Bloodline (28 page)

Chapter Fifty-one

The call was patched through to the hotel switchboard at five-eighteen Friday morning. The caller asked for the guest by name and, although the switchboard operator cautioned him about the early hour, the man was adamant. The call went through.

“Hello.” The voice was sleepy, a person just awakened.

“This is Mel Jacobs in Arlington. There's been a security breach. Could I verify your identity, please.”

“Certainly.” The correct identification procedure and codes were exchanged, and the caller continued.

“At three-fifty-four this morning there was an unauthorized entry into two files on the mainframe. The one where we managed to flag the intruder was your personnel file.”

“What was the other one?”

“A classified document dealing with a raid on a Colombian drug lab back in May of 1993. I can send you a copy of the file if you wish.”

“No. I know what's in the file. Did you trace where they hacked in from?”

“Yes. I have an address in Seneca Falls, New York. It's a residence owned by a Ms. Sarah Quigley.” He recited the municipal address of the house.

“Thank you. We're close by and will take care of it. Please delete this from your records. It never happened.”

“Yes, sir.”

Senator Irwin Crandle hung up, and stared in the mirror. So this was it. Eugene Escobar had uncovered what no person or group in the entire United States security community had been able to. Eugene had connected the dots back to the raid on Mario Rastano's lab. The raid where he had been forced to kill another DEA agent to keep Rastano from being arrested.

He dressed quietly, thinking about his sordid association with Mario Rastano. There was no other course of action he could have taken in the Colombian jungle, all those years ago. The intel prior to the raid was dead-on, but he and Fernando Garcia weren't given all the facts before going in. They weren't told Mario Rastano would be there. If someone had told him, he would simply have called and warned the man. Instead, they had busted in the doors only to find one of the cartel heavyweights standing in the center of the room, surrounded by processed cocaine. Garcia was on top of the world. They had a big fish in their net, and he wasn't about to let Rastano get away. He'd had no choice other than to shoot Garcia in the back.

He was already taking money from Rastano. Christ, the money flowing through Colombia in those days was unfathomable. The cocaine business drove the country's economy. What was the harm in taking a few million dollars in return for an insider's voice on where and when the Americans would strike? Rastano didn't care about the Colombian government, but Centra Spike and Delta sure scared the shit out of him and Pablo and the Ochoa brothers. With Crandle on the inside, the cartel chiefs could sacrifice just the right number of labs and planes to keep anyone from suspecting the rat in the pack. But the
narcos
moved too quickly a few times, and suspicion grew that someone inside was dirty. But nothing was ever proven. He had remained a faceless ghost. Until today.

Damn Eugene Escobar to hell. This should never have happened. When Javier Rastano had contacted him and told him about the Swiss account, the plan appeared simple. They were going to get Eugene to find Pablo and get the code to the account. His cut was to be fifty million dollars—despite his healthy financial status, fifty million tax free was a lot of money. What could go wrong? Eugene was just some dumb hick who took tourists scuba diving for chump change. They figured that the motivation to save his wife and daughter would be enough to drive Eugene to find Pablo. But they had not foreseen how far this motivation would take him.

He glanced at the address. Seneca Falls. He spread a map of the greater Rochester area on the table and found the town. It was on the west side of Canandaigua Lake, about twenty-five miles south of the city. It was just past five-thirty and traffic would be light. He could make it to Sarah Quigley's house and back before eight. He phoned down and left a message for Alexander Landry that he had gone for a morning drive and jog along the river, and would meet them at eight in the restaurant. Then he slipped on a windbreaker and tucked his gun in the pocket.

One thing was for sure. Eugene Escobar had signed his own death warrant.

Chapter Fifty-two

Friday morning.

The last full day before Javier Rastano's deadline.

Eugene woke early, stiff from sleeping in the cab. He walked through the parking lot and down to a small stream trickling under a stone footbridge. He splashed the cold water on his face, and felt his senses sharpen from the shock to his system. He sat on the grass by the stream for a few minutes, collecting his thoughts and deciding on a course of action for this final day.

Irwin Crandle. The Kentucky senator was nothing more than a spy for a Colombian drug dealer. By now Crandle would know that his association with the Rastano family had been compromised. The evidence to charge him with murder was in the DEA computers, buried but retrievable. And Eugene was keenly aware that his possession of that evidence meant that Crandle couldn't afford to have him walking around telling what he knew. The senator was now coming after him with one intention. To kill him.

Eugene returned to the cab to find Bill just waking up. They drove to a nearby restaurant for breakfast and coffee. After his third cup of the life-sustaining liquid, Eugene announced to Bill that he had made a decision.

“First thing we do,” he said, “is to head north of the city and stop at a couple of banks. I don't know how all this is going to play out, and I won't leave without first paying Andrew and Ben.”

“If you get the money, I'll deliver it,” Bill said.

Eugene nodded. “We'll see, Bill,” he said, as they left the coffee shop and got in the car. “But I don't mind driving with you back down to the college after we get the money. I think best in a moving car.”

“Okay, boss. Whatever you want.”

Eugene settled back in the passenger seat and watched the countryside rush by. Perhaps he could cultivate an ally. He figured that Eduardo Garcia's interest in this whole thing ran deeper than just finding Pablo. Garcia might have suspected the death of his uncle was something other than an act of violence by a cornered
narco.
If Eduardo wanted retribution for Fernando's death, why not give him the target. With Eduardo Garcia after Irwin Crandle, Eugene could breathe a little easier. But how to alert Garcia without the rest of the team knowing? That was a problem. The team would be staying at a Rochester hotel. But which one? He didn't have the time or resources to start canvassing the hotels and asking for information that they may not divulge.

Then he had an idea. Not many people flew into medium-size cities in a Learjet. He asked Bill to pull over at a pay phone. He dialed the number to the executive terminal at the Rochester airport and spoke with the receptionist. She told him the pilot for Senator Crandle's jet was already in and having coffee with some of the maintenance staff. She put him on hold for a couple of minutes, then a voice came over the line.

“This is Captain Archer. Who am I speaking with?”

“Captain Archer, it's Eugene Escobar. I don't know if you remember, but you flew me from El Paso to Kentucky to meet with the senator.”

“I remember. What can I do for you, Mr. Escobar?”

“I'd like to speak with the team. But by phone, not in person. I need to know where they're staying.”

“They're at the Hyatt Regency Rochester on Main Street.”

“Thanks,” Eugene said. He dropped the phone back in its cradle. He got out the phone book, looked through the yellow pages for the number, then dialed and asked the switchboard operator for Eduardo Garcia. She put the call through. It rang a few times, then went back to the operator.

“Mr. Garcia is not answering right now,” she said. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“Yes. But not on his voice mail. I'd like the message I leave to be personally delivered to Mr. Garcia when he is alone. This is extremely important.”

“Yes, sir. What is the message?”

“Tell him to call Eugene Escobar.” He gave her the cell phone number. “But make sure Mr. Garcia knows that he is not to say a word to anyone until he's spoken with me.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you.”

Eugene returned to the cab and had Bill drop him at three different banks, in quick succession. He withdrew the daily maximum of two thousand dollars from each bank, pocketed the six grand, and they headed for Finger Lakes Community College. He had a debt that needed paying.

Chapter Fifty-three

Irwin Crandle powered up the computer system and waited. He initiated the Internet and checked the history to see which sites had been accessed recently. The hackers had not taken the time to clear the files from the memory, and he followed the path Eugene had used the previous evening. When he reached the highly classified file that detailed the raid on Rastano's lab, he closed the files and deleted the path from the memory. Then he took the second path, the one Eugene had traveled just a few hours ago. Crandle's personnel file flashed on the screen, then quickly disappeared. He swore under his breath, and deleted that path from the memory. Then he shut the machine off, wiped the keyboard clean and left the house.

His suspicions were confirmed. Eugene Escobar had pieced together his involvement with Mario and Javier Rastano. Time was now the enemy. The longer Eugene was on the streets with this knowledge, the greater the chance that he would pass it along to someone else. What would Eugene do with the information? Go to the DEA? He doubted that. Try to contact someone at Langley or in the FBI? Again, doubtful. The truth was, he had no idea what the son-of-a-bitch might do. Eugene was proving to be a far more resourceful person than he'd thought. Go figure. A dive master from Venezuela with information that could bring down one of the richest and most powerful men in the United States. What a crazy world.

His phone rang. He answered it as he started his car.

“Senator Crandle, this is Bobby Akins at the Rochester City Police. I think we've got a hit on the car your suspect is driving.”

“Really?” Crandle said. “What kind?”

“This Bulbinder Chadi has a relative who lives near where we found the cab who admits that he loaned Bulbinder a blue, 2005, two-door Saturn coupe.” He recited the license number. Crandle jotted it down.

“Thanks, Bobby,” he said. “Listen, when one of your squads spot this car could you do me a favor? I want them to back off and call in the location. When you get the call, please forward the information along to me. Just me. On this line. I'll have this cell phone with me all day.”

“Yes, sir. Of course. I'll instruct the officers not to approach the car if they spot it.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

Crandle jammed the rental into gear and pulled out of Sarah Quigley's driveway. It wouldn't take the police long to spot a blue Saturn. Eugene's hours to live were dwindling quickly.

Chapter Fifty-four

Bill pulled over at a quaint, mom-and-pop restaurant in Bloomfield, a five-mile jaunt from the northern edge of Canandaigua Lake. It was almost lunchtime, and both men were hungry. They ordered homemade dishes from a thick menu. Eugene jotted down some notes while Bill perused a local newspaper.

The first question on Eugene's mind was why was there no match between the names on the hotel registry and the new Renault owners? What was he missing? When Pablo wanted to talk with Mario, he had Correa fly up from Miami and meet him in Rochester. Eugene presumed that Pablo wanted the meeting in the city because it was convenient for him. And convenience meant that Pablo must live nearby. That was the assumption that he had been basing everything on. That Pablo was living somewhere close to Rochester. But if that were true and Pablo had a house close by, then why would he stay at the Clarion?

Christ, that was it. Pablo drove into Rochester for the meetings. He didn't stay at the hotel, he simply used it as a meeting place. That's why his name wasn't on the hotel registry. Eugene kicked himself for making that wrong assumption; the mistake had cost him time when he should have been looking elsewhere for corroboration of Pablo's new name. So the hotel registry was out. But the much shorter list of new Renault owners was in. That was good; it would be much easier to deal with a list of nine individuals than page after page of names and addresses, most of them from out-of-state.

He jotted that down.
Pablo not registered at hotel, need another source for his name.
Without some sort of corroboration on Pablo's new name, he was left with chasing down all nine Renault owners and hoping he found Pablo first, rather than last. Too much risk that he would run out of time. He needed something more definitive. But what?

Think. Why did Pablo choose the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce in the Bahamas? Why not some other bank? A local bank with the head office in the Bahamas or the Caymans. Why a Canadian bank? He pulled out the map and stared at it. Rochester was as far north as you could go and still be in the United States. The southern border of Canada was just across Lake Ontario. Was there a connection? Is that why Pablo had chosen to live in such a cold climate; because he needed access to Canada? But if that were the case, then why not just live in Canada? He had no answer to that question. But maybe that explained why Pablo had chosen Rochester. He needed to be close to the border.

Okay, now he was getting somewhere. Pablo needed to be near the Canadian border. But why? Did he have family in Canada? No, that didn't make sense. Juan Pablo and the rest of his immediate family were in the Caribbean. What about a business? Was Pablo running some sort of legitimate business based in Canada? That would explain the transfers from the offshore CIBC branch in the Bahamas. Maybe. But why? Pablo probably didn't need money, or he'd have withdrawn funds from the Swiss account years ago. Maybe he'd been reluctant to withdraw money from the Swiss account because the activity could raise red flags, which was exactly what had happened. But maybe he
did
have a thriving business, and he didn't need money. Maybe he was living off the profits of his latest venture. Pablo may have figured Mario and Javier Rastano would finally lose interest in monitoring the account. If that were the reason for finally transferring some of the money, his judgment had been very poor. The Rastanos had not forgotten the billion-dollar account.

Their very efficient waitress, a smiling woman in her mid-thirties, set the check on the table, and asked, “Anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Eugene said, laying down forty dollars and telling her to keep the change—more of Rastano's money going to a nice person, he thought. “Let's go,” he said to Bill, “I want to get the money to Ben and Andrew.”

“No problem,” Bill said, smiling. He had fifteen hundred dollars in his pocket and was one very happy man.

The drive to Finger Lakes gave Eugene more time to think. But this time it wasn't about Pablo. Irwin Crandle occupied his mind. The senator was a disgrace, and he needed to be toppled. It wouldn't be easy. But with the evidence on the DEA computers, all he needed to do was get the truth rolling and it would find its way out. Cran- dle's connection to the Rastano family would destroy him, just as a murder conviction would see him rot in jail. And the rat was gone. If Eduardo Garcia could take care of Crandle, then Rastano's eyes and ears inside the team were silenced. Then Eugene had another thought, one that made his stomach bile rise.

Jorge Shweisser, the banker murdered in the picturesque city of Zurich. Murdered because he had succumbed to the lure of working for both Pablo and Rastano. But it was not in Rastano's best interest to kill the banker. The only person who would have wanted Shweisser dead was Pablo. But how could Pablo have known that the team was sending someone to visit Shweisser unless Pablo was being kept in the loop. And one thing was for certain: Irwin Crandle was not playing both sides of this mess, or he would have brokered a deal for the ten-digit code without involving Eugene Escobar, Cathy Maxwell, Alexander Landry and Bud Reid. And the last thing Crandle needed was to have Fernando Garcia's nephew hanging around. No, it wasn't Crandle who was feeding Pablo his intel. Which could only mean one thing.

There was another snitch in the group. If Crandle wasn't working both sides, then someone else was Pablo's spy.

Eugene rubbed his temples and tried to clear the cobwebs. Christ, he had just figured out the identity of one informant and now he had another. His brain ached as he tried to keep the neural pathways from shorting out under the stress. Three people were left in the running: Maxwell, Landry and Reid. One of them was dirty. He placed Cathy Maxwell extremely low on the list because Pablo was responsible for her parents' deaths. Landry and Reid were about even. They were both involved in the search for Pablo after his escape from La Catedral prison, and either one could have been on Pablo's payroll all along. Pablo had had many miraculous escapes from the American forces under Centra Spike and the Colombian army. Too many. And this explained why. One of the major players had been taking his
plata
and feeding him information. He closed his eyes and wished the whole mess would just go away.

It didn't happen.

They skirted the village of Canandaigua and pulled onto the campus grounds at one-thirty. Eugene went to the Registrar's Office and persuaded them to tell him which class Ben Chadi was in. Computer Sciences, third floor, room 312. He took the stairs and found the classroom without any trouble. When he poked his head in the door, Ben saw him, spoke to the teacher, and joined Eugene in the hallway.

“Hi,” Ben said. “Good to see you. Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Eugene said, handing him a pre-counted stack of bills. “All even. Thanks a million, Ben.”

“My pleasure.” His face was glowing at the sight of the cash. “Any problems with using Quigley's house?”

“None that I know of.” He looked up and down the empty hallway. “Do you know where Andrew is right now?”

“Yeah, he's in a chemistry lab. I'll show you, if you want.”

“Sure. That would be great.” They started walking, and Eugene said, “Andrew and I were talking while you were in Sarah Quigley's computer. I thought he was a biology major.”

Ben steered Eugene down the stairs onto the second floor. “He is, but the two overlap. He takes chem, biology, zoology, and a lot of math.” They reached a door on the lower floor, and Ben rapped sharply. A teacher opened the door.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Andrew Livingston, please,” Ben said. “His uncle's in from out of town.”

She smiled at Eugene, and said, “He's almost finished. If you can wait a minute, I'll get him.”

Eugene and Ben stood at the door looking in at the rows of lab tables that were covered with beakers, test tubes and burners. The twenty or so students were all busy with experiments, and paid no attention to the diversion at the door. Andrew's head was down and he was writing something in a log book. The teacher tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the door. She said something to him, and he smiled, removed his safety glasses, gathered his books and approached the door.

“Hi, Eugene,” he said. “How are things?”

Eugene didn't answer. He was staring into the lab room. Something was in the recesses of his mind, trying to get out. Something important. He stared at the assortment of lab equipment for a moment longer, then answered Andrew. “Everything's great. I've got your money.”

“Hey, a man of his word.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, exposing the tip of the wad Eugene had given him. “Check this out.”

“Holy shit,” Andrew said. “The freakin' mother lode.” He accepted the cash from Eugene. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You guys helped me out. It's the least I can do. Thanks again.”

They shook, and he left them, two very happy students with no worries about where their weekend beer money would come from. He exited the building, but glanced back. The chemistry lab was bugging him; some bit of information was locked away in his brain but he didn't have the key. Why would a college chemistry lab create a spark somewhere in his memory banks? He thought back to the ill-fated day at Pablo's Nápoles estate. The cocaine lab in the jungle, the realization that Pablo was indeed a
narco.
They weren't pretty memories.

But how were the two related? Cocaine couldn't be processed without certain chemicals. Along with being the enforcer, one of Pablo's main functions for the Medellín cartel had been to procure the hydrochloric acid, acetone and ether for the labs. Centra Spike and DEA had gone after the chemicals, attempting to stop the shipments before they reached Colombia. Without the chemicals there would be no processed cocaine.

Then, like a blast of water from a high-pressure sprayer, it hit him. The chemicals. Pablo had not only been an expert on violence and moving cocaine into America, he was also an expert on the chemicals used to process the raw coca leaf. Eugene was shaking with anticipation when he got back to the car.

“Bill,” he said, barely able to breathe. “Get me to an Internet café. I need to go online.”