Bloodline (16 page)

“You're not going to pull some Olympic gold medal contender out of nowhere are you?”

“No. He's good, but not that good. In fact, you and he would be an even fight. Nothing like that blowout we all just watched.”

“When?” Pedro asked.

“In a week or two?”

Pedro shook his head. “I'm just visiting. I don't know if I'll be in San Salvador in a week.”

Javier looked thoughtful. “Tomorrow's too soon and next week's out. Too bad.”

“Tomorrow's not too soon for me,” Pedro said. “That was just a warm-up.”

A smile crept over Javier's face, but it made Pedro's whole body chill. There was nothing warm about that smile. “Tomorrow, then. Same time.”

“Ten o'clock is fine. One thing, though. I'd like José in my corner again. He knows what he's doing.”

“He'll be there,
amigo.”
He gave Pedro a rippling of his fingers. “See you tomorrow.”

The Ferrari crept out of the parking lot and Pedro turned and headed back to the club to hail a cab. Tomorrow was the test. Javier Rastano now knew that Pedro could fight. He wouldn't be bringing some punching bag this time. Pedro rolled his shoulders forward and back a few times, feeling the muscles beginning to stiffen. He'd been through this enough times to know he was going to be hurting tomorrow. Sal hadn't penetrated his defenses even once, but blocking over two hundred punches with his gloves and arms had taken its toll. When he thought about it, Rastano was right, tomorrow
was
too soon. But he didn't have the luxury of waiting. Tomorrow was Sunday and that was the start of week two in the hunt for Julie and Shiara. He had no choice.

A solitary cab was waiting in the taxi queue. He threw his bag in the back and climbed in the front seat with the driver. One thing he was not, and would never be, was above his fellow man. He patted the astonished driver on the shoulder and gave him the address of his hotel. They chatted idly as the cabbie navigated the congested streets, but Pedro's mind was elsewhere.

He was already in the ring facing his next opponent. And the man was kicking his ass.

Chapter Nineteen

Senator Irwin Crandle, grounded in Kentucky while entertaining the president for a couple of days, had little need of his Learjet and loaned it to the two intelligence experts, and Eduardo and Eugene, for their flight back to El Paso. It was almost noon on Saturday when they arrived at EPIC, having over-nighted in Frankfort. A second meeting with the senator, after his day with the president, had gone late into the night and produced tangible results. Each member of the team was re-focused on his or her individual task.

Cathy Maxwell was still working on sorting through the DEA files from the early '90s, but with a twist. The addition of Senator Irwin Crandle to the team opened a back door into the Department of Justice files that would have otherwise remained sealed. Members of Congress and their immediate staff could circumvent section 5 U.S.C 552 of the Privacy Act, and that added an entirely new angle to their investigation. Informants who had worked with the DOJ back when Pablo was all-powerful were identified, and a network link to the Witness Protection Plan allowed access to their files. Names and addresses were blacked out, but that information was available on a need- to-know basis. She started the arduous task of sorting through Pablo's past contacts and deciding which ones were priorities.

Crandle had agreed that Alexander Landry and Eugene continue working together targeting family members and close friends who may have stayed in touch with Pablo after his “death” in Medellín. Narrowing down the number of names would make Eduardo Garcia's job of monitoring phone calls a lot easier. The sheer volume of calls was astronomical; well into the hundreds of thousands, and every person Alexander and Eugene could eliminate reduced the volume substantially. Nonetheless, Garcia was attacking the problem with zeal. Phone logs were strewn all over his desk and he had developed a color-coded system to quickly identify calls from sources he knew were not Pablo. Alexander Landry watched for a few minutes and nodded his approval. Garcia's stock in DEA had just risen appreciatively.

Bud Reid did not return to El Paso with the rest of the crew. He flew to Dulles from Louisville and caught a direct flight to Zurich. If the bank account at the Banque Suisse de Zurich was tied to Pablo Escobar, then they wanted to locate Pablo's contact and speak with that person. Narrowing it down shouldn't be too difficult. Bud Reid intended to find out which employee controlled the suspect account, and have a chat with him. Including time changes, flying time and layovers, he was due to arrive in Zurich at eight o'clock Sunday morning. Bad timing for visiting a bank, but it was the best he could do.

Despite his commitments to the president, Senator Crandle was busy opening doors for the team. He invoked senatorial right to bypass section 5 U.S.C 552 of the Privacy Act and left his personal phone number with the appropriate staff at the DOJ; when Cathy Maxwell needed access to a file she got clearance in minutes rather than hours. Their research room buzzed with activity, and the mood was upbeat, despite the staggering odds against their success. Especially given the tight time frame.

Eduardo Garcia leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The printouts were starting to blur, and he needed a break. “Crandle is a pretty visible figure these days,” he said to Alexander Landry. “What was he like when you guys were working together in Colombia?”

Landry smiled. “Are you asking whether he was the same then as now?” When Garcia nodded, he continued. “Nothing has changed with Irwin Crandle. Fifteen years ago, he was a self-righteous, arrogant, pig-headed son-of- a-bitch who had no idea what the word failure meant. And he still is. His idea of the subtle approach was to kick in the back door as opposed to breaking down the front door. Diplomacy was making sure there were no marks on the
narcos
after we interrogated them. I'm surprised it took him as long as it did to track down Pablo.”

“It sounds like the
narcos
weren't the only ones operating outside the law,” Garcia said.

“Agent Garcia, you want to bring these guys down, you fight at their level,” Landry said sharply. “That was the way things were a decade and a half ago, and that's the way things are now. You'll do well with the DEA if you keep that in mind.”

“Yes, sir. Creative field work gets recognized.”

Landry cooled his jets. “Yeah, exactly, Eduardo. Creative field work. I like that.”

Garcia returned to his work, wondering just how creative Landry, Maxwell and Crandle had been while looking for Pablo. It had never occurred to him until now, but the three agents who had moved to the upper echelons of their chosen fields had probably taken out a few street- level dealers to achieve their goals. He knew rules were stretched, even broken, under arduous field conditions, and he was sure the woman and men he was working with were guilty of enough infractions to fill a two-inch binder. But working elbow to elbow with this level of agent was intimidating enough, and he kept his views of right and wrong mostly to himself. He just wondered if they would resurrect their previous field tactics to find Pablo. Murder and torture might have worked in Colombia, but this was America.

It was a chilling thought.

Chapter Twenty

The air had a slight chill despite the sun hanging almost directly overhead. That was something the man could never understand. How the sun could be out and shining, yet there was little to no heat. He touched the white railing that encircled the deck; it felt cool on his fingertips. Spread across the expanse of land between the house and the lake were thousands of deciduous trees, all barren of leaves like stark twigs rising from the ashes of a fire. It was depressing, the lack of lush green forests. But at least the snow was gone.

Pablo Escobar detested the snow.

He buttoned his coat against the cool spring air and sipped his coffee. Most of the warmth had dissipated and even the mug now felt cool. He left the mug on the railing and padded across the massive cedar deck and into the house. The river rock fireplace was at work, the fire licking at a few generous birch logs. An occasional crackle from the fireplace split the silence, but otherwise the house was quiet. Somewhere in another part of the house the muffled sound of a ringing phone came to him, but it was quickly answered. He sat in one of the chairs opposite the fireplace and stared alternately at the flames and through the picture window at the valley that lay far below the house. It was beautiful. But he missed his home.

A thin man, late thirties with pale skin and a bushy mustache, quietly entered the room. In his right hand was a cordless phone. He handed it to Pablo, closing the door behind him.

“Hello,” Pablo said, his English without an accent.

“We have a problem,” a distant voice said.

“It is safe to speak on this line. Please continue.”

“Your Zurich connection is in jeopardy.”

“How long do we have?”

“Monday morning, at the latest.”

“You're sure?”

“Trust me,” the voice said, “I know exactly when your man in Zurich will be compromised. He's working both sides. For you and for the Rastanos. Take care of him or our little team will be all over it. It's inevitable.”

“So. Herr Shweisser is a man who likes to take risks. I've suspected for some time now that he was also in bed with Mario and Javier Rastano. Unfortunately for him, that was a fatal mistake. Do you have anything else for me right now?”

“No.”

“The team is still five members, plus Eugenio Escobar?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Pablo hung up, waited a minute, then dialed a number prefixed by an international area code. The phone rang a few times and a woman's voice, soft and enticing, answered.

“I have a job for you. It must be handled immediately.” He spoke for a couple of minutes, giving the woman all the necessary details, then hung up. The fireplace was generating a great deal of warmth and he unbuttoned his coat, slipped it off and laid it on the arm of the chair. He stood and walked to the window, again looking out over the valley that stretched far to the south. A solitary cloud drifted toward the sun, and he watched the shadow move up the valley. It engulfed the house; the strong sunlight dissipated and the room instantly darkened. He could see the fire reflected in the window, the flames slowly and methodically devouring the wood.

And now with the sunlight just a ghost of its former brilliance, he could also see his own reflection. His face was somewhat oval, his eyes deep brown and watchful. His cheeks were full, but not yet drooping. He jowls and chin were firm, belying his age. He sported a full head of curly hair, parted in the middle and allowed to grow about halfway down his ears. His face was clean-shaven and well proportioned. Although he was not a handsome man, neither was he ugly. His shoulders were slightly rounded, but his chest was full and his waist narrowed to a respectable thirty-four inches. He looked younger than his fifty-six years, a fact he credited to the many hours he spent in his basement gym. He turned from the window at the sound of a door opening. The same man who had brought him the phone was standing in the doorway.

“Lunch is served, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The servant bowed his head a fraction and was gone.

Pablo Escobar took one last out the window and smoothed the lapels on his shirt before attending the midday meal.

Chapter Twenty-one

Pedro Parada was glistening with sweat, the skipping rope a blur as he warmed up for his second fight at Javier Rastano's private club. His opponent was working the heavy bag and after watching him for a couple of minutes, Pedro knew he was in for a punch-fest. Luis, the man's name, was in his mid-twenties and probably a few pounds over the welterweight division. He was in excellent condition, toned and very light on his feet. This guy was no street fighter; he was a boxer. He even had the typical boxer's face; flat nose, cauliflower ears, and he kept his hair cropped close to his head. His skin was badly scarred with pock marks from a severe case of adolescent acne. Pedro continued skipping as Javier, surrounded by an entourage, entered the gym. Most of the club members were also there. News of the fight had traveled fast, and interest was high.

Javier nodded to both fighters, then took his seat at ringside. Someone had taken the time to arrange a couple of hundred chairs on the floor and they were filling up fast. Money was flowing and the excitement level was rising as the clock approached noon. At five minutes before the hour each fighter was escorted to his corner. Pedro grinned at José.

“This guy any good?” he asked the grizzled old pugilist.

“I've only seen him once before, in one of the
barrio
gyms. And yeah, he's good. In fact, he's really good. But he's new around the club. I think Senor Rastano just met him a few days ago.”

“Looks a little heavy for welterweight.”

“No shit,” José said. “Probably about ten or fifteen pounds.”

“So no walk in the park this afternoon.”

“Nope.”

“Got any words of advice?”

José didn't waste a second replying. “Hit him more than he hits you.”

Pedro shook his head. “Thanks a lot.”

The bell rang and the fighters moved to the center of the ring, listened to the rules, banged gloves and returned to their corners. A second later the bell rang and the fight was on. Both Pedro and Luis had a degree of mutual respect, and they spent the first two rounds bouncing about the ring, throwing jabs and taking an occasional punch to see what kind of power the other man had to offer. In the third round they both got serious. Pedro could see few flaws in Luis's style and he tried to collect. Pedro waited until Luis threw a left jab and pulled his right foot a bit too close to his left. That left Luis slightly off balance and Pedro drove in with a vicious right-left-right combination. All three punches landed, but the following uppercut missed. The flurry stunned Luis, and brought an appreciative cheer from the onlookers with money on Pedro. The referee waded in and backed Pedro off for a few seconds. When the fight resumed, Luis came straight back at Pedro and nailed him with straight right and a left hook. Pedro bounced off the ropes and right into another straight right. He almost went down, his legs like jelly for a few seconds, his hands up around his face fending off a solid rain of punches. Nothing else was getting through and Pedro had a few seconds to recover. He took a risk, dropped his right and fired a stunning blow into Luis's solar plexus. The boxer doubled over and backed off, hurting big-time from the body blow. Pedro let him go and took the time to shake off the thrashing. The bell rang, and he returned to his corner.

“You asked me for advice before the fight started,” José said, pouring water over Pedro's head and shooting a stream into his mouth. “What part of hit him more than he hits you didn't you understand?”

“Sorry, chief. I'll try to do better this round.”

“You do that, boy. Because if you don't, you're going down.”

Pedro just grinned. “You like that shot to the solar plexus?”

“Yeah, that was real nice. Now hit the fucking guy in the head.”

“Okay, boss,” Pedro said, opening his mouth for his mouth guard as the bell rang. Round four.

Pedro took a beating through most of the fourth round, unable to counter-attack the series of combinations Luis threw at him. He still had strength and his legs were okay, but he couldn't react fast enough to the speed of his opponent's punches. After the round he plunked down on the chair in his corner and spit out his mouth guard.

“Okay, José, I'm all ears. What can I do to get at this guy?”

“I've got an idea. I want you to jab, jab, jab at him and keep them coming. When you've got the jab working he doesn't like to open himself to your right so he backs off on the offense. No offense, no combinations. Keep jabbing at him. Jab, jab, jab. Got it?”

“I'm getting smacked around out there, but I'm not deaf. You want me to jab. Right?”

“Right. And then when you get him off balance, wade in. You've still got lots of power left.”

The bell went for the fifth and final round. Pedro came out jabbing. His left arm shot out with clockwork regularity, tagging Luis's gloves and occasionally making it through to his head. By a minute into the round, Pedro saw another benefit to José's strategy. Luis wanted to come at him, but kept holding back because of the steady barrage of jabs. And the longer he waited, the more his frustration showed in his footwork. He was cheating, bringing his right foot forward, ready to unleash with a left-right-left combination. But Pedro kept coming at him, snapping hard jabs that hurt when they hit, and even when they failed to penetrate Luis's gloves, they threw him off balance. Then, at the two-minute mark, Pedro saw his opening.

Luis was dragging his right foot now, itching to counterattack the endless series of jabs, and that made him vulnerable. Without losing his rhythm, Pedro changed from the quick jab to a straight right, catching Luis on the chin and stunning him. The right was followed by a six-punch combination that ended with a blockbuster uppercut. Luis staggered back, fell against the ropes and hit the canvas. He stood up immediately, but the ref kept Pedro away until he checked Luis to see if he could continue. With thirty-three seconds left in the round he backed off and Pedro waded in. There were no more jabs. Every punch had power behind it, driving Luis back across the ring into the ropes, where Pedro let loose with a flurry of body blows. Then, when the trapped fighter dropped his gloves to protect his abs, Pedro shot out a straight right that ended the fight. The punch caught Luis in the chin and snapped his head back so hard and fast his mouth protector flew into the crowd. He crumpled on the ropes and fell unconscious to the canvas. The half of the crowd that had bet on Pedro was in a frenzy, the other half dug into their pockets for cash. Pedro returned to his corner, where José wiped him down and slipped off his gloves.

“See. Jab, jab, jab. You bored him to death. Good work.”

Pedro couldn't help laughing. The old man had won the fight for him and he cared nothing about taking any credit. “I think he's going to have a headache. I caught him pretty good with that last punch.”

“You did, boy. You hit him good.”

Javier Rastano slipped between the ropes and into the ring. He had a wireless microphone with him and addressed the crowd over the PA system. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending our Saturday main event. The winner, by knock out, Pedro Parada.” He waved his arm toward Pedro's corner. Pedro jumped up and bounced about with his arms above his head, giving the crowd a show. They loved it and even some of the bettors who had gone against him were clapping. Pedro danced to the middle of the ring, where Javier handed him an envelope. “Open it,” he said.

Pedro ripped open the envelope and pulled out a wad of cash. American hundreds. Even without counting Pedro knew he was holding at least five thousand dollars. He held it up like a trophy, and the yells from the crowd grew even louder. Eventually the din died down and the audience moved toward the exits in small groups, discussing the fight and complimenting Javier Rastano on bringing together two such evenly matched and talented fighters. Pedro and Luis had showered and were getting dressed when Rastano poked his head into the locker room.

“You two busy this afternoon?” he asked. Both men just shrugged. “Good. I'll have a driver wait for you. When you're finished dressing come up to the house. We'll have a late lunch and I'll show you around.”

“Sure, Mr. Rastano,” Luis said.

“Sounds okay,” Pedro said nonchalantly. But under the calm veneer his heart was pumping.

He was in.