Bloodline (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

The air-conditioning unit supplying cold air to the west wing at EPIC went down at two on Sunday afternoon. The team worked in the heat for another hour, then called it quits until the maintenance staff could fix the problem. Eduardo Garcia headed home to spend time with his wife and two young children, while Eugene and the senior members of the team found an air-conditioned Mexican restaurant. They settled into a booth directly beneath a ceiling fan. Sombreros hung on the walls, one per booth, and pictures of Pancho Villa in full Mexican garb, with pistols in each hand, were plentiful. The tables were rough-hewn oak, and the seats stitched hemp.

“When do they think the air-conditioning will be working?” Eugene asked Alexander as the waitress, a fifty- something Mexican woman in authentic garb, dropped off their drinks.

“Around eight this evening,” Landry said. “That's why I can order a
cerveza.
The working day is done.”

Cathy Maxwell had stuck to a tall glass of water and a Coke. She drained half the water, than asked, “You guys come up with a family member you think might be working with Pablo?”

“The best bet so far is a distant cousin, Mario Correa,” Landry said. “He's living in Miami, has been for almost eight years now. Owns a Renault dealership near Miami Beach. Eduardo is concentrating on his phone logs from the dealership and his house. I'm checking his credit cards, frequent flyer miles and passport to see where Señor Correa has been traveling lately.”

“This Mario fellow in tight with Pablo at any point?”

“Sort of. Mario knew Pablo's first cousin Gustavo Gaviria Rivero really well. And Rivero was one of the cartel leaders. We're looking for a recent link between Mario and Gustavo first, and if we find one, conversations with Pablo could be next.”

“Excellent work,” Cathy said. She sipped her Coke and looked thoughtful. “How does the cousin of a scumbag drug dealer get U.S. citizenship? That doesn't make sense to me.”

Eugene's eyes narrowed slightly. “I'm one of Pablo's cousins,” he said. “And I think if the U.S. government ever looked closely at my life, they wouldn't have a problem issuing a green card.”

Maxwell's face flushed. “I'm sorry, Eugene,” she said hastily. “I wasn't thinking. It's just that some of your relatives were in the gutter with Pablo.”

“It's easy to paint us all with the same brush,” Eugene said. “I've had to deal with my family tree all my life. My friends know I'm related to Pablo, and they love to talk about it. It's a great ice-breaker at a party.
Hey, that guy over there, he's Pablo Escobar's cousin.
And people I've never met take one look at my last name and ask me if I'm related. There's no getting away from it. It sucks. But you learn to live with it.”

The waitress stopped by and asked them in Spanish if they were ready to order. Eugene ordered a quesadilla with refried beans and handed their server the menu. The others ordered the same. Then Cathy Maxwell asked, “Are you two heading for Miami?”

Alexander shrugged. “That depends on what Eduardo digs up. If there's a connection, we'll be on the next flight. If not, we're back looking at the rest of the family. And that's no easy feat. There are brothers and cousins and uncles and aunts in more countries than you could ever imagine. Even dealing with only the family is a haystack.”

Cathy nodded. “I remember, Alexander. It wasn't much different thirteen years ago.”

Eugene finished his water and asked, “Why did you guys do it? Why did you leave your families back in the United States and travel to Colombia to track down Pablo? I can't think of a more dangerous assignment. You put your lives on the line every day to bring him down. What I don't understand is why.”

Neither the DEA man nor his CIA counterpart spoke for the better part of a minute. When one of them did, it was Cathy Maxwell, and she spoke distantly. “At first you take the assignment the agency hands you and you don't ask questions. Green agents, eager to fight crime, leave D.C. with bright eyes and their ethics intact. But once you're in the jungle, thrown into the insane world of the Colombian drug lords, you change. The metamorphosis is quick; it has to be, or you won't survive. You begin to think on their level, your vision of humanity and the value of a human life are downgraded. What you would have viewed as atrocities when you first arrived becomes normal. Heads on spikes by the side of the road, gutted children, men with their testicles stuffed in their mouths; it forms a veil over normalcy. You track down one of their labs, burn it to the ground and destroy the equipment, and another one springs up a few miles away. They have too much money; you can't stop them. And once you realize that, you start to fight a limited war, like the U.S. did in Vietnam. Hit them hard and fast and get out before they get you. Catch them while they're sleeping and arrest them? Why bother. The Colombian court system is so corrupt that trying to imprison anyone worthwhile is impossible. So you level the gun at them and pull the trigger. You kill them in cold blood, just as they'd kill you, given the chance. And then you head back to Medellín in the choppers, talking excitedly about what a great day you had. A lab, an airstrip, and sixty of Pablo's thugs and cocaine cooks. You give each other high fives and drink beer. Then you head to bed and sleep well.”

She stopped for a minute, and rotated her empty glass on the table a few times. It left a series of wet rings on the wood. “So why did
I
do it, Eugene? Because when I first arrived I thought I could make a difference. I had good intentions and high ideals. But all that changed. I think we all left a bit of our humanity on the doorstep when we entered Colombia. And once you've seen what we've seen you don't just forget it and get on with life. It stays with you. And after a while you don't sleep very well. You remember all the times you kicked in a door, and pulled the trigger because you thought you saw a gun. And you get to hate the
narcos
with such passion that you lose touch with what's right and what's wrong; the boundaries get hazy, and sometimes they disappear. So you fight them on their own terms, in the gutter with guns and knives. And in the end, you aren't much different from those you hunt.”

No one spoke for a couple of minutes, then Alexander Landry said, “Maybe I should have answered your question, Eugene. I did it because I liked Colombian beer.”

They all chuckled at that, Cathy Maxwell included. She snapped out of her introspective mood, and grinned. “Alexander's right. We all liked Colombian beer.”

Despite the laughter, Eugene sensed that Cathy Maxwell had bared a piece of her soul, and that working with the CIA in Colombia had had a traumatic effect on her life. Yet once Pablo was eliminated, she had moved back to the States, married and started a family. From her ramblings with Alexander Landry, he knew she had three young girls back in a Washington, D.C. suburb with their father. Three little girls she absolutely adored. In contrast, Landry's kids were grown and out of the house. He talked little of them, other than to complain about the cost of college tuitions. Eugene wasn't sure, but he thought Landry had four kids, all college age or older.

But whatever had motivated these two U.S. agents to leave their homes and live in Colombia fifteen years ago, and whatever motivated them now, Eugene believed he owed them a debt of gratitude.

He watched each of them as they ate their food and washed it down with Coke and beer, and he sensed that a camaraderie between the two
narco
hunters that had existed during their
narco
days was making a comeback. He believed they respected and admired each other. But it was more than that. They trusted each other. Maybe it had been born out of necessity, when the world they had known was left behind and the replacement was too crazy to be real. Maybe it was just a natural chemistry.

He tuned in again as Landry cracked the punch-line to a joke, and he joined in the laughter. But looking at the two experienced
narco
hunters, Eugene felt empowered. And he could only think of one thing:

Hang in there, sweetheart, we're coming to get you.

Chapter Twenty-three

Javier Rastano's home in Colonia Escalón was stunning. Never in his life had Pedro seen anything that even came close to the opulence hidden behind the massive front gates. The grounds were impeccable, acres of cut grass beneath mature mango trees, and clusters of towering bamboo. Eucalyptus trees bordered the twisting cobblestone road leading to the main house. Immediately in front of the colonial two-story were twelve evenly spaced Royal palms, their bases painted brilliant white.

A second-floor balcony stretched across the front façade of the house, its ornately twisted iron railings painted stark white. A massive portico jutted through the balcony, and dominated the front elevation. Empty wicker furniture sat in groups and overhead fans circled sluggishly, moving the still afternoon air. The driveway curved around an island of grass and flowers with a small duck pond in the center. Rastano's Ferrari was parked in front of the main doors to the house, and Pedro and Luis's driver pulled the Mercedes in behind the Italian sports car. He ushered them into the house and toward the back garden.

The main foyer was forty square feet with eighteen-foot ceilings, flanked on two sides by mirror-image curved staircases and an open hall directly ahead. Pictures by little-known renaissance artists lined the walls. Their heels clicked sharply on the Italian marble floors. They passed a fully stocked library, the books reaching to the ceiling, and a parlor with games tables and a professional roulette wheel. A formal dining room with a teak table and eighteen chairs was located just inside the rear of the house, and the view from the table was acres of perfectly landscaped grounds. Javier Rastano sat at a small glass table on the deck just outside the dining room.

“Ah, my boxers are here,” he said as Pedro and Luis exited the rear of the house into the harsh afternoon sunshine. The heat was oppressive, but Javier didn't seem to notice. He waved them over to the table. “Sit down. What would you like to drink?”

“Beer, please,” Luis said, and Pedro nodded.

“Thanks for the purse,” Pedro said as they settled in. “I never expected anything like that. It was most generous.”

“Not a problem. But five thousand dollars is just the start.” He waved to one of the men dressed in black. The man was by his side in an instant. “Find Alfonso and get ten thousand dollars in fifties and twenties. Bring it here.”

“Yes, sir.” The man was gone as quickly as he arrived. That he carried a Thompson sub-machine gun and six extra clips on his belt was not lost on Pedro.

Javier sipped his iced tea and ran his fingers through his long hair. It fell into place, like every strand had its own spot and knew exactly where to go. He cupped his hands behind his neck, and said, “I'm thinking about taking on a few fighters, promoting them on a fairly high level. I'm not sure what sort of fights I could arrange, but I'm thinking Las Vegas, Atlantic City, that sort of thing. I'm not Don King, but I've got a few connections. I might be able to get you on a championship card as one of the opening bouts. Anyone interested?”

“Yeah,” Luis said, leaning forward. “I'd fight for you, Mr. Rastano.”

“Sure,” Pedro said. “But I need time to get in shape. A twelve- or fifteen-round match is a far cry from five.”

Javier nodded appreciatively. “Good point. It'll take me a few months to set this up, so that should give you two enough time to tone up. Luis, you're definitely not a welterweight are you?”

“No, I'm over by about fifteen pounds.”

“Good, then I've got two different weight divisions. I like that.” He turned his shoulder as the guard returned to the patio from the house. “Ahh. Here comes your first payday.” He took the money, split it in half and handed one pile to each fighter. “Go buy yourselves some nice clothes, maybe a gold chain or two, and give some to your families.” He addressed Pedro. “Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Villa Florencia,” Pedro said.

“You like the action of El Centro, do you?” Rastano said. “Well, it's a little quieter here, but there's no mold in the bathrooms. You're both welcome to stay on the estate if you wish. It's entirely up to you.” Both men nodded, and Javier smiled. “Then it's settled. I'll have one of the men show you your rooms and the gym. There's a few cars here if you want to drive to Galerías to shop, but don't touch the Ferrari.” He stood up. “I'll see you later,” he said, and disappeared into the house.

Luis thumbed the stack of bills and let out a low whistle. “Holy shit,
amigo.
We hit the big time.”

“Yeah,” Pedro said, his eyes roaming across the patio to the grounds, then back to the house. “I think we got what we wanted.”

An hour later Pedro was driving through the congestion of El Centro, more than shopping for new clothes on his mind. He needed to get his guns onto Rastano's estate. The Mercedes SL 500 attracted some attention and, in retrospect, he wished he had chosen a slightly less conspicuous car. He parked in front of his hotel and ran up to his room. He gathered his meager belongings and tucked them into his gym bag. He wrapped the three guns in with the clothes, shouldered the bag and checked out.

There were a few decent shops just outside the central region of San Salvador and he stopped in, looking through the racks and buying something in each shop, to help the shop owners more than anything else. He paid cash and didn't barter. Eventually he ended up at the sterile Galerías shopping mall where he dropped a substantial wad of cash on more clothes, and jewelry that he felt Javier Rastano would approve of. It would raise suspicions if a
barrio
rat came into a ton of money and didn't spend it foolishly. Almost four hours had passed when he returned to the estate and pulled up to the front gate.

“What's all that?” the guards asked, pointing at the stack of bags in the passenger's seat.

“Shopping,” Pedro said. “Javier told me to get some new clothes.”

“Okay,” one guard said, opening the gate and waving him through. The other looked like he wanted to poke through the bags, but Pedro was long gone, up the driveway and out of sight. He parked the Mercedes and hustled upstairs with his purchases and his gym bag. Once in his room he dumped the new clothes on the bed, grabbed a couple of beach towels from one of the El Centro vendors and wrapped the guns in the towels. He stuffed the towels in the gym bag. Then he changed into his bathing suit and headed for the pool, gym bag in hand.

He passed a couple of guards making their rounds, but they hardly looked his way. The two boxers were Javier's personal guests and that carried a lot of weight. He bypassed the pool and took the series of winding paths through groves of mango and eucalyptus trees until he arrived at the far reaches of the Rastano estate. A shed, perhaps twenty feet wide by forty feet long was tucked up against the walls that delineated the Rastano estate from the neighbors. Pedro glanced up, noticing the cameras mounted on top of the wall. They were on swivel bases, and could monitor the grounds and the wall. But the shed itself blocked the camera as he approached, and he entered the hut without being photographed.

It was a gardener's shed. Inside were all the implements necessary to maintain acres of perfectly manicured grounds. Two riding tractors and numerous gas powered hand mowers were lined up against one wall, edgers and trimmers as well. Bags of fertilizer were piled near the back, along with equipment that was in pieces and in the process of being fixed. The shed had a strong odor of freshly cut grass and potassium fertilizers.

Pedro quickly found a place to stash the guns, behind and under some equipment that appeared to have been sitting in one place for a substantial length of time. He stood back and had a good look. It was impossible to tell where he had stashed the guns. Then he noticed a phone on the workbench, half hidden beneath a pile of rags used to clean garden equipment. It was an old model, one of the first with push buttons, bulky and covered with dust and grime. He picked up the receiver, not expecting it to work. A dial tone hummed through the line, and he replaced the handset thoughtfully. He covered the phone with rags, thinking it might come in handy at some point. He retreated from the shed and walked leisurely down to the pool. The water looked inviting, and he dove in and swam a few laps. Occasionally, a guard sauntered past, but it was business as usual. He had managed to get the guns inside the estate—and though he hoped he wouldn't have to use them, having the weapons close by felt good.

Now he just needed to find the women.