Bloodline (7 page)

“Are they in El Salvador right now?”

Eugene shrugged. “A friend of mine thinks so. He was tied into the drug business a few years ago and he's still in the loop. You're going to have to wing it, Pedro. Make it up as you go.”

“How do we stay in touch?” Pedro asked.

“I'll get two cell phones from a dealer in Caracas this afternoon. I'll be the only person with your number, and vice versa.”

“I'm assuming you'd like me to leave for El Salvador right away,” Pedro said, and Eugene nodded. “All right, I'll have to settle up a few things here before I leave. I don't want to burn any bridges. I like working here. I'll just tell them I've got a family emergency.”

“Thanks, Pedro.”

“Not a problem, my friend.” He rose to finish his shift. “Where are you staying?”

Eugene shrugged. “Hadn't thought about it.”

“Try the Plaza Catedral, on Boulevard Plaza Bolívar. It's in the colonial section of Caracas. Nice rooms, great restaurant on the roof.”

“I know it,” Eugene said. “You want me to check in and wait for you?”

“Sure. I'll need a few hours here to wrap things up. Give me another hour to pop by my apartment and have a shower and change. I'll see you then.”

“
Ciao, amigo,
” Eugene said, shaking Pedro's hand.

Their eyes met. “It's going to be okay,” Pedro said, seeing the agony in his friend's eyes. “We'll find them.”

Eugene nodded and they split. Pedro headed back to the problem with the hydraulic system, and Eugene cut back through the office to the parking lot. He thought about Pedro's words as he slid into the cab and gave the driver the name of the hotel.
We'll find them.
The words were hollow, just spoken to appease his suffering, both men knew that. But somehow, just hearing someone else say what he wanted to believe was encouraging. And one huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders now that he had Pedro helping him. Without Pedro he was dead in the water. He closed his eyes and the vision of Julie and Shiara, captive with blood-soaked bandages wrapped about the stumps of their severed fingers, came to him.

Despite his eyes being tightly closed, his cheeks burned as the tears slowly rolled down.

Chapter Seven

They met in Les Grisons at seven in the evening, the sun just setting on the rugged horizon. Splashes of color streaked across the evening sky, and then a muted gray washed across the palette and dusk descended. The lights of Caracas flickered and then glowed dimly against the stark darkness of the towering hills to the west. Beneath the rooftop restaurant, the city pulsed with energy and readied itself for another night of pounding music in crowded nightclubs.

Pedro ordered a lite beer as he stared out over the spires of the cathedral toward Plaza Venezuela and the adjacent Jardin Botánico. The gardens were poorly lit and appeared as a black blotch against a sea of oscillating streetlights. He took a sip of cold beer and wiped a drop of condensation from the bottle. It fell on his dark denim jeans and he absently rubbed it into the material with his index finger.

“Rastano give you the money?” Pedro asked. He didn't know why, but he had to know.

Eugene took a long pull on his beer and nodded. “Yeah, it's drug money. Rastano gave me a hundred large for expenses. If you need more than twenty…”

Pedro shook his head. “Twenty is fine. Hell, my job at Cerámico Cuidad only pays thirty-five U.S. a year and I survive on that. I think I can get through two weeks with twenty. Anyway, I don't want to appear in San Salvador throwing cash around. That attracts a lot of unnecessary attention. I'd rather stay at a hotel that's cheaper than the Hilton.”

“Any ideas on how to find Rastano?” Eugene asked.

Pedro grinned. “Finding Rastano will be easy. Rich people aren't all that common in San Salvador, and they all tend to stick to one area: Escalón. Getting to meet him will be the tough part.”

“Escalón? Is it a subdivision or a neighboring town?”

“It's a subdivision,” Pedro said. “Huge estates with walls and gates. Armed guards everywhere. And I'm not talking your average rent-a-cop idiots. These guys are ex-military types, and they're well paid. Kill you in a second if you give them a reason.”

“Rastano's type of people,” Eugene said.

Pedro ordered another beer, and asked Eugene, “What do you know about Javier Rastano? From what you've told me, he seems to be the front man for the family these days.”

“That's only my take on it, because he's the only one I've met. I wouldn't be able to pick out his father in a crowd of three. Then again, Javier didn't seem to need his father's approval to kidnap my wife and daughter. But I don't know that for sure.”

Pedro looked thoughtful for a few moments. Then he said, “Rich young man in a foreign country. He's got to have some vices that need satisfying. Drugs, booze and women; he can certainly take care of those necessities himself, but rich guys usually need something else.”

“Like what?”

“Gambling, fast cars, cock fights. Who knows. When you've got more money than you can hope to spend, you've got to find new and exciting ways to get rid of it. I've known a few high-level drug dealers, and they were all fucked up. I'm sure Javier Rastano is no different.”

“Where does that get you?” Eugene asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

“Get Javier on his home turf with nothing to do but take a good hard look at me, and chances are he'll be suspicious. But put him in another environment, one where common sense is diverted and pure adrenaline takes over, and I might stand a chance.”

“A chance for what?”

“To get inside his gardens, his house, his world. That's the way to find Julie and Shiara. Busting down the front door with guns in hand isn't going to work. And standing outside his mansion gates won't get me anywhere. I've got to meet him and get in his life.”

Eugene ran his fingers through his curly hair and nodded. Pedro was right. Javier Rastano may be rich and pampered, but with his position in the drug underworld came street smarts and hands-on experience in treachery and deception. The man was no fool. He would be alert for the wrong people trying to infiltrate his inner circle. Getting close to him would be difficult. But men were often most vulnerable about activities they considered pleasurable. Sex with younger women, motorcycle or car racing, extreme sports. Whatever the man's button was, Pedro needed to find it. And then exploit it. Not easy, but Pedro was already thinking on the right track. Eugene slipped an envelope from the inside pocket of his windbreaker.

“Here's your cash,” he said. “American dollars.”

“Universal currency,” Pedro said, taking the package and tucking it in his pocket without glancing inside. “You traveling with the other eighty in cash?”

“No chance,” Eugene said. “I've got about ten on me. I stopped at a bank earlier today and put the rest on my credit card. They won't be asking for a payment for a few months.”

Pedro laughed. “They'll probably up your credit limit.”

“Just what I need.”

The waiter, young with shoulder-length hair, came around, pad in hand, and took their orders. He thanked them, and was gone.

“How are you going to find Pablo?” Pedro asked. “If he is alive.”

“There's a family member I can try before I resort to the DEA or the CIA. Raphael Ramirez. He's a cousin, once or twice removed, I can't remember. Anyway, he's a shady kind of guy. Always looked up to Pablo, but Pablo wouldn't give the guy the time of day.”

“I thought Pablo liked sycophants.”

“He did. But Raphael borrowed some money once to open a business in Medellín, which he never got around to doing. Spent the money, then came nosing about for more. He's lucky Pablo didn't get one of his guys to whack him.”

“You think this Raphael might know something?”

Eugene shrugged. “I don't know. But it'll only take a day to check it out. I booked an early flight for Medellín tomorrow morning.” Eugene slid his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a cell phone. It was the latest model Motorola, tiny with an extra capacity Li-Ion battery. “Your number flashes across the screen when you turn it on. Here's mine,” he said, jotting down the number for his new cell phone on a match pack and sliding it across the linen tablecloth.

“Thanks. You said no one else will know these numbers. Is that still on?”

“Yes. Just us. And they've got call display, so we'll know when a call comes in if it's a wrong number.”

“Excellent.”

Eugene leaned forward slightly. “You have a gun?”

“In Caracas, yes. But I'm going to leave it here. Easier to travel without one. I'll pick up another one in San Salvador. I've got lots of connections in the city.”

“Okay.”

The food arrived, Creole cuisine with hearty sides of fresh vegetables and rice. They ordered fresh beers and dug in. They talked about other things; Pedro's job and where he was living in Caracas. But the small talk was forced and it quickly came back to the matter at hand.

Pedro said seriously, “Eugene, you've got to do me one favor.”

“Of course, my friend. Just name it.”

“If for some reason I don't make it through this alive, I want you to visit my grandmother and tell her I died trying to do something good. She may not see it that way if I end up getting shot or knifed, but I'd hate for her to think I was some street punk. That would break her heart.”

“She still lives on Colonia America?”

“Yeah, she's still there.”

“I'll tell her, Pedro. But
you
have to do
me
a favor.”

“What's that?”

“Don't get killed.”

“I'll try,
amigo.
I'll try.”

Chapter Eight

Eugene flew Aeropostal, Venezuela's national airline, directly from Caracas to Medellín. The spiny backbone of the Cordillera Central, engulfing the city on all sides, dwarfed the José María Córdova International Airport and created dangerous up- and downdrafts for incoming flights. Eugene recognized a few landmarks as the landing gear unfolded and the plane thundered through the unsettled air pockets. A football match was underway at Atanasia Girardot stadium and the stands looked full despite it being a Monday afternoon. The plane banked hard right and crossed the beacons, alternately dropping and lifting with the wind shear. The landing was surprisingly smooth, given the rough approach, and the pilot came over the intercom and made a comment about how much better his landings would be once he got his commercial license.

Medellín's airport had undergone a major facelift, as had much of the city since its release from the violent grip of the drug cartels in the early 1990s. Eugene nodded his approval at the upgraded facility as he carried his solitary bag through the wide, tiled corridors. The taxi queue was non-existent and he hopped in the back seat of the first in line. He gave the man Raphael's address and sat back for the ride.

It irked Eugene that Medellín's reputation on the world stage was, first and foremost, associated with Pablo Escobar's cocaine cartel. Few knew that the city and the surrounding countryside were the country's premier suppliers of coffee, bananas, cut flowers and energy. The creative pulse of the city revealed itself in a multitude of museums housed in buildings of stunning beauty and grand architecture. Almost every major hotel had a resident art gallery, many displaying the works of local artists. Two hundred and seventy-one
barrios
melded together to form the municipal structure that crept up the Aburrá valley between spines of the central cordillera. The weather was temperate, the flora without peer, the people friendly and educated. Yet, mention Medellín and people thought drugs. Eugene directed the driver to a working-class suburb, one of Medellín's rougher edges.

Raphael's street was typical for the area: narrow, with dilapidated houses whose façades were cracked and crumbling. Dirty curtains hung in grimy windows, and small children in ragged clothes threw the taxi suspicious looks as it cruised up and came to a halt in front of number 35. Eugene showed the driver a hundred U.S. bill, then tucked it back in his pocket.

“If my friend is home, I'm going to speak with him for a while. You wait, you get the hundred.”

“
Sí, amigo,
” the driver said, all smiles and hoping his passenger's friend was in.

Eugene slid out of the cab, ignored the street urchins begging for coins and knocked on the door. At one time it had obviously been bright red, but the heat and humidity had reduced it to a slab of raw wood with an occasional patch of flaking paint. Dry rot had eaten through in places, and even a half-hearted kick would reduce it to a pile of splinters. Eugene heard the sound of a latch moving the bolt back. The door opened an inch or two and a bloodshot eyeball peered out from the darkness.

“What do you want?” a gruff voice asked.

“Raphael, it's your cousin, Eugene. Eugene Escobar.”

The door cracked open another two inches, enough to reveal a wizened face with three or four days' stubble. The lips split into a grin, revealing irregularly spaced teeth, rotting and yellow. Then the door opened completely, and Raphael waved him in. The house was exceptionally dark for midday; all the curtains were pulled tight to the window jambs. Illumination came from a solitary lamp with a bare bulb sitting on a coffee table piled high with magazines. The unmistakable odor of mold and mildew was strong, mixed with a fishy smell emanating from the kitchen. Raphael shut the front door behind Eugene and the house was plunged into almost total darkness.

“You turned into a vampire?” Eugene asked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the low light levels.

Raphael burst out laughing, his foul breath almost knocking Eugene over. “That's funny, cousin. Am I a vampire? No, I don't think so. I just like it dark. Too much sunlight makes me feel sick to my stomach. You want a beer?”

Eugene didn't, but acquiesced, knowing that to do otherwise would insult Raphael. “Sure, a beer would be great. But only one. I drink more than one and the sun almost knocks me over.”

“See,” Raphael said, heading down the hallway to the kitchen. “We're the same, you and I. It runs in the family.”

Eugene took in the room while Raphael got two beers from the fridge. A couch, so stained that it was difficult to tell that the original fabric had been a paisley design, sat against the wall that fronted onto the street. A spring had broken and actually protruded through the fabric. Eugene ignored the couch and sat in one of two stuffed chairs. It smelled of body odor and stale cigarette smoke, but it was better than a thick, sharp wire up the ass. The floor was completely coated with dirt and grime and Eugene couldn't tell if it had originally been tile or wood. A small color television, turned to one of the daytime soap operas, occupied a far corner.

“Nice and cold,” Raphael said, entering the room and handing Eugene one of the beers. He sat on the end of the couch without the protruding spring.

“You really should fix that,” Eugene said, taking a sip of his beer and pointing the neck of the bottle toward the couch. “If a guy sat on that he could become a woman.”

Again, the raucous laughter. “I'd fix it if I had something to cut it with. But I don't. So fuck it.” He took a long swig, and said, “What brings you to Medellín, Eugenio?”

“Been away a long time,” Eugene said. “Thought it would be nice to visit.”

“You still living in Venezuela?”

He nodded. “On Isla de Margarita. I like it there. I take people scuba diving.”

“Good money in that?”

Eugene shook his head. “Not really. Maybe if you owned your own live-aboard, but just taking customers out for the day isn't all that profitable. How about you? What are you doing these days?”

Raphael waved his skinny arms about the room. “Living well. Government pays me to survive in such splendor.”

“Really. The Colombian government pays for this. Why?”

“Our cousin, Pablo Escobar, kind of tarnished my reputation. I couldn't get a job because I was related to him.”

“But you're related on his mother's side. Your surname isn't Escobar. How could anyone know?”

His eyes took on a darkness that shocked Eugene. “You have no idea, Eugenio, what it was like to be related to Pablo Escobar. You didn't live in Colombia. Your father was wise enough to get his family out of this place and into a different country. Pablo Escobar ruined my life.”

“We still had contact with him, Raphael. He didn't ruin us.”

Raphael dismissed Eugene's comment with a wave of one hand and hammered back the beer with the other. When he set the empty bottle on the table, Eugene noticed Raphael's hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. The man disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a fresh beer. Eugene was relieved to see he brought only one.

“The man was a tyrant, Eugene. What he wanted, he took. No one stood in his way. If they did, they died. And they died in horrible ways: Colombian neckties, disembowelment, castration. Christ, Eugene, Pablo's goons stuffed these poor bastard's nuts in their mouths, then slit their throats. And if you managed to survive Pablo, Search Bloc and Los Pepes were just around the corner.”

“Search Bloc was Col. Martinez's team, right?”

“Yeah. They were the arm of the government that worked with the American DEA and CIA. Fuckers those guys were. They were almost as bad as Pablo's killers.”

“The vigilantes were worse,” Eugene said. He may not have lived in Colombia while the world was looking for Pablo, but he knew some of the stories that went along with the manhunt.

 

Raphael ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair and finished the second beer. “Los Pepes were the worst. They felt justified murdering anyone they thought was in cahoots with Pablo or the Ochoa family. And they were arrogant bastards. They even left notes on the corpses that said,
Another victim of Los Pepes.
”

“So now the government gives you a monthly stipend to live on. Something for your suffering.”

“Yeah, for my suffering. Nicely put.”

“When was the last time you saw Pablo?”

“What the fuck do you care?” Raphael asked, his eyes narrowing. “He's been dead almost twelve years.”

“Relax, Raphael. I'm just visiting, remember.”

Raphael lit a cigarette and gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Just visiting.”

“I've got to use your washroom,” Eugene said, rising from the dirt-encrusted chair.

“First door on the right.”

“Thanks.” He wove his way down the cluttered hall, where stacks of old magazines and piles of dirty clothes lay strewn about. He doubted Raphael had many guests, and if they came over more than once, they shared the bottom of the barrel with the owner. He closed the door and lifted the toilet seat. It was newer, not really new, but definitely in better condition than any other part of the house. In fact, as he glanced about while his stream hit the water, the overall condition of the room struck him as odd. The tub area and the floor had been retiled, and all the fixtures, not just the toilet, were in reasonable condition. The paint was in poor condition, but without upkeep it would begin peeling inside five years. It was the fixtures that intrigued him. And he thought he knew why.

Eugene flushed the toilet and rejoined his cousin. Raphael had opened another beer in his absence. “So how's your family?” Eugene asked as he ambled about the room. Raphael chirped away. Eugene nodded and grunted on occasion to keep the man talking. He couldn't care less about the man's family; they were so distant to his they were veritable strangers. Then he saw it: a small plastic container with a single item in it, tucked back on a crowded shelf amid bric-a-brac and garbage that hadn't made it out to the street. Inside the container was a battery, like the ones used in flashlights.

“That's interesting,” Eugene said when Raphael finally quieted down.

“What?”

“That battery in the case.” He turned slightly and focused on Raphael. “Almost like it's a trophy of some sort.”

Raphael's hands were going again. “Naw, just a battery is all.”

“But it reminds me of an interesting story. I think it was early to mid-October of 1993, just a couple of months before Pablo was killed in the shootout. He was holed up in a
finca
on a hillside in Aguas Frías. You know the place? It's just outside Medellín.”

“I know the place,” Raphael was quiet, almost mouselike, as he listened.

“Anyway, Martinez was sure Pablo was in the house on top of the mountain, and he had the place surrounded by over seven hundred police officers and soldiers. They watched the place for three or four days before they got the signal they needed to be sure he was there: Pablo placed a call to his son from the
finca.
Immediately the police swooped in. They were all over the place, pumping in tear gas and ripping the place apart. When they didn't find Pablo, they brought in the dogs. Still, nothing. He escaped. You know how?”

Raphael just shrugged and Eugene continued. “He concealed himself in the forest until it was safe to head down to lower ground. And to make the trip down the mountainside, he used a flashlight. And flashlights need batteries. Two batteries. Pablo sent one of those batteries to his wife, but he kept the other. It reminded him of how close he had come to being captured or killed.”

“So where is this going?” Raphael asked.

Eugene was quiet for a moment, then calmly asked, “When was he here, Raphael?”

The man was sweating now, and shaking even more than before. “I don't know what you're talking about, Eugenio.”

“Don't play games with me, Raphael. I doubt you've seen him in years, but I know he was here.”

“Of course I haven't seen him in years. He's dead.”

Eugene ignored Raphael's remark. “Before Pablo was gunned down, he was on the run. The police knew he spent some of that time here in Medellín. He drifted from place to place, never staying in one location too long. But before he moved into new digs, he always had the bathroom renovated. New toilet, new sink, new bathtub. The whole nine yards.” He glanced down the hall. “That bathroom looks a lot newer than anything else in this house, Raphael. Maybe twelve years old, give or take. And the battery. No one frames a battery. Unless you're Pablo Escobar. I'll put money on it that Pablo forgot to take the battery with him when he left.”

Raphael was silent, save for a sucking sound as he inhaled on a cigarette. Finally he ground out the butt in the ashtray and leaned back in his chair. “He stayed for about two weeks in October '93. Less than two months before Martinez and his men found him and killed him. He swore me to secrecy, Eugenio. To this day, I've never told another soul.”

“Thanks for the honesty, Raphael. I need to know what he said to you while he was here.”

Raphael looked stunned. “Why, Eugenio? He's dead. He's been dead for years. Why all of a sudden are you in my living room asking questions about a dead man? What's going on?”

Eugene shook his head. “I can't tell you, Raphael. And trust me, you don't want to know. Suffice to say that I'm looking for something.”

Raphael leaned forward, his dark eyes eager with anticipation. “You think he stashed some money?”

“I'm not saying.”

“But you want me to help you.”

“Yes, I do. I need to know what happened while he was here. What he did, what he said, who he called on the phone.”

Raphael rose from the couch, slightly unsteady on his legs. The beer was starting to hit him. He shuffled into the kitchen and reappeared with a beer in both hands. He offered one to Eugene, who reluctantly accepted. He dropped back into his chair and said, “Pablo used to talk a lot on his cell phone. He spoke to his wife and son mostly, seldom to his daughter. Limón, his bodyguard, lived here with him, so Pablo didn't call him unless he was out on an errand.” He took a long drink of beer. “He liked talking with Juan Pablo and from what I could judge of the conversation, Juan Pablo liked being the son of a
narco.
He kept Pablo up to date on what the government forces were doing. From what I could tell, Juan Pablo had an inside connection somewhere in Col. Martinez's Search Bloc.”