by Jeff Buick
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.
Chapter Six
Eugene watched the outline of Isla de Margarita disappear into the afternoon mist rising off the Caribbean until it became a fuzzy haze on the distant horizon. Everything was out of focus: his island, his life, his wife and daughter. What had happened? He felt the bile rising as the plane touched down on the Venezuelan mainland. Caracas airport, dull, gray and ugly between the coastline and the slum-covered hills to the west. One question weighed on his mind: Would his friend help him find Julie and Shiara? Only a face-to-face meeting would give him the answer.
He deplaned at Maiquetía, the domestic terminal, and was saved from the madness of Simón Bolívar terminal, which serviced international air traffic in and out of Caracas. A queue of taxis waited at the curb and he checked three sets of ID before settling on a driver. Taking the wrong cab from the airport was akin to wearing a “Please Rob and Beat Me Senseless” sign on your back.
The cab entered the city of five million and moved with the frenzied flow of traffic, much like the men of Pamplona with the bulls at their heels. The once sleepy town of Santiago de León de Caracas, its red-tiled roofs glinting in the equatorial sun, was long gone. The discovery of rich oil reserves in Venezuela brought unprecedented growth to the city as workers flooded in from the rural areas; slums and wealthy enclaves sprang up along the strip of habitable land between the ocean and the mountains. The ranchitos were nothing more than hovels that provided some protection from the elements, and no protection from the high levels of crime and violence. But people kept coming, and Caracas kept growing. Now the city spread like a cancer over the steep hills, the roads slicing across the sharp ridges and the houses multiplying and filling every gorge and canyon. Eugene directed the driver to an industrial section of town where even the ranchitos refused to take root.
The tile factory was a dreary building in a cluster of similar windowless concrete buildings. Nothing grew here without a monumental struggle against the pollution and the onslaught of poorly finished cement. Trucks and factories belched dark, sooty smoke into the air and Eugene’s nostrils and eyes stung from the acrid smog. He considered rolling up the windows, but the taxi lacked air-conditioning and the heat would be unbearable in less than a minute. The cab came to rest in front of a nondescript set of doors with a small sign hanging askew above the upper jamb. Stenciled onto the weather beaten wood was Cerámico Cuidad. City Ceramic. Eugene slipped two twenty U.S. dollars from his pocket and ripped them in half. He handed one half from each bill to the driver and re-pocketed the other two halves.
“Wait for me,” he said, turning and heading for the entrance.
“Sí, señor,” the driver said, clutching the two twenties. Forty dollars for this fare was excellent pay. He would wait however long his client was in the building.
Inside, Eugene found himself in an administrative bullpen with numerous employees, mostly younger women, at their desks, filling out forms or talking on the phone. One of the women at a desk off to one side, attractive with long hair and piercing brown eyes, glanced up and smiled.
“Can I help you?”
He weaved through a couple of desks to where she sat. “Yes, please. I’d like to speak with Pedro Parada.”
Again, the smile. “Sure. I think he’s on the floor. You want to follow me?”
“Thanks.” Eugene fell in behind the woman as she moved through the tangle of desks to a door against the back wall. A wall of sound hit them as she opened the door and entered the shop area. It was a cavernous room, perhaps two hundred square feet with a thirty-foot ceiling, and filled with machinery and conveyors for forming and packaging ceramic tiles. The antiquated equipment was labor intensive, and workers were plentiful, watching the machines, adding oil and adjusting relief valves to keep the internal pressure constant. One corner of the room, where the tiles were formed and kiln dried, produced enough heat to keep the entire room sweltering. The woman rounded a large conveyor that bound the finished tiles in cardboard and rolled them down to waiting pallets. She pointed to a group of men working on one of the machines.
“Pedro is the crew leader for maintenance,” she said. “They’re working on one of the hydraulic units.”
Eugene nodded and smiled. “Thank you.” He walked the last few yards to the group of men and waited until one of the four noticed his presence. He pointed to Pedro, who had his head down and was tightening a new hydraulic line with a wrench. The man tapped Pedro on the leg and he looked up. A broad grin spread across his face as he recognized Eugene. He dropped the wrench and stuck out a greasy hand.
“Hello, Pedro,” Eugene said, ignoring the grease and accepting his friend’s hand. Both men had strong grips.
Pedro motioned to his crew to finish the repair and steered Eugene toward the coffee room where they could escape the noise and pollution of the main factory. “What brings you to the mainland?” Pedro asked, fixing two coffees and sitting with Eugene at a corner table. The room was about half full of workers on their break and many voices vied to be heard over the din. “You finally tire of living the good life on Margarita?”
Eugene knew Pedro too well to dance about. “I’m in trouble, Pedro. I need your help.”
Pedro’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward on his elbows, closing the distance between the two men to keep their conversation private. “What’s wrong, Eugene?”
“Julie and Shiara have been kidnapped.”
Pedro’s face remained impassive for a few moments, and then a tiny vein appeared in his forehead and his lips turned slightly down. The friendly face had turned nasty, almost vicious. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced with steely resolve. “How did it happen?” His voice was ice.
“Javier Rastano and some of his goons took them. He’s a drug dealer from Medellín. Sort of a continuation of what Pablo was into a few years ago.” Eugene explained the visit from Rastano to his house on Margarita and finished with the small plastic container with two severed fingers. Pedro was silent for a minute, then he nodded.
