Bloodline (30 page)

Chapter Fifty-eight

The streetlights were on, their soft lights casting a pale yellow glow on the stores and businesses in rural Bloom-field. A few shoppers were out, but the streets were quiet. A light still burned in The Arabian Nights, the Internet café where Eugene was ensconced in a far corner, his fingers busy on the keyboard. A stack of papers littered the table next to him, and the counter on the LaserJet printer was much higher than when he first signed on. The clerk working the front counter didn't care; he had three hundred dollars in his pocket with which to settle up the tab. And the generous customer had told him that anything extra was his to keep.

The clerk stopped by to see how Eugene was faring, and brought a fresh coffee with him. “Everything okay?” he asked Eugene, as he set the coffee down on the table next to the monitor.

“Thanks,” Eugene said when he saw the coffee. “Yeah, everything's fine. Just can't seem to find what I'm looking for.”

“What's that?” the kid asked.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“I'm searching out all the chemicals necessary to process cocaine.”

“Now that's not something you hear every day,” the young man said. He shrugged. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Eugene hunkered down on the computer again, renewed with fresh caffeine in his system. But this time the answer did not elude him for long. He had started his search of the Internet with ‘Pablo Escobar', then tried ‘cocaine,' then ‘refining cocaine,' until he had hit on some of the necessary chemicals in the procedure. Once he had some of the chemical names, he had pulled up webpage after webpage, and read time and time again about acetone, ether and hydrochloric acid. But now a different chemical popped up as he opened a new webpage. Potassium permanganate. The articles inside the webpage described it as a precursor chemical for the production of cocaine hydrochloride. Eugene pushed on, uncovering more on the chemical. Once he had its name, he searched the Internet using ‘potassium permanganate,' and got a slew of relevant hits. One thing became very clear, very quickly.

Potassium permanganate was the key to producing refined cocaine. Without it, there would be no cocaine. Ten kilos of cocaine can be produced by one kilo of potassium permanganate, and the cost per kilo for the chemical was astronomical. It was a natural money-maker for Pablo. He already had the Colombian connections; getting into the business of supplying expensive chemicals to the cocaine industry was just working another part of the process. And, since potassium permanganate was not found or manufactured in Colombia, it had to be imported. Once Eugene started looking at where the chemical was made, the Canadian connection became obvious. Most of the companies marketing potassium permanganate were Canadian. Eugene scanned through the hits, jotting down the names of the producers, then opened a path to a registry office, gave them his credit card number and began profiling the directors and owners of the major producers. It took forty minutes and sixteen companies before one of the names scrolling across the screen jarred his memory. Eugene froze the screen and grabbed the list of new Renault owners.

Roland Arnett.

The name was on the list of Renault owners, and the name was on the list of directors for Okomono Chemicals Inc., a Canadian-based, top-level producer of potassium permanganate. Eugene delved into the history of the fantastically successful company. It had a head office in Toronto and subsidiary offices in seven other countries. Colombia was one of the seven. The company regularly shipped the precursor chemical to South America, under the guise of providing a necessary ingredient for the production of computer chip boards. And when Eugene saw the chemical formula for potassium permanganate, he knew he had found Pablo. KM
_n
O
₄
—Okomono was an anagram of the chemical formula. Eugene cleaned up the mess around the computer and strode up to the front counter. The clerk was just putting the finishing touches on a mocha that smelled like warm chocolate. He waited until the man had exchanged the specialty coffee for cash.

“I just need a couple more things,” he said.

“Sure. Anything.”

“A set of white pages for the area, and a taxi.”

“I've got the white pages right here,” he said, reaching under the counter and lifting out a Rochester and Area telephone book. And you can get a cab two blocks down at the post office. There are three cabs in town, but one of them is always parked there waiting.” He glanced at the top page in the pile that Eugene had printed. “Hey, Pablo Escobar. What a guy. The most notorious gangster in the history of the world.”

Eugene glanced down at the picture. Pablo was lounging comfortably on a leather couch, smoking a cigarette. The caption under the picture read, “Pablo Escobar, at home in La Catedral.” Eugene flipped open the white pages and scanned down to where the name Roland Arnett appeared. He copied the address on the paper showing Pablo in La Catedral, and handed the clerk the remaining pages.

“Recycling,” he said. “And thanks for everything.”

“No. Thank
you.”

Eugene exited The Arabian Nights and headed in the direction the clerk had indicated. He walked the two blocks to the post office, but no cab was at the curb. He glanced around. A handwritten note was attached to a telephone post that was beside a bench. It read, “Had to take Mrs. Murphy home. Will be back in five minutes.” Eugene laughed at the simplicity of small-town life. He sat on the bench and looked up and down the street. Nothing happening. Most stores were now closed, and there was no foot traffic. He stared at the piece of paper in his hand, at the name and address he had written at the top of page, at the picture of Pablo and then, because he had nothing better to do, read the text. About halfway through the article, he sat bolt upright. He read it again and again. That couldn't be right. The date Pablo left the prison, the date the Galeano and Moncada brothers were murdered. No, something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Unless…

Then it all snapped into place, and for the first time he saw the whole picture. What had been a murky quagmire of deception and lies was now painfully clear. He knew who was in tight with Pablo. And he knew why. It was all so simple once the veneer of lies was stripped away. He spotted a phone booth just across the street, and walked over to it. He dialed the number of the hotel and asked for a guest by name. The receptionist put the call through and a voice answered. The voice he knew would answer.

“It took a while,” he said, “but now it all makes sense. I know why you're Pablo's accomplice, and I can prove it.” Then he hung up.

 

The figure calmly set the phone in the cradle, then picked it up and dialed another number. Pablo Escobar answered.

“He's figured it out. And I suspect he's on his way to see you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Thank you,” Pablo said and hung up.

Chapter Fifty-nine

An hour after her tumble from the duct to the concrete floor, Julie Escobar's head was feeling better. She suspected she had suffered a minor concussion, but definitely had broken no bones. She'd been very lucky, considering the drop. Shiara had helped her drag a bin used for storing glycol directly beneath the window. Standing on the hard plastic container, they could look out the window into the rear garden. A grove of bushes was planted close to the window, and they figured getting out the window without being noticed would be fairly easy. Although the low bushes were an asset in one way, they were a liability in another. They blocked the view. Julie and Shiara had no idea of what lay beyond them.

The window itself wasn't barred, but a padlock secured the sliding portion. Julie found a real screwdriver in a tool kit on one of the shelves, and spent fifteen minutes gouging out the wood from around the lock. When she had weakened the wood base in which the screws were embedded, she levered the metal with the tip of the screwdriver until it gave way. She set the lock on the far side of the jamb and slid open the window. It was her first breath of fresh air in two weeks, and the sweet taste and fragrance almost floored her. She drank in the air, then hoisted herself up and out the window. Staying low, she crawled to the edge of the bushes and peered out. In front of her was an expanse of open grass, perhaps fifty feet across. Beyond that was a small hump-backed bridge and then a grove of mango trees. If they could make it to the trees, they would have some cover. Julie helped Shiara through the open window. They waited in silence, listening for passing guards or dogs. After twenty minutes, Julie had made her decision.

“We'll try for the trees. Once we're there, we'll have a good view of the back of the house, and maybe an idea how far it is to the property line.”

“We don't even know if we're in the country or in a city,” Shiara said. “We could get out of here only to find ourselves in some sort of jungle.”

“We'll deal with whatever we have to, as it happens. Let's not get off on a tangent.”

“Sorry.”

Julie clasped her daughter's hand. She could feel the stump where Javier Rastano had sliced off her finger. It reminded her what kind of person she was dealing with. “It's okay. I think we should go together. Run fast and straight. Keep low. Got it?”

“Got it.”

They braced themselves at the edge of the bushes, then when Julie gave the word, they sprinted toward the trees. Fifty feet seemed like a mile, but they made it over the bridge and into the trees. Concealed by the mature mangos, they remained motionless until their breathing had returned to normal. They could see the back of the house now, a hulking monster of glass and stucco. Only a couple of lights were on, and everything seemed quiet. From their new vantage point they could see a curving walk running between the expansive patio and a swimming pool. The water looked calm and inviting.

The first sign of trouble was a pair of guards moving quickly out the back door and into the garden. Their guns weren't hanging loosely by their sides, but were tucked up close to their ribcages, and their fingers were on the triggers. Lights started to go on in the house, until the entire back of the mansion was lit. They could see shadowy figures moving about in the rooms, but couldn't make out who they were or what they were doing. Another few guards spilled out into the garden, and began looking around.

“They've discovered we're missing,” Julie said.

“What do we do?” Shiara asked, scared.

“I don't know, Shiara. I honestly don't know.”

 

Javier Rastano's face turned six shades of red, then one of purple. “What do you mean, the women are gone?”

“Their suite is empty, sir,” the guard said. “And there's no sign of how they got out.”

“Jesus Christ. Get someone upstairs and check on the boxer. If he's not in his room, I want to know. And scour the house. Turn the lights on and check every room, every closet. Get at least six more men in the garden.”

“Yes, sir.”

Javier ran down the stairs, through the games room and down the hallway. A couple of guards stood at the door, but he pushed them aside and barged into the suite where Julie and Shiara had been captive for the past two weeks. Everything appeared normal. He moved around the room quickly, into the bedrooms and the bathroom. Once he had ascertained that the women were gone, he slowed down and looked the living room over carefully. Once, twice, then three times, until his eyes finally rested on the air-conditioning grate. Every room in the house had one and, because it was so commonplace, he had even never noticed it before. He looked more closely, and saw that the grate was almost tight against the wall. Almost. And that no screws showed.

He jumped on the dresser under the duct and grabbed the grate in his hands, then gave it a good pull. He looked inside the duct. There was some dust, but only near the edges. He slammed the grate on the floor.

“Get me a schematic of the ductwork on this floor,” he yelled.

 

Pedro noticed the increased activity levels immediately. One of the guards came running in, gave Pedro a curt nod, and searched the room. Pedro asked him what was up, but the man didn't answer. He finished the search and returned to the hall. Pedro could hear as the guard called in on his radio, reporting back that the boxer was in his room, and all was clear.

Pedro clued in on what was going on. Julie and Shiara had escaped.

Pedro jumped off the bed, and dimmed the lights. Then he stood at the window and watched the scene playing out in the back garden. A handful of guards were searching, but it was going to take them hours to cover the entire estate. He watched and waited. If Julie and Shiara had made it out of the house and were still on the grounds, they would be somewhere in the garden. And with all the guards out, they wouldn't be moving. He watched for the slightest motion; a sign that someone was trying to remain motionless, but cramping up. It took almost twenty minutes, but he finally saw a tiny glint of light from the grove of mangos close to the pool. Something or someone had moved. He kept his eyes on the location and, about ten minutes later, he saw a definite movement. Once he had the exact spot, he could make out the dim shape of a person, hunched over and immobile. It had to be Julie or Shiara.

What to do? Leaving them in their current predicament was impossible, they'd never make it to the morning. Their position was too close to the pool, and the guards would be methodical in their search. They'd be discovered in another hour or two. He had to do something.

The gardener's shed was the best option. The guards would have checked it first thing, and probably wouldn't bother to check it again. And his guns were hidden there. If the worst case scenario came to pass, at least he'd have something to defend himself with. He made his decision. He slipped on a dark shirt and pants, checked the hall and ran to the back staircase. If he was careful enough, he should be able to reach the women without the guards seeing. Then they could try for the gardener's shed or go over the far wall. Either option was better than leaving Julie and Shiara to the mercy of the guards.