the Medellín cartel with the Ochoa brothers. But the good life had come to an end because he had believed he was above the law. And by his excesses. But his two biggest mistakes had been killing Rodrigo Lara and bringing down the Avianca airliner. How could he have been so arrogant as to believe that killing 107 innocent Colombian people would be overlooked just because he was Pablo Escobar? But back then he had believed he was indestructible.

He padded across to the bar in his slippers and poured himself a whiskey. He liked Crown Royal on the rocks; it was his drug of choice now. He seldom smoked any kind of pot or hash, and never touched cocaine. His physical condition was excellent and he carried very little extra weight on his frame. Quite a difference from the '80s, when he did everything to excess, including eating. They'd been wild years, great years. But now he was paying for them.

He'd had almost twelve years of relative isolation to think about it all. He'd probably started his own downfall in August 1989, when he ordered Luis Galan killed because the son-of-a-bitch refused to allow his own wife to give their daughter a bottle of milk. God, how stupid that was. Then President Virgilio Barco had called in the United States, and President Bush had jumped at the chance of removing the
narcos
from Colombia. He'd earmarked $250 million dollars to fight the cartels. And once the Americans were involved, it was the beginning of the end.

His life sentence was hell in a cold and distant land, without his wife and children. Although he spoke with Juan Pablo on a secure satellite phone every month, it was a distant second to talking with flesh and blood.

A rap on the door cut through his thoughts. “Come,” he said.

Miguel entered and closed the door behind him. He had aged since the glory days at Nápoles, but he was fit and looked good for thirty-one, his face still showing some youthfulness. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Pablo motioned to one of the leather couches and Miguel sat. “We may be moving soon.”

Miguel's face remained impassive. “Any idea when?”

Pablo shrugged. “Eugenio is pushing hard to find me. He's proving more resilient than I thought. But today is Tuesday and he only has until Saturday. He's running out of time. Can he honestly think that Javier Rastano is going to release his wife and daughter if he finds me? If he does, he's a fool.” He poured two fingers of Crown Royal in a crystal glass, handed it to Miguel, then said, “Talk about fools, I may be the biggest one on the face of the earth. Withdrawing that money was a mistake.”

“You waited twelve years. You couldn't know Mario Rastano was monitoring the account.”

“I should have known he'd be watching,” Pablo said softly. “When you're waiting to get your hands on the better part of a billion dollars, you watch. I know I would. I didn't need the money. I did it because of boredom. I wanted to test the waters.”

Miguel made a bit of a face and shrugged. “
C'est la vie.
”

“Yeah,” Pablo said. “
C'est la vie.
” He finished his drink and poured another. “How long will it take you to pack?”

“A couple of days to prepare properly. But we could be out of here in two hours if necessary.” Miguel was silent for a moment, then said, “Pablo, why don't you just call Mario or Javier and give them the access code to the account. If you do, they'll back off. The money's a write-off. More withdrawals will only help them locate you.”

Pablo vigorously shook his head. “No,
amigo.
I don't think so. The Rastano family does not deserve that money.”

“But Eugenio's wife and daughter…”

“I hardly know Eugenio, Miguel. And I have never given in to extortion. We never capitulated when they kidnapped Marta. I'm not eager to start now.” Pablo was upset.

“Marta Nieves was Jorge and Fabio Ochoa's sister, Pablo, and the cartel was at the peak of its power when she was kidnapped. You don't have such resources now.”

“True,” Pablo said, settling down a bit. Miguel was not the enemy. “But I have the power to keep Mario Rastano from getting that money. Even if I gave them the number, Javier would kill Julie and Shiara. The man is a sadistic bastard. As I was, years ago.”

“The years have mellowed you, Pablo.”

“It wasn't just the years, Miguel. Isolation and boredom and eating healthy have mellowed me. But you know what? I'm enjoying being hunted again. It's brought life back into what has been merely existence. Mario and Javier Rastano have never beaten Pablo Escobar, and they won't beat me now. I'll play them all like big fish.” Pablo Escobar laughed.

And Miguel laughed with him.

Escobar nodded and looked out over the lake. Canada geese were arriving back from their southern migration, flying in V-shaped formations across the water. They banked and landed on the calm waters, not far from the dock that served as a loading and unloading platform for boats and small planes equipped with pontoons. Three buildings were tucked against the water's edge, one of them housing a twin engine Otter, and the other a ski-boat. The third was empty, a place to protect visitors' planes or boats. It was seldom used.

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. The ice cubes clinked together as they floated in the liquor, and the sound echoed softly through the room. “It's quite the team that's hunting for us,” he said. “Who would have thought that Eugene could dig up so many of my old nemesis: Senator Irwin Crandle, Alexander Landry, Cathy Maxwell and Bud Reid. It's a veritable who's who of the old DEA-Centra Spike team. Trust me, Miguel, these four are a potentially dangerous combination. They're no fools. They might actually get lucky and find me.”

“You'll know in advance,” Miguel said. “Your contact has never failed you.”

“That's true,” Pablo said. “You see, like Javier Rastano, I am also a very patient man. Patient and prepared for any contingency. I've always been amazed by what money can buy. Goods and services are one thing, but someone's soul, now that's another thing entirely.” He leaned on the bar and looked at Miguel. “How many people's souls have I bought, Miguel?” It was a rhetorical question and Miguel sipped his drink and didn't answer. “How many? A hundred? A thousand? More? Judges, district attorneys, lawyers, politicians, police, army officers; they took my money and sold themselves.”

“
Plata o plomo
may have had something to do with their decision, Pablo.”

“Ah, yes, silver or lead. That little technique worked quite well, didn't it? It's surprising how many men and women abandon their ideologies when faced with that choice. It's actually a pity they didn't all acquiesce; but then if they had, no one would have died and they wouldn't have taken the offer seriously. Things were as they had to be, given the situation.”

“What about
this
situation, Pablo? What if Eugenio won't stop? What if he manages to find you? Will you kill him?”

Pablo stared at Miguel, his dark eyes introspective. “I don't know the answer to that question. If Eugene pushes the limits, I may have to kill him.” Both men watched the returning geese waddle about the gardens close to the house, in search of food.

Finally Pablo said, “I will see which fish is the most fun to play.”

Chapter Thirty-four

The team was just getting ready to close up shop for the day when an e-mail from Hyram Ockey at NSA popped up on Bud Reid's computer. Half of Ockey's e-mail was a bitch letter at the complexity of decrypting the transit codes and identifying the bank that had initiated the withdrawals from Banque Suisse de Zurich. Whoever had encrypted the files had also bounced the signal off two satellites and through a handful of offshore banks before coming back to the origin. The bank was the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, and the branch was in Freeport, Bahamas. Bud tried the phone number included in the e-mail, but the bank was closed and a recording came on giving the bank's address, fax number and hours of operation. They wouldn't be able to contact anyone at the offshore Canadian bank until Wednesday morning.

“What do you think they'll do when we call?” Crandle asked Reid.

“We might be okay,” Bud replied. “The Canadian banks are more cooperative than most. CIBC is probably the best, while Royal Bank is the worst. I won't know until tomorrow when we talk with them.”

“Would it help to have someone from one of the government agencies on their doorstep when they open?” Crandle asked.

“Which agency?”

“CIA, NSA, DEA. Maybe ATF.”

“Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms is under the Department of Justice jurisdiction. We could lose control of this real quick with them in the know,” Cathy Maxwell said.

Crandle thought about that, then nodded. “You're right. I don't have the ins at ATF that I have at the other agencies. But I could definitely have someone on their front door tomorrow morning.”

“I could go myself,” Reid said.

Crandle shook his head. “No way. This group stays together, Bud. You and Eduardo are Siamese twins until we find Pablo or break up the team. That's not negotiable.”

“Okay.”

Cathy said, “I've got a friend at Langley who could help us. He's damn good at scaring the shit out of people.”

“Who is it?” Crandle asked.

“Chris Bisiker.”

Crandle snapped his fingers. “I know him. You're right, he's a tough son-of-a-bitch. We worked together in Peru for a couple of months, chasing down some Shining Path assholes. You think he'll head over to Freeport on the QT?”

“If I ask him, he will. He owes me.”

Crandle smiled. “Then ask him.”

Cathy worked the phone and in less than an hour she had a commitment from Bisiker that he would be waiting outside the CIBC bank in Freeport when it opened Wednesday morning. And more important than his cooperation, she also had his promise that the trip to the Bahamas was completely off the radar. No one at Langley would be in the loop. He would speak with the branch manager and report back to EPIC immediately. Cathy was adamant; get the name and address of the owner of the account. She hung up and grinned at Crandle.

“Done,” she said. “Chris will be persuasive.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Crandle said. He turned to the rest of the group. “That's it for tonight. Shut it down. We'll see you back here at seven tomorrow morning.”

“Another wonderful night in a hotel,” Cathy said, stretching her arms above her head. “I hate the pillows.”

Landry gave her a disgusted look. “Missing your multimillion dollar house, Cathy?”

“I like my house, Alexander. And, yes, I am missing my bed and my family.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, my pillow sucks, too,” Eugene said.

Eduardo Garcia was assigned to driving Eugene to and from his hotel, and they talked about El Paso on the drive. Garcia's parents were originally from Juarez, just across the Mexican border. They had crossed the border legally when he was only six, and his father had supported the family of six, five boys and one girl, by cleaning swimming pools for the more affluent Texans living in the scorching valley. Eduardo was the oldest boy, and the only one so far to earn a college degree. Then, his parents could only afford to send one child to post-secondary school. Eduardo was grateful for the sacrifice.

“But two of my younger brothers are in college now,” he said as they waited at a red light. “Both in Dallas. One's majoring in environmental sciences, while the other is enrolled in geology, of all things.”

“I'm not surprised,” Eugene said. “The Texas economy relies on oil and gas, and geologists and geophysicists are in demand.” He added, “Your dad still cleaning pools?”

“Yeah, he's thinking about retiring and passing the business along to one of us, but when my brothers are finished with college we'll all be educated, and I don't think any of us will want to clean pools for a living.”

“What about your sister?” Eugene asked.

“She's already married. Her husband's a nice enough guy, but he's a backyard mechanic and doesn't earn much. He doesn't think she should work, and his people skills are lacking. He's too rough around the edges to deal with the pool clientele. So it looks like the business will probably just die when my father's finished.”

“Too bad,” Eugene said as they pulled up in front of his hotel. “Thanks for the lift. See you at quarter to seven.”

“Have a good night.”

Eugene shut the door and waved at the young DEA agent as he hoofed it across the hot asphalt to the lobby. He checked for messages, but there was nothing in his slot. He reached his room, turned on the shower and stepped in. It was warm, so he turned the cold handle slowly to the right until the water ran cool. It felt good after the southern Texas heat. He thought of the Garcia family as he stood under the water, wondering what change had allowed the two younger brothers to attend college. The pool business surely hadn't picked up enough to afford two college tuitions and a place for the kids to live in Dallas. Eduardo was working, but the DEA didn't pay enough to cover those kinds of expenses. Something wasn't adding up in the Garcia household.

Eugene turned the handles and the water flow stopped. He listened for a second, then jumped from the tub and made a wild dash for his cell phone. It was still ringing when he picked it up and flipped it open. “Hello.”

“Eugenio?”

“Yes.”

“It's Mario Correa, Eugenio. Are you alone? Can you talk?”

“Yes, Mario, I'm okay to talk. I'm in a hotel room by myself.”

“Good. I understand you stopped by my dealership in Miami yesterday.”

“Yeah, I wanted to talk with you, but you disappeared.”

“I'll disappear every time a DEA agent comes knocking, Eugenio.” His cousin sounded pissed off.

“There's nothing I could do about that, Mario. Trust me when I say that the last thing I wanted to do was bring the heat down on you. I just need information.”

“I've got a damn good idea what you want, Eugenio. I'll meet with you, but only you, no DEA. Understand?”

“I understand. Where?”

“Rochester, New York. How quickly can you get there?”

“Tomorrow sometime, depending on flights. I'm in El Paso right now.”

“There's a shoe repair shop west of the river on the corner of State and Andrews. Four Corners Shoe Repair. I'll be there on the hour from eleven in the morning onward. Meet me at the top of the hour as soon as you get to Rochester.”

“Okay, Mario. Can you answer one question for me?”

“If it's the question I think it is, no.” The line clicked back to a dial tone.

Eugene closed the phone and finished drying off from the shower, glad that he had left his cell phone number with Mario's receptionist in Miami. Rochester, New York. That made absolutely no sense. Rochester was hardly a major center, and not all that easy to access from either Miami or El Paso. Why not just meet in Miami?

He picked up the phone book and called the airlines from his cell phone until he found a flight leaving in two hours for Pittsburgh. He booked his seat and quickly packed his small suitcase. He called downstairs and had the concierge order a cab, insisting it pick him up at the loading dock at the rear of the hotel.

He waited in the shipping-receiving area for about five minutes, and when the cab arrived he directed the driver to stop at a couple of banks with ATM machines, then to head for the airport. He withdrew cash against his credit card at the automated tellers, two thousand at each, until he had six thousand dollars. He tipped the driver well and checked in for his flight, with plenty of time to spare. He figured that once he reached Pittsburgh he could find a seat on a regional airline making the short trip north to Rochester from the Steel City.

His mind was racing an hour later when the plane departed El Paso. Eduardo Garcia and his brothers attending college. An informant hidden somewhere in the group of five. Mario Correa calling and setting up a clandestine meeting in Rochester. Things were happening, but where was it all leading? Then another bombshell dropped into the vortex inside his skull, a thought that closed down every other thought.

Four days. He had only four days to find Pablo. Or Julie and Shiara were dead.