Bloodline (3 page)

Eugene's smile faded. “People die in wars, honey. All wars, not just the American ones.”

“I know, Dad,” she said lightly, then scampered back out the front door. Eugene caught a glimpse of a teenage boy on a bicycle near the fence, and then the door slammed behind his daughter.

He relaxed back into the couch. “How was your day? Kids behave themselves?” It was Friday just before Carnival was to start and classes were over at noon. An early day for the kids and the teachers.

Julie laughed. “They're young, Eugene. They're too full of energy to behave themselves. Remember back to when you were ten years old. Were you good all day long in school?”

“No. But I never had such a beautiful teacher as you,” he said.

“They're too young to think of me as beautiful or ugly. They just see me as nice or mean.”

“And today you were…?”

“Nice.”

Eugene grinned. “Are you still nice?”

It was Julie's turn to grin. “I think so. Want to find out?”

“Oh, yeah.” He followed her from the living room, a smile on his parched lips.

Chapter Two

A bank of clouds skirted the cordillera and slid down the Cauca valley, bringing cooler temperatures and the threat of rain to Medellín. Pedestrians walked a little quicker, wanting to be indoors before the weather turned brisk. Palms swayed as the breeze ruffled their fronds, and the air was charged with static electricity. A storm was brewing.

A black 740i BMW pulled up to the curb on Calle 52 and a well-dressed man in his mid-twenties jumped from the passenger seat and strode quickly through the gates of the Joaquín Antonio Uribe gardens. He branched off the main path and headed for the far side of the lake, where water lilies punctuated the crystal waters and rare orchids lined the pathway. He approached a man sitting on a bench beside the lake. Few people were in the park, and the setting was tranquil.

“Javier?” the young man said quietly, as if simply speaking could incur the man's wrath.

The seated man turned and glanced at the newcomer. Javier Rastano was casually dressed in designer jeans and a Polo golf shirt. He wore sandals with no socks and no jewelry save a thin gold chain with a tiny pendant around his neck. He was thirty-six, but looked closer to thirty. He kept himself in excellent physical condition and his tanned skin still stretched tight over his facial bones. His eyes were deep brown, his hair jet-black and swept back from his face, falling halfway down his neck. When he spoke, his voice was deep, but soft.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Your father has requested a visit,” the young man said.

“Now?”

“Yes, sir. Now. I have a car waiting.”

“Very well,” Javier said, reluctantly lifting himself off the park bench. “Bad timing, Julian. It's always the most beautiful here just before it rains.”

Javier followed the messenger to the exit and slid in the back seat of the car. Julian got in the front passenger seat, and the driver pulled away from the curb. Javier knew where they were going—his father's house in the upscale subdivision of El Poblado along the southern edge of the city. Morro El Salvador, the southernmost of the three hills inside the Aburrá valley, rose above the congestion of small houses and busy streets, its crest obscured by the increasingly thick clouds. The first few drops of rain splattered on the windshield. Javier turned his gaze from the window and let his mind drift to what his father might want.

Mario Rastano was a successful businessman in Medellín, one of the new breed of entrepreneurs who had invested heavily in the city after the downfall of the notorious
narcos
of the eighties and early nineties. Javier managed three of his father's nightclubs and oversaw day-to-day operations of the six fitness centers in and about Medellín. He liked horses, and spent considerable time at the equestrian facility his father had built some five kilometers south of El Poblado. Javier's handsome face was well known in the city's best restaurants and clubs, and he was often touted as the most eligible bachelor in Medellín. Being his father's son was not a great burden.

But shadows obscured the origins of the money that had built the nightclubs, the fitness centers and the other thriving business ventures that were part of the Rastano business empire. Prior to establishing themselves as one of Medellín's premier families, Mario Rastano had often been linked to the drug cartel and, most notably, to Pablo Escobar and Carlos Lehder. Mario Rastano's association with the kingpins of the Medellín drug cartel was common knowledge, but time had eroded the ties, and with his new image as a major benefactor to the prosperous city, the government turned a blind eye to his past. As did his neighbors, many of whom were judges and politicians. Mario Rastano and his son were legitimate business leaders who paid taxes and donated their money and time to charity. And that was the way things were.

Javier returned his gaze to the passing scenery as they entered El Poblado. Shiny glass and steel buildings towered over parking lots filled with Mercedes and Jaguar convertibles. Rows of royal palms lined the access roads to the buildings that housed the South American headquarters of many global companies, and shaded the pedestrians that sported Armani and Gucci outfits and accessories. The BMW passed an embossed sign that read
Century Capitol,
the flagship of the Rastano financial empire. The four-story building was surrounded by palms and water and tucked back from the main road. The parking lot out front was filled with employees' cars. People hired to administer the Rastano fortune. Javier couldn't resist a slight smile as the building disappeared behind a bend in the road. He liked being his father's son.

The building complexes dwindled, and residential apartments and condos took over. Main Street brimmed with restaurants, trendy shops and pretty Latina women, their arms full of shopping bags. The driver veered right at a fork in the road and the scenery changed again. Gone now were the shops and condos, and in their place were walled estates with expansive, manicured grounds and monolithic houses set back from the winding road. Towering palms lined the cobblestone road; the grass and shrubs were impeccably cut and trimmed. The road gently rose as they neared the east side of the cordillera, and when the mountainside seemed almost upon them, the driver steered into the final driveway. He entered a code in the keypad and the iron gates slowly swung open. They cruised up the meandering driveway, past a duck pond and acres of lush lawns. A few gardeners were busy working, but none of them glanced up as the car drove past. They rounded a final curve, and the main house came into view. It was a two-story white colonial home, with sixteen evenly spaced pillars and a second-floor balcony that ran the entire length of the house. A tennis court and swimming pool were set off to the right of the main house, and three small cabanas were tucked in the trees on the left. Guest houses for Mario Rastano's overnight visitors. The BMW pulled up in front of the main doors. The driver jumped out and opened Javier's door.

The young millionaire eased himself off the leather seat and let himself in the house. He angled through the massive foyer, his sandals clacking on the Italian tile, past the main hall and into his father's study. The room was a man's room, with dark paneling and heavy draperies over thick, beveled glass. Bookshelves covered three of the four walls, with texts in Spanish, English and French. Thick carpets covered the floor and the chandeliers provided precious little light. Mario Rastano sat at his desk, a lamp casting light on the letter he read. He glanced up as Javier entered and motioned for his son to take a seat.

Mario's piercing brown eyes finished reading the letter, and he gently set it on the desk. His hair was receding, but still dark with only an occasional hint of gray. His broad shoulders and powerful arms were evident under the thin silk shirt and his hands dwarfed the page he held. Rastano's face was aging now that he was in his late sixties, but his features still held an authoritative look. There was nothing old or feeble about his presence. He looked up and addressed his son.

“How were the gardens?”

“Wonderful. As always.”

“What is it about the Uribe gardens that entice you so? We have a beautiful estate, Javier. I don't understand why you insist on visiting a public garden.”

Javier shrugged. “I like it. It's peaceful. It's that simple, really.”

The clan elder shrugged. “So be it.” He reached across the desk and picked up another piece of paper. “I received this about an hour ago.” He handed it across to his son and waited as Javier read it.

“How is this possible?” Javier asked, a questioning look in his eyes. “These Swiss accounts are impenetrable.”

“Yes, that's true. Only one man has access to them.”

“And he's been dead since early December 1993.”

“Almost twelve years,” the elder Rastano said. “Imagine that.”

Javier rechecked the figures on the page. “Eight million American dollars withdrawn fifty days ago, and another six million yesterday. Why did it take our contact in the bank almost two months to get this to us?”

“I think he just missed the first withdrawal. But he caught the second one. I can live with that.”

“Then so can he,” Javier said, smiling. It was a different smile, evil and cold.

Mario nodded. “He's important to us right now. I can overlook the mistake. Anyway, we have a problem. Money that is rightfully ours is being withdrawn from that account.”

“What can we do?” Javier asked. “Can we track the wire transfers once the money leaves Zurich?”

Mario shook his head. “Not a chance. Our banker friend tried, but whoever is behind the withdrawal bounced the money electronically off a handful of satellites going in and out of thirty international banks. It's impossible to trace.”

“There's almost a billion dollars in that account,” Javier said, his jaw clenched. “We've waited years to get our hands on that money. We can't just sit back and watch it disappear.”

“Over a billion,” his father corrected him. “Interest on nine hundred and forty million dollars, compounded semi-annually over twelve years, is substantial. And no, we're not just going to sit around and let him take it from under our noses.”

“Again, I ask: What can we do?”

“Find him.”

“You think he's alive?”

Mario Rastano slammed a huge fist down on his desk. The sound echoed through the room. “I
know
Pablo Escobar is alive, Javier. I feel it. He's been living in obscurity for the better part of twelve years and now he needs the money from the Swiss account to keep him afloat. He will continue to take that money until there is nothing left. He's alive and we're going to find him.”

“How?” Javier asked.

“Pablo Escobar has a cousin. I'd like you to pay him a visit.”

Chapter Three

Larry cut the engines and Eugene heaved the anchor into the calm waters of the bay. It caught in the mixture of sand and rocks, and the small craft slowly eased to a halt, just short of the beach. A skinny teenager grabbed the second mooring line and waded ashore, fastening it to one of many wooden pegs driven into the sand. The divers disembarked, and Eugene and his crew ferried their gear to shore. They tipped Eugene, thanked him for a great day of diving, piled into Eduardo's truck and were gone. Eugene sat on a log and waved Larry over.

“Here,” he said, splitting the tip in half. “Twenty for you, twenty for me. Not bad for a Friday, my friend.”

Larry took the American dollars and grinned. “Happy clients, happy pilot.” He trotted off toward his house, a few short blocks from the playa. Eugene rocked his head back and forth, stretching his neck muscles and working out the knots. He raised his right arm and rotated it, wincing at the pain. It had been more than a week since the incident with the Germans, and his shoulder was still sore. He leaned against the log and looked skyward. The moon was a sliver, the sky cloudless. He and Larry had put in a long day, with two dives during the daylight hours and one more after the sun had disappeared behind the mountainous outline of Margarita. He was tired, and lifting himself off the log and walking to the Vespa seemed almost too much. Somehow, he managed.

Once he had the scooter moving, the breeze invigorated him and gave him a second wind. Larry was right; it had been a very good day. Night dives paid well, and the twenty-dollar tip was gravy. He weaved around the potholes, his headlight dancing on the road and the shrubs that bordered the asphalt. The football stadium loomed up on his left, eerie in the blackness that enveloped Playa El Tirano. His turn came up quickly and he braked, then steered onto his dirt drive. A solitary light burned in the kitchen. He locked the steering on the scooter, lifted his gear and trudged across the mixture of saw-grass and rock chips, his running shoes making a strange crunching noise.

“Hello,” he called, entering the bungalow and dumping his gear on the floor next to the front door. “I'm home. Sorry I'm late.” He kicked off his shoes and rounded the corner into the kitchen. “We had six divers who wanted to try a night—”

He stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth open. Julie and Shiara were nowhere to be seen. Three men were in his kitchen, one of them at the table and two leaning against the counter. All three were Latinos, with dark hair and brown skin, but it was the figure sitting at his table that immediately caught his attention. The man was in his mid-thirties with longer hair swept back behind his ears, and deep brown eyes like ice. His manicured hands rested on the table.

“Who the hell are you, and where is my wife?” Eugene asked.

“Relax, Eugenio,” the seated man said in a soft voice. “Your wife and daughter are fine. For now.”

Eugene started to move forward, but two guns appeared, Glock A-17s, one in the right hand of each man leaning against his counter. Eugene stopped. “Where is my wife?” His words were like acid.

“Sit down, Eugenio. Threatening me isn't going to help your situation.”

Eugene glanced at the guns, and sat at the table opposite the man. “Who are you?” he asked.

The man smiled. “Now that's a question I
can
answer. My name is Javier Rastano. I'm from Medellín. It's a city in southern Colombia, in case you're not familiar with it.”

“I know where Medellín is,” Eugene said. “But I don't understand why you're here.”

“You are related to the Escobar clan, who at one time lived in Medellín. One of your cousins was Pablo Escobar.”

“Pablo is dead. He died violently years ago.”

“Did he?” Javier asked, amused. “What makes you so sure?”

Eugene looked puzzled. “The entire planet knows that Pablo Escobar died during a shootout in Medellín sometime in December of 1993. You should read the newspapers.”

Javier's smile disappeared. He leaned forward. “Don't get sarcastic with me, Eugenio. Remember, we have two people very dear to you.” He held up his hand as Eugene began to ask again where his wife and daughter were. “Don't keep asking about them or I'll make a phone call and they
won't
be okay.”

Eugene settled back into his chair. “Okay. Okay. Everything's cool here.” He swallowed, his throat dry. “What do you want from me?”

Javier also reclined back into his chair. “We have reason to believe that your cousin isn't as dead as he would like the world to believe. In fact, we're sure he's alive.”

“That's impossible. The Colombian government ran all kinds of tests on his body. They proved beyond any doubt that it was Pablo. They verified his fingerprints and ran DNA samples of his blood and skin.”

Javier laughed. “The Colombian government. The same men who were terrified of Pablo Escobar. The politicians and police either accepted Pablo's bribes or he killed them.
Plata o plomo,
silver or lead. And these are the people who authenticated his death. Fingerprints can be changed with lasers and DNA samples can be switched. Especially in a country like Colombia.”

“The American DEA and CIA were involved.”

“At a distance. They weren't allowed to be in direct contact with the body or any aspect of the verification. The Colombians saw the American influence as meddling in their affairs, and since Escobar was dead, they didn't have to worry about reprisals. So the DEA and CIA had to stand back and let the Medellín police prepare the forensics reports.” He waved his arms in the air. “So many opportunities for deception.”

“All right. Even if Pablo is alive, what does that have to do with me?”

“You're his cousin. Maybe you know where he is.”

“You haven't been listening. Until five minutes ago, I thought he was dead.”

“I wouldn't be here if I wasn't positive he was alive,” Javier said, his tone ominous. “He's alive, Eugenio. Take my word for it.” He lit a cigarette, then continued. “My father and I want you to find him.”

“What?” Eugene said. “Are you crazy? How can I find Pablo Escobar if he doesn't want to be found.”

“You're his cousin.”

“I've only met the man three times in my entire life. I hardly know him. He's a black mark on our family tree.” He made a sweeping motion with his hands. “Look around. I'm not exactly living in opulence here.”

“I didn't say you knew him well, all I said was that you're his cousin. That alone can open doors.”

“How? And where? I don't understand.”

“Someone walks into the DEA and tells the agent in charge that he's Pablo Escobar's cousin and that he thinks Pablo is alive. Do you think they're going to listen? I do. At the very least, they'll interrogate the hell out of him. And once they're finished, they'll want to know if the person is correct. And that could start an investigation.”

“You want me to involve the DEA? Are you nuts? Why don't you just go and talk to Pablo's son, Juan? He's living in the Caymans, from what I hear.”

Javier's face clouded over. “Juan Pablo is off limits. Any of Pablo's immediate family is strictly off limits. If Pablo found out we had approached his mother, his daughter or his son, he would go on a rampage. He wouldn't rest until we were dead.”

“Jesus Christ, you're scared of someone who is probably dead.”

“Anyone who isn't scared of Pablo Escobar, dead or alive, is a fool,” Javier said. “I respect his abilities.”

“You never answered my question about the DEA.”

“I'd rather you found a different way to locate Pablo, but if you have to approach the DEA, so be it. Just keep my name out of things.”

“Or my wife and daughter get hurt.”

“No, they die.”

“You bastard,” Eugene fumed. “You heartless, fucking bastard.”

Javier shrugged and a slow smile spread across his face. “I've been called worse. And by a lot tougher people.”

“Why don't you just find him yourself?”

“Oh, that would be smart,” Javier said sarcastically. “A respected businessman from Medellín asking about Pablo Escobar. Talk about painting yourself with the same brush as Pablo. Maybe I could just turn myself into the police as a
narco.
I don't think so, Eugenio. My father and I will try to find him in our own way, but you have more options than we do.”

“None of them very palatable.”

Javier shrugged again. “You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your relatives. Unfortunately for you, Pablo Escobar is part of your family tree, a nasty little part of your bloodline.” Javier snapped his fingers and one of his goons moved forward and dropped a small package on the table. The contents were encased in brown paper and wrapped tight with packing tape. “There's a hundred thousand American dollars in the package. It's for your expenses.”

Eugene stared at the package but made no move to pick it up. “Say I find him. What then?”

“You let us know where he is.”

“That's it? You want me to give up Pablo so you can kill him?”

“I don't want to kill Pablo. I want a number from him. A ten-digit number. In fact, get me that number and I don't care if you tell me where Pablo is hiding. Your choice.”

Eugene was silent for a minute. “It's a number to access a bank account,” he said. “Pablo has money in a foreign bank, and you want it.”

Javier leaned forward again. His eyes were burning embers. “The money in that account is rightfully ours. Pablo and my father had an agreement. They jointly ran a number of cocaine pipelines through Central America into the United States. Most of the drugs were moving through the Caribbean to either Bimini or Norman's Cay in the Bahamas, but the DEA was watching, and it was dangerous to move large shipments along those routes. So we improvised. We began ferrying the drugs through northern Colombia into Panama, and from there the cocaine went north to California. The DEA never knew of the secondary route. We banked hundreds of millions of dollars with no one the wiser.”

“And that money is in some bank, waiting for you to withdraw it. Except you don't have the number to access the account.”

Javier nodded. “Pablo is the only one who knows the number. When he disappeared from La Catedral prison in July of '92, with the number, he was a fugitive from that day on.”

“Surely you talked with him at some point.”

“Many times between then and December of '93. But he wasn't stupid. Pablo knew that if he was the only one with the number to access the bank account, my father and I would do everything in our power to keep him alive. Otherwise, he was expendable. In the last few months, someone has begun making withdrawals. A few million in January, a few million earlier this month, nothing major. Except that Pablo is only person who can withdraw the money. It's not difficult to add two plus two, Eugenio.”

Eugene swallowed hard. “I'll do what you want. Just release my wife and daughter.”

Javier gave Eugene one of his patented cruel smiles. “Yes, Eugenio, you'll do exactly what we want. Or your family will be returned to you in pieces.”

“You hurt them, and I'll…”

Javier appeared amused. “You'll what? Kill me? I don't think so. And by the way, we're on a timetable here. You've got two weeks. Not a day longer.”

“That's insane,” Eugene protested. “Two weeks? Why two weeks?”

“Why two weeks, Eugenio? Because I said so. Because I have your wife and daughter and if I wanted to, I could kill them tomorrow. It's that simple. Without some sort of deadline, you might take your time trying to find him. And that's unacceptable. We're playing by my rules now, Eugenio, and my decision is that you have two weeks, starting tomorrow morning. From the twelfth to the twenty-sixth. Not a moment longer.”

Javier rose from the table. A small piece of paper floated from his hand to the table. On it was a handwritten phone number, no name. “When you have Pablo or the number, call me.” He started toward the door, then paused. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He slid his hand inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a small plastic container, like the ones that contain playing cards, in convenience stores. He set it on the table. “Ciao, Eugenio. Don't let us down.”

Eugene stared down at the clear plastic case, his mind processing what his eyes were seeing. It took a few moments for the image to register. He drew in a sharp breath and picked up the container, then dropped it back on the table and spun around, ready to leap from his chair and go for Javier Rastano's neck. He stopped. He was staring into a gun barrel, only inches from his face, a finger tight on the trigger. Rastano had already left the house, and now his man slowly backed to the door, the gun unwavering.

“You walk outside that door, you die,” the man said, letting the door close quietly behind him.

Red liquid was smeared on the plastic, but the contents were readily visible. Two severed fingers, one slightly larger than the other, laid side-by-side, like sardines in a tin. Traces of blue nail polish covered the nail of the smaller finger, the same shade of polish his daughter liked to wear. With shaking hands he lifted the container from the table and gently stroked the smooth plastic.

“I'll get you back,” he said quietly, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “As God is my witness, I'll find you and bring you safely home.”