Bloodline (25 page)

Chapter Forty

Eugene steered clear of the major hotels and checked into a Super 8 south of Rochester on Lehigh Station Road in Henrietta. He knew that someone from Crandle's team would already be en route to Rochester, courtesy of the gate attendant who scanned his passport. But he had no intention of letting them find him easily. He was where they thought he was—but he didn't have to be visible. He placed a five hundred-dollar cash deposit on the counter, and the Super 8 accepted it. His cab driver, whose name was Bulbinder, had agreed to book off the next three days at a flat rate of five hundred dollars a day, payable each evening at five.

He had a regular driver, a safe hotel room and cash. Now all he had to do was use his brain to figure out where his cousin was living. Common sense told him that the Clarion Hotel Riverside would never divulge information about a guest—unless the request was accompanied by a federal subpoena. So walking up to the front counter and asking for a list of guests who had stayed in the hotel back in mid-November of the previous year would be pretty stupid. The only other way Eugene could think of to get the information was to access the hotel's computer files. And that was something about which he had no experience or expertise. He had one other avenue of inquiry, but that also required hacking into a database. Mario had sold Pablo a Renault and delivered it around the beginning of December. The DMV would have records of the car being registered.

He wandered over to the window and glanced out into the parking lot. Bulbinder saw him, smiled and waved. Eugene waved back and let the curtain fall in place. At least his coming to Rochester had made one person happy. Sunday was Bulbinder's oldest son's birthday, and the money was going toward his college fund. It wasn't anything world-shattering, but somehow that made Eugene feel good; a tiny sliver of the drug money Rastano had given him was going to a good cause. He put one foot slowly ahead of the other until he reached the bed, and flopped down. He needed to channel his efforts, now more than ever. But he was awash in listlessness, winds calm, sails sagging. He closed his eyes, and Julie's smiling and beautiful face filled the darkness.

“God, don't take her from me,” he whispered. He could feel tears gathering, but he refused to open his eyes and release them. “It's all in your hands, Eugene.” Then he realized he had the answer to what he needed, elusive, but close at hand. Something someone had said recently. But what?

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The gate attendant at the airport? The hotel desk clerk? Bulbinder? He stopped at the taxi driver, his mind churning as it regurgitated every word the cab driver had said since they met. Then it hit him. The money was for his son's college fund. He sat bolt upright, breathing shallow and fast. That was it. Hacking into the hotel and DMV computers. Who knew computers better than college students enrolled in computer sciences courses? He leaped up, slipped on his shoes and bolted from the room, locking the door behind him.

At the cab, he asked the driver, “Bulbinder, you said your son is taking computer science courses?”

“Yes. But please call me Bill. Everyone does. It sounds more American than Bulbinder.”

“Sure,” Eugene said. “Bill it is. Where does he go to college?”

“At Finger Lakes Community College.”

“Is it close by?” Eugene asked.

“It's just south of here on Canandaigua Lake.”

“Drive,” Eugene said, jumping into the backseat. “I'll explain on the way.”

As they drove through Henrietta, Eugene explained to Bill what he needed and a little bit about why he needed it. At first the cabbie was unsure; it would mean asking his son to take a risk. But he decided to let his son make the decision. He drove, quiet now, his mind on what Eugene had proposed.

To Eugene, the landscape held a stark beauty. Not the lush beauty of his homeland, but the outline of naked deciduous trees against virgin countryside was breathtaking. The rolling, grass-covered hills were just greening up, and the scent of spring was heavy in the air. They passed quaint villages of traditional two-story clapboard homes. American flags flapped lazily in the afternoon breeze on front lawns and outside single-story municipal buildings. This was John Mellencamp's America, Eugene thought, “Pink Houses” running through his mind.

They reached Canandaigua, the town named after the lake, and continued south until Bill turned onto a well- paved access road bordered with barren trees. The road wove through a few acres of intermittent meadows and forests, until suddenly breaking out into the Finger Lakes Community College campus. They headed toward a central four-story building.

“The computer sciences department is on the third floor,” Bill said. “Ben, that's my son's name, is a teaching assistant in one of the labs. I'll get him for you.” He parked the car, got out and headed up the stairs to the main door.

Eugene got out of the cab and leaned against it. He watched Bill walk quickly into the building and disappear through the glass doors. Several minutes later, he reappeared, with two young men in their early twenties. One was dark skinned, athletic looking, with neatly trimmed hair, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. The other looked Scandinavian, with blond hair and a wiry frame, wearing khakis and a polo shirt. Bill introduced them. Ben and Andrew. Ben shook Eugene's hand. Andrew just nodded.

“As your dad's just told you, I need someone good with computers, Ben,” Eugene said. “It would be a paying job, only a day or two, but good dollars.”

Ben leaned on the car and asked, “What sort of work?”

“Getting information that I can't get.”

Ben's eyes narrowed. “And that information would be in someone else's computer?”

“Yes.”

“That might be illegal, Eugene.”

“It might be. But I've got a very good reason for why I need it.”

“I know. Dad filled me in. Sorry about your wife and daughter.”

“Thanks. So I need someone who can hack into two secure sites: a hotel in Rochester and the DMV.”

“What do you need from the databases?” Andrew asked, finally breaking his silence.

“I need a list of the hotel guests who stayed at the Clarion Hotel Riverside last November, and a list of the Renaults registered by the local DMV last December. I need to know who registered it and where that person lives.”

“That's totally illegal,” Ben said, and looked at his father.

Bill shrugged. “I wouldn't have asked you if Eugene's wife and daughter weren't in danger. He doesn't want classified missile technology. It's routine stuff. He just wants to save his family.”

“Okay, okay. I'm cool with that, Dad,” He turned to Eugene. “I brought Andrew with me because he and I are buddies. If we do this, we do it together. You okay with that?” Eugene nodded, and Ben continued, “I need a clean computer and a location the police can never trace back to me.”

Andrew piped up. “Old lady Quigley's place in Seneca Falls. She's got a revved-up Pentium system with high-speed Internet access. She's taking a sabbatical from teaching this semester. She's in New York City until the end of the month.”

“How do we get in?”

“That's easy,” Andrew said. “I've got a key. I'm watering her plants while she's gone.”

“Just for the record,” Ben said, “how much did you say this job paid?”

Eugene quickly calculated what was left of the six thousand dollars after he paid Bill. “A thousand dollars,” he said.

“Okay,” Ben said, shaking Eugene's hand. “You just hired yourself a couple of hackers.”

Chapter Forty-one

Senator Irwin Crandle sat in an uncomfortable office chair reading the e-mail for the second time. Unbelievable was the only word he could think of to describe what he was reading.

The decrypted files from Jorge Shweisser's computer were a daily diary that dated back to the year the numbered account was opened. Shweisser had suspected something illegal from the start and kept a detailed record of the early transactions, both deposits and withdrawals. He had also keyed in his personal feelings, in Latin, stored them on the disk, and then encrypted them. Crandle figured him to be somewhere between cautious and paranoid. But the amazing thing about Shweisser's personal take on the situation was that his ramblings were basically correct.

Shweisser mentioned Pablo Escobar's name no less than twenty-three times. Shweisser was being paid to ensure that the account remained in good standing and that no one in the bank hierarchy questioned where the money was coming from. In one paragraph he noted that he was being paid by “an unknown Colombian,” but in the very next entry he admitted he suspected the Colombian to be Pablo Escobar. But the really shocking thing about the use of Pablo's name was that it didn't stop after December 2, 1993. Shweisser was never fooled by the apparent death of the Colombian drug lord.

Crandle finished reading the contents of the disk and leaned back in the chair. Shweisser could have sold his suspicions on the open market for countless millions of dollars. But then he would have been a target for Escobar's
sicarios
and his life would have been shorter than the already abbreviated version.

Shweisser had played his cards in the best fashion he could. He'd survived years longer than many who found themselves involved with the Colombian cartels. He'd been mute, but all the while he'd been making careful notations on an encrypted disk. It was Shweisser's decision to work both sides of the fence that had cost him his life. Once he started channeling information to the Rastano clan, his days were numbered. But Crandle was impressed by the man's patience and cunning. And coming from someone like Irwin Crandle, that was quite a compliment.

Crandle bundled the papers together and placed them in a file folder. It was late Wednesday night, and Bud Reid and Eduardo Garcia had left for the day. Crandle called their hotel and told them to check out and be at the airport in half an hour. Their usefulness in Texas was at an end. It was time to join Cathy Maxwell and Alexander Landry as they honed in on Eugene and Pablo. He called his pilot and told him to file a flight plan for Rochester. Then he shut off the computer and the lights. He locked the door behind him, and signed out at the front desk.

He set the list of withdrawals and deposits from Pablo's account in the Bahamas on the passenger seat in the car as he drove to the airport. At a red light he picked it up and perused it again. Money was moving all over the globe from this account, but over the years the balance had stayed rather static at twelve million dollars. There were credits and debits to banks in the United States, Canada, Switzerland, Caymans, Peru, Great Britain, Morocco, France and Germany. But with the influx of money from the numbered Swiss account, the balance was now almost twenty-three million dollars. One thing was certain; Pablo wasn't in need of cash. But despite the wealth of information on the six-page report, it was not much help. Too many banks in too many countries were involved. Some may have been legitimate transfers to help with Pablo's living expenses, others simply red herrings. It was impossible to tell which might lead to the man without a full forensic audit.

He glanced down at the passenger side of the car. A small calendar he had been using to mark the approaching deadline sat open on the seat. Each day up until Wednesday, March 23 had a cross through it. He picked up a red pencil and drew two diagonal lines through the number 23. One more day was over. They were one day closer to Javier Rastano's deadline.

And right now, it didn't look like they were going to make it.

Chapter Forty-two

The estate was dark, the only illumination from ground- level lights that delineated the pathways from the orchid beds. The moon was almost full, but obscured by low-lying cumulous clouds, and only a scattering of light penetrated through to the secluded grounds. An occasional toucan cawed, and monkeys skittered through the upper branches of the eucalyptus and mango trees. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, both inside and outside the twelve-foot walls.

A solitary figure stole across the grass, moving quickly and with great stealth. Dressed in black and invisible against the dense foliage, Pedro reached the gardener's shed at the far edge of the property. He waited for the patrol to pass, then slipped inside the small building and closed the door behind him. The smell of freshly cut grass was strong inside the shed. He felt his way through the darkness until he reached the workbench covered with lawnmower blades and oily rags. He was extremely cautious; a cut on his hand from one of the blades would require an explanation the next morning at breakfast. An explanation that could never stand up to close scrutiny. Any mistake now would be fatal. He knew it, and sweat started to bead on his face. Finally, his hand closed on the object he was searching for. He lifted the receiver and dialed.

Eugene answered on the third ring, and Pedro whispered into the phone. “I can only talk for a minute.”

“Is everything okay?” Eugene asked.

“Things are tense here, Eugene. Don't call me, no matter what. Rastano has the phone. He's watching the incoming numbers. And he's already killed Luis, the other boxer.”

“Christ. You okay?”

“I'm all right, but calling out is next to impossible. The only phone line I trust is in the gardener's shed at the far end of the property, and there are guards everywhere.”

“Any sign of Julie and Shiara?”

“No, but I'm going to have a better look around tomorrow. I can only see so much at once or Rastano will get suspicious. How are you doing?”

“I'm in Rochester, New York. Pablo lives near here somewhere. I'm getting close, Pedro.”

“Good news. I've got to go. Don't call, Eugene, or I'm a dead man.”

“Don't worry, Pedro. We'll get together, you, me and the women, in a couple of days.”

“You got it, my friend.” Pedro quietly slipped the phone into its cradle and moved carefully to the door. He started to open it, but stopped when he heard a noise just outside. He crouched down fast, then raised his head and brought his eyes just over the frame holding the window in place. As quickly as he had raised his head, he lowered it. Outside the door, only inches from where he knelt, was one of Rastano's guards. The odor of cigarette smoke drifted on the still night air and tickled his nostrils. He gently rubbed his nose to keep from sneezing. If the guard was sneaking a cigarette, he would be five minutes or more and Pedro knew his muscles would be cramping by that time if he wasn't in a more comfortable position. He lowered himself to the floor, then concentrated on keeping his heart rate low and his breathing deep and silent.

Five minutes passed with only a modicum of activity or noise from the other side of the door. Pedro began to wonder what was happening. Was the man simply smoking a cigarette, or was he waiting for additional personnel? Maybe they had passed the shed, heard him talking and one of the team had gone for backup. If that was the case, his only chance was to whip open the door, snap the man's neck, dump the body and get back to the house. But Rastano would immediately suspect him. Then there was a slight noise from the other side of the door and the sound of receding footsteps, almost imperceptible on the soft earth.

Pedro waited a couple of long minutes, then chanced a glance out the window. Nothing. The man was gone. He pushed open the door and glanced down at the crushed cigarette butt on the edge of the path. Pedro sucked in the fresh night air and crossed himself. That had been close. Too close. He weaved back to the house using the patches of vegetation as cover. Two sets of armed guards were standing near the entrance, and he had to wait for almost twenty minutes until they moved off and the last fifty yards was clear. He sprinted across the open grass and into the house. It was deathly quiet inside the mansion. He slipped off his shoes, and crossed the tile floor in his socks. It took almost three heart-pounding minutes to reach his room. He checked around the room and was satisfied that no one had come in while he was out.

He lay on his bed, breathing deeply. Two days and counting. Julie and Shiara were on the estate grounds somewhere. He just needed to find out where.

But time was running short, and the danger was growing.