Bloodline (12 page)

Cathy Maxwell shook her head. “Absolutely no chance. The banks recognize the CIA as a legitimate arm of the American government, but we've tried to use our position in the past to free up information like that and have never even come close. They stonewall us the instant we try to circumvent their privacy laws. Sorry, Eugene.”

He nodded. “Okay. But at least we have some proof that backs up what I've told you.”

“That's true. The existence of the account adds credibility to your story. Now let's go back over the time you spent with your cousin Raphael. We may have missed something there the first time through.”

Two hours later the group broke up. Eduardo Garcia was assigned to drive Eugene back to his hotel and to stay in the adjoining room. Cathy Maxwell and Alexander Landry left EPIC about ten minutes after Eugene and Garcia, and drove to a nearby restaurant. It was just after six, and they both ordered a drink and dinner.

“What do you think?” Landry asked as his beer and her rum and cola arrived at the table.

“I don't know what to think, Alexander,” she said, stirring the drink with her swizzle stick and taking a small sip. “You've got to remember that this is pretty personal for me.”

“None of us have forgotten the price you paid, Cathy,” he said. “Maybe we weren't sympathetic enough at the time and I'm sorry. But soon after Escobar sent his
sicarios
to Boston for your parents, he also killed the Galeano and Moncada brothers. From that moment he was on the run; La Catedral was no longer a refuge, and he fled the prison. Every level of the Colombian government was after him, and our entire focus was finding him, nothing else.”

Cathy pushed her hair behind her ears, and slowly turned the glass on the coaster. Finally, she said, “He killed my parents, Alexander. He had them tortured and cut into pieces. I thought I had some closure when we got him, but there was always this nagging thought that maybe the Colombian forensics experts had been bought off, that the corpse wasn't actually Escobar. Now his cousin shows up and pretty well confirms my worst nightmare.”

Landry nodded. “Who do you think has his wife and kid?”

“Good question. There are quite a few Colombians with strong ties to Central America. The Alzate family has used Costa Rica and El Salvador as transition points for their cocaine for years now. So has Rubin Tapias, but he's located more in Nicaragua than El Salvador. Probably Mario and Javier Rastano. They're the only Colombians I know with strong ties to El Salvador.”

“Anything the CIA can do to get them back?”

She shook her head. “Not without indisputable proof. And even then I'd be calling in too many favors. I'd need to know exactly where they are and every detail about the security forces holding them before I could get clearance for a covert op. Even then the director would probably dump it off on Delta Force or Centra Spike. And then we're back to the same problem we had thirteen years ago.”

“The leak,” Alexander said.

“The leak.”

The server arrived with their entrées and both were quiet as the meals were placed in front of them. Both agents alone with their thoughts. And both thinking the same thing. Back in 1992, when the Colombian government had finally swallowed its pride and asked for American assistance in finding Pablo, there was an informant somewhere inside one of the agencies. Someone working for DEA, Delta Force, CIA or Centra Spike was dirty. They were feeding Pablo Escobar the information he needed to stay one step ahead of the covert forces tracking him. And that was the real reason Centra Spike had never been able to nail him. The voice whispering in Escobar's ear was never found. The voice was still out there. Somewhere.

“Probably retired by now,” Cathy said, picking up her fork and knife. She sliced off a thin piece of steak and popped it in her mouth. “But then again, you never know.”

Landry was digging into his food with a vengeance. Neither agent had eaten since breakfast. “If we're going to pursue this, we should keep it contained.”

“How do you mean, contained?”

“Just you and I and Garcia. No sense trying to cut him out; he's already in the loop. We can still access whatever resources we need from our home offices. The last thing we need is for the rat to find out we're actively searching for Escobar. And if you want my opinion, I think Eugene Escobar may be right about Pablo being alive.”

“You think we should look into this?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I thought your mind was already made up,” he answered.

“It is now.”

Alexander Landry lifted his glass. “To finding Pablo,” he said.

Cathy Maxwell clinked her glass against his. “To
killing
Pablo,” she replied.

Chapter Fourteen

With the darkness came danger.

Pedro Parada was no stranger to the nocturnal world of San Salvador. He moved through the rough and tumble district of El Centro with confidence, his body language telling those watching from the shadows that this was not a man to fool with. The suit jacket he had purchased earlier in the day fit him well, and if he buttoned it, the unmistakable bulge of a handgun was visible under his left arm. He had bought it to fit for specifically that reason. What the average thug lurking in the shadows couldn't see was the second gun tucked into his waistband in the small of his back. Both guns were loaded.

Pedro's eyes moved between the street and the alleys with a fluidity that came from a lifetime of practice. He saw every movement and smelled every odor, be it machismo or fear. A rustling noise caught his attention and he turned slightly to the vicinity of the sound. A drugged-out street person crawled out from under a pile of garbage, his hand outstretched for coins. A setup. Pedro's right hand instantly found the gun butt under his arm and he spun the opposite direction from the guy on the ground. Three men, in their early twenties and armed with knives, appeared from a crack in the wall a few yards behind him. Pedro pulled the gun from its holster and flipped off the safety. He pointed it at the thieves.

“No easy target here,
amigos,”
he said, his hand steady, the Smith & Wesson targeted on the closest man's forehead. “Go find some other mark or your night's going to get real messy.”

The men quietly disappeared back into the shadows between the two buildings, and Pedro kept moving. Once he was a hundred feet along the street, he reactivated the safety and holstered the gun. El Centro. Nice part of town to visit at night. He'd have to have a chat with Alfredo about his choice of meeting spots. Pedro finally found the bar where Alfredo had suggested they meet and saw the big man in a booth near the back. The establishment was typical of El Centro, run down and dark, with enough shady, tough-looking characters to cast an entire Quentin Tarrantino movie without leaving the place.

“I almost got mugged,” he said, sitting down opposite Alfredo Augustino. He ordered a beer when the waitress came by.

“You leave San Salvador, you get soft,” Alfredo said lightly. He didn't seem at all put off by Pedro's close call. “Even in Caracas you can forget how to take care of yourself.”

“That's not such a bad thing, Alfredo,” he said. “I hardly need a knife in me to keep me on my toes. I'll take a nice quiet street where families walk their dogs anytime.”

Alfredo waved his hand in deference. “I'm not worried about you, Pedro. You can take care of yourself. Always could.”

The beer arrived and Pedro found himself drinking it faster than usual. His pulse was still higher than normal; he was still on the downside of the adrenaline rush. “You said you had some information about Javier Rastano.”

The big man nodded. His double chins wobbled about as he moved his head. “I do. In two days of asking around, I found out the three things that turn Javier Rastano's crank. His buttons, so to speak.”

“What are they?” Pedro asked, finishing the beer and motioning for another one. The waitress, watching Pedro as she made her rounds, caught the motion and nodded.

“Orchids. The man absolutely adores orchids. He spends time in a public park in Medellín just to stare at the orchids. And his estate here in Escalón is packed with them. Along with the indigenous ones from Costa Rica and the other Central American countries, he's imported them from Mexico, Colombia, Thailand and Cambodia. Rumor has it he recently killed a gardener for breaking a flower off its stem while in the orchid was in bloom.”

“That doesn't help me,” Pedro said. “What else does the guy like?”

“Believe it or not, snow skiing. He travels to Switzerland and Canada to ski at least three times a year. From what I hear, he's quite good.”

“Again, Alfredo, not much help.”

“This might be.” Augustino shifted his considerable bulk slightly to get comfortable. “He likes boxing.”

Pedro was silent for a moment, then said, “Really? How
much
does he like it?”

“A lot. He hangs around some of the better gyms while he's in San Salvador scouting out new talent. He doesn't go for the heavyweights; he likes welterweight and flyweight. What weight division did you used to fight in?”

“Welterweight, but that was a few years ago. I'm out of practice.”

Alfredo just laughed. “Look at you, Pedro. You work out, keep yourself in great physical shape; how hard can it be to slip on some gloves and trade punches?”

“You'd be surprised,” Pedro said, smiling at the server as she placed his second beer on the table. It was frosty cold and went down easy, a little too easy, perhaps. “It's not hard to get your face smashed in if you're out of shape or forget to duck.”

“It's your way in, Pedro,” Alfredo said. “You asked me to find you a way inside Javier Rastano's life, and I found one. Plus, I went one step further. I found someone who might be able to get you into one of the boxing clubs that Javier likes to visit.”

Pedro leaned forward. “Really?” He knew how difficult it could be to cross the socio-economic boundaries in San Salvador. The rich people liked to hobnob with their own kind. “How can I meet this person?”

“He's at La Luna Casa y Arte tonight. You know it?”

Pedro nodded. “Sure. It's probably the best club in San Salvador. I doubt I can even get in.”

“He's left your name with the doorman. His name is Oscar Bernardo and he's expecting you.”

“What time?”

Alfredo glanced at his watch. It was eleven o'clock. “Anytime after ten, so you can head over whenever you want. Just for your knowledge, this Bernardo has a real hate-on for Javier Rastano. I'll let him explain things to you.”

Pedro just nodded and finished his beer.

“Take care, my young friend. Javier Rastano is an evil man. Everyone I spoke with was very worried that their name may come up in a future conversation. I assured them that no names would be mentioned.”

“What about Oscar Bernardo,” Pedro said. “He doesn't seem to mind.”

“He has his reasons for helping you, but I'm sure you'll find that he would prefer his name stay out of this.”

“Okay. Good night, Alfredo. And thanks.”

“Good night, Pedro.”

Pedro left the bar, waved down a taxi and gave him the club name. Every driver in town knew exactly where it was, although it was doubtful even one of them had been through the front doors. While San Salvador's rich and pampered played at La Luna Casa y Arte, the uninvited survived another night on the dangerous city streets. No one objected, they just accepted it as part of life. You were either born into it, or you weren't.

The taxi left El Centro behind and wove through a labyrinth of backstreets, staying off the congested main thoroughfares at Pedro's request. Pedro had always preferred the scenic route through the city in lieu of the major arteries; the back roads offered a kaleidoscope of El Salvador's people as they went about their daily lives. Folding card tables were set up on the narrow walks between the adobe houses and the streets, and men played cards and women talked about their day. The mosquito hours would soon be over for the evening, and the people could then venture back into their houses. In El Salvador, only the rich, with air-conditioned homes, could stay inside as dusk approached and the mosquito population searched for windless places to roost. The hot little adobe houses were mosquito magnets and Pedro couldn't count the number of evenings he had spent outside, unable to sit in his house for fear of being eaten alive. They drove on toward the Ciudad Universitaria, the city landscape changing, mutating into the more upscale shops and houses of the small Salvadorian middle-class. The driver turned onto Boulevard de Los Héroes and pulled up in front of a nightclub, its chrome and glass frontage vibrating from the Latino rock music. A line of hopefuls waited along the curb, but the doors were closed and the bouncers in place.

Pedro slipped the driver the fare and a decent tip and walked to the front of the line. Those waiting didn't complain; they knew so much as a whimper and they were out of the line. Two body-builder types stood on each side of the door with their arms crossed over their chests. Pedro approached them tentatively. He had always been the one in the line, never the
hombre
with the connections.

“Good evening,” he said. “I'm Pedro Parada. Oscar Bernardo is expecting me.”

One of the goons picked up a clipboard and ran his finger down the short list of names. Even upside down, Pedro could see his name. “Don't see you here,” he said. “But my eyesight is always better once the cover charge is paid.”

Pedro slipped an American twenty from his pocket. “How's your eyesight now?”

“Much better, thank you,” he said, pocketing the twenty. “Oscar has a regular table. I'll show you where it is.” He glanced at Pedro's jacket, just under his left arm. “I'll check the gun first,” he said.

Pedro un-holstered the gun and handed it across, butt first. The bouncer looped a tag through the trigger guard and ripped off the bottom half of the stub. He checked to make sure the safety was on, handed Pedro his claim check and deposited the gun in a locked cabinet just inside the doors.

“Okay, let's go,” he said.

“Thanks.” He followed the man into the club. The music was extremely loud, to the point of causing pain in his eardrums. They skirted the dance floor, covered with gyrating bodies dressed in Guess and Versace. Pedro drew a few admiring looks and smiles from the women. He smiled back, his even white teeth reflecting the bright strobe lights that throbbed with the music. As they cleared the dance floor, the music from the speakers subsided, and when they reached the tables in the rear of the club, the noise level was not at all irritating. The bouncer pointed at a man seated with two women on either side of him. Both were eager looking and young, probably in the club only at Oscar's invitation.

“That's Oscar,” he said, then turned back to the front of the club.

Pedro walked the last few paces alone, Oscar's eyes watching him as he approached. Bernardo was in his late thirties, with slicked-back hair that just touched his shoulders, and very suspicious eyes. His face and shoulders were lean and Pedro knew the man kept himself in excellent physical condition. He was tanned and his fingernails manicured.

Pedro reached the table, covered with a crisp white tablecloth that reached the tile floor. “I'm Pedro Parada,” he said.

“Oscar Bernardo,” the man replied. They both leaned forward and shook hands. “Sit down, Pedro,” Bernardo said, his voice a smooth baritone. “The girls are Savanna, Carmela and Felisa.”

Pedro cocked his head slightly and gave Oscar a puzzled look. “There are only two girls, Oscar.”

A moment later, a head popped up from under the tablecloth. She gave Pedro a wicked smile and disappeared back under the table. “That one is Felisa.”

Pedro slid onto the curved leather bench, careful where he put his feet. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Not a problem.”

The waitress happened by, and Oscar asked what Pedro wanted, then ordered for the table. There was a repeated banging sound as Felisa's head kept hitting the underside of the table, then Oscar made a bit of a face and groaned slightly. The banging stopped. A few moments later, Felisa appeared, sliding up onto her seat and taking a long drink of beer.

“Why don't you gals go dance or something for a few minutes,” Oscar said, handing one of the girls two crisp hundred dollar bills. They left quickly, knowing he wanted time alone with Pedro.

“She's got a good attitude,” Pedro said, nodding his head slightly toward Felisa.

Oscar grinned. “They all do.” He finished the drink in front of him and asked, “What do you want with Javier Rastano?”

“That's kind of confidential,” Pedro said.

“Then leave,” Oscar said, setting the drink on the tablecloth. “We either trust each other, or we don't.”

“Okay,” Pedro said, leaning back into the leather seat. He could feel the impression of his second gun hard against the small of his back. “Rastano kidnapped the wife and daughter of a friend. I'm trying to find them and get them back. I think Rastano might have them somewhere in San Salvador.”

“Really? Why doesn't your friend come looking for his wife and daughter himself? He's a coward?”

“He's being squeezed from more than one direction. They want something else from him and he's concentrating on finding it. That's why he can't search for his family himself.”

The drinks arrived and not a word was spoken until the server had left the table. Bernardo finally said, “Alfredo tells me you are a boxer.”

Pedro shrugged. “I spent some time in the ring a few years ago, but nothing much lately.”

“Javier Rastano likes boxers. He scours the local gyms looking for diamonds in the rough. He likes to discover new talent. You good enough to be noticed?”

“Maybe,” Pedro said. “It depends who I'm up against.”

“How about if I arrange for a bout between you and another guy with average skills? I'll have someone put the word out that you're worth watching, try to entice Rastano to show up and check you out. But that's all I can do. Once you're in the ring, you've got to hold your own.”

“I'll try,” Pedro said. “When and where can you set this up?”

“He belongs to an exclusive club in Colonia Escalón. I'll try for the day after tomorrow. Friday. That work for you?”

“Yeah, that works fine. What do I do?”

“Show up at the gym by ten in the morning. We'll try to have you and your sparring partner in the ring by noon.”