Bloodline (5 page)

“I remember the offer. They came back with a ‘no deal',” Eugene said. “Killing Lara was too much. And downing that Avianca airliner with 107 people aboard in '89 was way too much.”

“Yeah. That was a stupid thing to do. The Colombian government thought Pablo Escobar was completely out of control. And many of the people saw it that way too. Not that he was completely ostracized. He still had a following in Medellín and the people in Envigado, his hometown, thought he was being persecuted. Anyway, that was the beginning of Pablo's downfall. He eventually returned to Colombia, but he was a fugitive from that point on.”

“That doesn't explain his death,” Eugene said.

“No. But it lays an interesting foundation. You have certain factions that want him dead, others that revere him and others who want him extradited. It all adds up to, as I said, a very convoluted mess.”

“So what actually happened?”

Fidel shrugged. “I don't know. But I don't think Pablo's death was as straightforward as the Colombian government would have us think. Whether he's alive or not is another story.”

“Javier Rastano thinks he is.”

“And his reasoning is that someone is withdrawing money from a numbered account that only Pablo had access to?”

“Yes.”

Fidel was thoughtful. Finally, he said, “Well, from my experience with banks and laundered money, they won't open the vault without absolute proof that the person wanting in is the legitimate owner. So from that end, it could be possible that your cousin is alive.”

“Where would he be?” Eugene asked. “Any ideas?”

“He could be anywhere, Eugene. He has the money and connections to disappear and never surface. In fact,
if
he's alive, the only people who know are those close to him, the Rastanos and you and I.”

“Puts us in a dangerous position,” Eugene said.

Fidel grinned. “You don't trust Pablo?”

Eugene shook his head. “Not if my poking around threatens his situation. He's a survivor, Fidel. I sure wouldn't be the first family member he had killed.”

“True enough.”

“Javier Rastano suggested I involve the DEA. What do you think?”

“If any agency in the world could help you find Pablo, it would be them. Strange that Rastano would say that.”

“I thought so too. But he had his reasons. And what other options do I have?”

“What about his son, Juan Pablo?”

Eugene shook his head. “Javier said that if anyone approached Pablo's son or daughter, they were as good as dead. Pablo would kill them. I believe him. And there's no way his son or daughter will give him up. That's a dangerous dead end.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

Both men were lost in thought for a minute. Eugene thought of Julie and Shiara. Fidel went down memory lane: his connections to the Cali and Medellín cartels now vivid pictures in his mind. Rooms filled with stacks of American tens and twenties, and rows of money counting machines continually spitting out the bills into hundred thousand dollar piles. Cocaine, kilos and kilos of the white powder that America fell in love with. Bodies of suspected informers or bit players who skimmed a little too much off the top and got caught. Heads with bullet holes and throats sliced open, their tongues pulled out, slit and dangling down past their shoulders like neckties. Men without their genitals. Women with their breasts carved off. Children with their throats slit. The pictures kept coming, like a bad slide show that wouldn't end. He jerked out of the trancelike state when he realized Eugene was speaking to him.

“What about Julie and Shiara? Where do you think they are? Give me your best guess.”

“Well, if they're not in Colombia, then probably El Salvador. Mario Rastano has an extensive collection and distribution network set up there, and that would be the safest place for him to keep hostages. You asked for a guess, you got one.”

“El Salvador,” Eugene said quietly, his mind already working on the problem. “You suggested that earlier too. And that may be a good thing, Fidel.”

“How's that?”

“I know someone from San Salvador. A good guy, and very capable. He's working in Caracas right now. I don't know if he'll help me, but I can always ask.”

“You don't want to be going into San Salvador blind,” Fidel agreed. “It's a dangerous place.”

Eugene slowly turned to face the decrepit figure who was far more than he looked. “When you're dealing with these guys, everywhere is dangerous.”

“Amen,” Fidel said, raising his beer bottle. They clinked bottles, and drank.

Chapter Five

Dawn was just breaking over Porlamar when Eugene closed the door to Fidel's apartment. The street looked depressing in the pale morning light. Garbage and empty bottles were strewn about, and an old car without a motor leaked transmission fluid onto the stained pavement. Laundry fluttered from a line strung between two buildings, and the only life in sight was a thin cat scrounging through a trash bin. Eugene unlocked his Vespa and wrapped the chain around the seat. He started the motor and pulled onto the deserted streets.

Fidel was a gold mine. He knew the ex-smuggler would be helpful, but his knowledge of the cartels, and Javier Rastano in particular, was much greater than he'd imagined. Eugene knew he was not much closer to finding his wife and daughter, but now he had a ray of hope. And hope had to count for something. Out of nowhere his life had changed, reduced from quiet, ordered normalcy to deadly survival. The prize for winning was a return to where things had been less than twenty-four hours earlier. Losing was unthinkable.

Julie and Shiara. Snatched from him and held by violent men who would murder them and not lose a moment of sleep over it. Colombian drug lords and their sycophants. The nightmare he had lived with all his adult life had finally come to pass. For decades he had played the ostrich, stuck his head in the sand, tried to ignore the genetics that tied him to the greatest cocaine dealer in history. He had ignored it, but always had lived with the nagging fear that someone with a grudge against Pablo would appear and level reprisal at him and his family. He had played his cards the safest way possible by staying out of the picture and ignoring his connection to that side of his father's family. But it hadn't worked. He finally had been targeted and retribution had been swift.

His wife and daughter kidnapped.

And now he had two weeks to do what had taken thousands of police and DEA officials sixteen months. Find Pablo Escobar. But this time it would be harder. Colombia was too hot for Pablo. Despite aging and altering his appearance, someone there eventually would have identified him. But that hadn't happened, and it had been almost twelve years since his supposed death. No. He was not in Colombia. He was elsewhere on the planet. But where? The possibilities were endless. A tiny Caribbean island? Continental Europe? An estate tucked away in the remote mountains of Montana or the Canadian wilderness? He needed information that would point him in the right direction. But right now he didn't have any idea where to start.

He pulled up to his single-story brick and cinder-block house in Playa El Tirano. Inside it was cool. The night air was trapped, and the morning sun had yet to heat the tile roof. A worn suitcase was stuffed under his bed, and he pulled it out and dusted it off. He packed a few pairs of shorts and long pants, a couple of shirts and socks and underwear. The suitcase was small, and he was limited to how much he could take, but that suited him fine. The lighter the better; he was going to be on the move.

As he could see it, his problem was two-pronged. Finding Pablo Escobar was his priority, but that didn't guarantee his wife and daughter would live through the ordeal. He needed to locate them and be ready to move on their captors in case he couldn't find Pablo. And failing to find the drug lord inside a two-week window was a distinct possibility. Twelve years had passed since Pablo's death in Medellín; twelve years for him to blend into his new environment and twelve years of the natural aging process to further disguise his appearance. Nothing was certain about finding Pablo.

Then another thought flashed through his mind. What if he
did
find Pablo? What would Pablo's response be? His name was synonymous with violence and death. Would he simply kill him if and when they came face to face? Jesus, this was a no-win situation. If he failed to find Pablo, his wife and daughter would be killed. But if he did find him, chances are Pablo would lash out with a vengeance. And if Eugene were to die before giving Javier Rastano Pablo's location or the ten-digit code, then Julie and Shiara would be brutally murdered, despite his success.

The odds of success were incredibly small. But he had no choice. Javier Rastano was a Colombian drug dealer and a murderer. He would not hesitate to kill a woman and a teenage girl. Eugene's path was clear. He needed someone he could trust to search for Julie and Shiara while he tried to unearth Pablo. He hoped his friend in San Salvador would help him. But what could he offer him for risking his life? Eugene wasn't sure if he held anything of value that would entice his friend to help. All he had was friendship. Well, friendship and cash. He glanced down at the table, to the wad of bills sitting where Shiara usually ate her breakfast. Drug money, but necessary to fund his search. He reached out and fingered the top bill. It felt like any other American twenty, but he knew it wasn't the same. It was dirty money. Money that had reached the palms of the Rastano clan through violence and oppression. He closed his eyes and replayed the events of the day when he had lost his innocence.

Pablo Escobar had invited Eugene's parents to his Nápoles estate, an oasis of decadence in the Colombian jungle. And when Pablo Escobar invited you, you attended. Eugene had made the trip, a lad of sixteen who barely knew his cousin, but even then he was aware Pablo was a wealthy and influential man. His school friends often referred to Pablo as a
narco,
but his father always dismissed the allegations with a wave of his hand.
Pablo works hard for his money, Eugenio.
But the trip to Nápoles had forever changed his perception of his cousin.

Pablo met them at the main house when they arrived, a short, plump man with his thick hair swept off to one side and an anemic mustache. He grinned like a school kid when Eugene asked about the bullet-riddled car parked atop a knoll of grass outside the front entrance.

“That is the car Bonnie and Clyde were driving when they were surrounded by police and tried to shoot their way to freedom.”

“Did they get away?” Eugene asked.

Pablo laughed. “No, Eugenio. They died in the car. Both of them. That's what makes this car so valuable.” He wrapped his arm around Eugene and steered the family toward the house. “Come in, my cousin. My house is your house.”

Eugene wandered around Escobar's jungle escape, alternately trying his skill at the pinball machines and pool tables. He changed into his trunks and swam a few laps in one of the six swimming pools set among the manicured gardens touching the house, then returned to the main house and looked out over the thousands of unfenced acres where Pablo's exotic animals roamed. He spotted a few ostriches and gazelles moving across the grasslands, but even with the binoculars one of the servants had given him, they were mere specks. He searched out his cousin, who was sipping tea on a verandah talking with his parents. He asked if he could go and look at some of the animals.

“Certainly, Eugenio,” Pablo said, grinning. He called to one of the servants and a few moments later a young man, perhaps eighteen, came jogging onto the verandah. “Miguel, take Eugenio to the hippo ponds and show him some of the trails.”

“
Sí,
Señor Escobar,” the young man replied. He gave Eugene a wide grin. “Let's go have some fun and leave these guys to their tea.”

Eugene followed Miguel to a modern outbuilding on the perimeter of the landscaped grounds. Inside was a fleet of ATVs and trail bikes, all washed and sitting in rows, ready for back-country action. Eugene was an expert trail-bike rider and chose a 360cc Yamaha, lots of power and stylish to boot. They roared off from the house and into the wilds of the adjoining rainforest. The path was narrow, bordered with thick trunks of giant emergent ceiba and eucalyptus trees, and fraught with danger. The path opened in places to sudden and unexpected cliffs dropping hundreds of feet to the valley floor. Toucans and horned screamers flitted about the dark enclaves under the jungle canopy, and when the path cut close to the river, Eugene sometimes spotted a jaguar lounging on the exposed sand banks.

He stayed immediately behind his guide, alternately laying on the throttle and the brakes. A couple of times, Miguel glanced back and gave Eugene a nod for keeping up with him. Eventually they reached a pond with muddy banks and dense vegetation to the water's edge. Miguel stopped the bike and switched off the ignition, and Eugene followed suit. A strange quiet descended on the tiny clearing next to the pond.

“Watch,” Miguel said, pointing to the glassy surface of the pond. A few moments later the water stirred slightly. Then a large, round snout with two large nostrils appeared above the water. Two humps with huge eyeballs followed. For a few seconds, only the one hippo was in view, then another surfaced, and another, until the water was dotted with nostrils and eyes. “They like to swim here,” Miguel said, glancing over at Eugene. “They've got another pond a few hundred meters through the jungle that has huge mud pits. They use that one more for sunbathing.”

“Holy shit,” Eugene said. “Hippos in Colombia.”

“Yeah. Señor Escobar had them shipped in from Africa. Along with a bunch of other exotic animals. What Pablo wants, Pablo gets.”

Eugene turned to his guide. “How well do you know my cousin?” he asked.

“I just work for him. Why?”

Eugene shrugged and lifted his leg off the motorcycle. He walked slowly to the water and watched the closest hippo watch him. “I don't really know Pablo. My father only gets together with Pablo when he calls.” Eugene was silent for a minute, then turned and asked Miguel, “Is he a
narco?
That's what a lot of kids in my school say. And all the men who work for him have guns, including you.”

Miguel didn't answer for a while. Then he said, “Your cousin is a very rich man. There are many people who would take his money if they were given a chance. As for me, I work for Senor Escobar and he treats me very well. I wouldn't know about these things your classmates speak of. We should be getting back.” He switched on the ignition and pumped the kick-start with his right foot. The motor coughed, then caught, spewing blue smoke into the humid jungle air.

Eugene straddled his bike and started the engine. He pushed the gear shift down with his left foot, gave it some gas and popped out the clutch. But instead of heading back toward the house—just for the hell of it—he darted off down the path they had been traveling on, moving deeper into the jungle. He could hear Miguel screaming at him, but he ignored the shouts and increased his speed until he was sure Miguel could not attempt to pass or stop him on the narrow trail. He glanced back and saw the other bike fifty feet back and following him. Miguel waved at him, but he ignored the plea to stop and kept on the gas. For twenty minutes the two riders twisted along the dark floor of the rainforest, Eugene using all his skills to stay ahead of his cousin's employee. Then, without warning, they rounded a bend and entered a clearing. Eugene stopped and cut the motor. Facing him were a handful of rugged looking men, each holding a gun. And to a man, they were pointing the guns at him. Miguel pulled up beside him and switched off his bike.

“Put the guns away,” Miguel said. “He's with me.”

The men lowered their weapons and turned their backs on the two riders. They filtered back into a series of six wooden huts that took up most of the clearing. Smoke spiraled up from tin chimneys, and a gentle breeze blew it in Eugene and Miguel's direction. The smell was foul and Eugene's eyes burned. He recognized the odors from his science labs in school; a mixture of hydrochloric acid, acetone and ether. Eugene got off his bike and walked slowly toward one of the huts where a few barefoot men stomped about in a huge vat filled with leaves and some form of liquid. To a man they all looked stoned.

“This is a cocaine lab, isn't it?” he said to Miguel. It wasn't really a question. “So Pablo is a
narco.”
Eugene shook his head in disgust and started the bike. He turned a stern face to his guide. “Don't worry, I won't say anything to Pablo. I don't want to get you in any trouble.” He started back for the main house, Miguel on his tail.

Eugene opened his eyes and Pablo Escobar's Nápoles estate was gone. The opulence was replaced with his small, clean kitchen, the stack of dirty money on the table. Twenty-six years had passed since that fateful day, and over that time he had built himself a wonderful life, with a loving wife and two children. Somehow, through all the misery and shame that went with the Escobar legacy, he had kept his ethics intact. He worked for his money and held his head high, even when Pablo's name surfaced. He had risen above the abyss into which his cousin had dragged the family name. But now everything had changed; the scum had resurfaced. And they were threatening to take his life apart, seam by seam.

That would only happen over his dead body.