by Jeff Buick
Chapter Fifteen
Julie Escobar slowly turned up the volume on the television. It helped cover the sounds of her scraping metal against metal. A slight noise at the door caused both her and Shiara to jerk around and stare at the door handle. It didn’t move and Julie returned to the task at hand.
“We’ll never get it to fit the screw head,” her daughter said quietly. “It’s too thick.”
“It’ll fit,” Julie said, taking a moment from rubbing the two pieces of metal together to stroke her daughter’s hair. “And when we get it to fit, we’ll find a way out of here.”
The basement room in which they were imprisoned was well designed, most likely for exactly its current use. It had no windows and only one door, which was constructed of steel. The interior walls were cinder block covered with drywall, the exterior was solid concrete. There were no telephone jacks or cable connections, just a DVD hooked up to the solitary television. A convection microwave substituted for a stove, and although there was a fully stocked fridge, not one container was glass and all utensils were plastic. The mirrors were stainless steel. But even with such foresight, their prison still had one weakness: the heating and air-conditioning system.
To supply the five-room suite with enough fresh oxygen, and to keep that air at the correct temperature, required a larger than normal duct. That duct was positioned about six inches from the ceiling in the main room, and covered by a heavy metal screen. The opening was less than two feet across and eighteen inches high. It was too small for a man to navigate, but just big enough for a small woman, or a fifteen year-old girl. The grate covering the duct was tightly affixed by eight heavy screws, and fashioning a tool to twist those screws out of their housings was what Julie Escobar was working on. Her screwdriver was a metal clip off the back of the fridge and she was using the rough, rear edge of the DVD player to shape the end of the clip to fit the screw heads. It was slow going, but after four days, it was close to becoming usable.
“What’s going to happen to us, Mom?” Shiara asked. “Why are we here?” It wasn’t the first time she’d asked the questions.
Julie set the clip on the carpet and pulled her daughter close. Involuntarily, her hand went to her daughter’s bandage and lightly touched it. Both women’s hands were healing now that the doctor had visited and left them salve and clean bandages. “Whatever it is your father is doing for these thugs, he’ll be successful. He won’t fail us, Shiara. He never has, and he won’t start now.”
“I want to believe that, Mom, but we’re completely at their mercy. And we’re a long way from home. We flew on that plane for hours. How will Dad ever find us?”
“Have faith, Shiara. And don’t forget we’ve got a shot at freeing ourselves.” She tilted her head slightly toward the air-conditioning duct. “That has to go somewhere.”
“Yeah. To an air-conditioner.”
“Every cooling and heating system needs fresh air, Shiara. There’s a vent to the outside somewhere along the line. We’ll find it.”
“I’m so scared.” She grabbed Julie and held her tight. “I don’t want to die, Mom.” Tears flowed and Julie dabbed at them with a tissue.
“Have faith in your father, Shiara,” she said softly. “He’s a resourceful man.” She didn’t tell her daughter that her father could also be more dangerous than a cornered wolverine. Could be something to do with the Escobar blood that ran through his veins.
Chapter Sixteen
They occupied a room especially designed for research by a small team. Six computers sat on the polished oak desks, all tied into EPIC’s mainframe, and capable of accessing restricted databases at Langley and ten other agencies. All six had dedicated ADSL lines and color laser printers and scanners. To highlight the urgency of the situation, they set up a calendar on Landry’s desk and X’d off each day with a red pencil. A large whiteboard covered one wall, a twelve-by-twelve cork board another wall, and the final two walls were home to hundreds of research books and catalogs. Every subject, from serial killers to the chemical composition of illicit drugs, was there for the asking. A few of the texts, those concerning the Medellín and Cali drug cartels, were spread over the central table, but most of the research data was coming from DEA and CIA databases.
Cathy Maxwell was working the case files from 1981 to 1993, both DEA and CIA, while Alexander Landry pieced together where Pablo Escobar’s immediate, and not so immediate, family were living. Eugene was working with Landry, identifying the huge assortment of uncles, aunts, cousins and so on, while Eduardo Garcia was the gofer. He was enjoying the role, which gave him the opportunity to rub shoulders with the brass from two of the country’s premier spy agencies.
After a few hours, Eugene and Alexander Landry had split the family into two distinct divisions on the white board. On the left side were the relatives who had shown disdain for Pablo’s career choice. On the right side was a much smaller collection of names: those who found the money and power that emanated from Pablo too much to resist. Pablo’s immediate family—his wife, Maria Victoria; his son, Juan Pablo; and his daughter, Manuela—were all on the right, as was his brother Roberto. His sister, Luz Maria, and another brother, Argemiro, were firmly planted on the left.
“Argemiro and my father would have nothing to do with Pablo’s lifestyle. When he called and asked us to visit him at Nápoles, you didn’t refuse. But my father hated the violence. So did Argemiro. In fact, Argemiro and Luz Maria fled Colombia to Costa Rica. But the Colombian government found them and complained to the Costa Rican government, and had them deported. The government thought immediate family would provide good leverage for bringing Pablo out of hiding. They liked to keep us close by.”
“But your family lived in Venezuela,” Landry pointed out.
“My mother was a Venezuelan citizen, so they couldn’t deport us. My parents were much happier in Venezuela than in Colombia. We were almost totally removed from the narco violence.”
“Okay,” Landry said to Eduardo Garcia, looking over the eleven different names on the right side of the whiteboard. “I want telephone logs from everyone who supported Pablo’s drug business. Land lines, cell phones, the whole enchilada. I want to know who called them, when and how long they stayed on the phone. I’m really interested in any calls coming in from South or Central America.”
“Yes, sir,” Garcia said, pleased to have a specific task assigned to him. “It’s going to take a day or two at least. Each person is going to have a different telephone provider.”
“Get it done as quickly as you can,” Landry replied.
“If Pablo is alive, do you think he’d risk talking to his family?” Eugene asked Landry.
Landry shrugged. “Maybe. I think Juan Pablo is the most obvious. When Pablo was on the run in the early ’90s, he found ways to speak with Juan Pablo despite our efforts to pinpoint him. He drove Centra Spike crazy with his technology. Whatever money could buy, Pablo had it. And even though the Centra Spike guys had the newest gear from the U.S. military, they still couldn’t catch him. So if he took the risk of talking with Juan Pablo back when he knew we were listening, he could well be talking with his son now.”
“The risk is probably greater now,” Cathy Maxwell interjected. “Back then we knew he was alive. Until two days ago, we thought he was dead. He’s got a lot more to lose now that he’s living a secret life somewhere.”
Landry gave her an inquisitive look. “You sound convinced he’s alive.”
Maxwell’s face flushed. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Landry chewed on the end of his pen for a minute, then said, “Why don’t we look closely at Pablo’s supporters at the time he was supposedly killed. Who was still on good terms with him?”
Cathy shook her head and her hair whipped about her shoulders. “I can hardly think of one person of any importance who wanted Pablo alive. The Ochoa brothers were his partners until the bitter end, but I think they stayed with him out of fear rather than loyalty.”
“You’r
e kidding,” Eugene said. “Are you talking about Jorge, Fabio and Juan David?”
“Yes, the Ochoa brothers. That surprises you?”
“That the Ochoa family was scared of Pablo, yes. Christ, they were billionaires and all three of them were equally as ruthless as my cousin.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Landry said, leaning on the central table. “Nobody, not even The Mexican was in the same league with Pablo when it came to terrorizing people. I don’t think there was a soul on the planet who didn’t take Escobar seriously. One word from him and you were a dead man. No exceptions, no exclusions. He liked killing people, Eugene. Do you know what his favorite way was of disposing with those he disliked?”
“Can’t say I do,” Eugene replied, not really wanting to know.
“He liked to hang them upside down and set them on fire.”
The room was silent. Then Cathy said, “Suffice it to say he was, or is, a heartless creature. If he’s alive, we need to find him and kill him.”
Eugene’s face suddenly flushed. He said, “That’s why you don’t want to pull in any more agents. You don’t want your hands tied when you finally track him down. You want to dole out your own justice on the spot.”
Maxwell looked like she was going to erupt. “He’s not getting away again, Eugene.”
Eugene held his hands up. “Okay. But let’s not forget what the objective is here. We need that ten-digit code. Without it, or Pablo alive and kicking, my wife and daughter are dead.”
“It’s a big world out there, and he could be anywhere. You need us to find him. And when we do, we’ll get your ten-digit code. But after that, I suggest you turn your back or leave the room.”
Eugene, Eduardo and Alexander stared at the woman. Her veneer of civility was gone. Her hands were clenched in tight fists, the single sheet of paper she held was crushed beyond smoothing. Slowly, she relaxed and set the crumpled ball on the desk next to the printer. Then she calmly maneuvered the mouse to the print button and reprinted the page.
“I may want him dead, Eugene,” she said, her voice smooth and steady. “But there is another reason why Alexander and I want this operation to stay completely covert. During the time we were tracking your cousin through Medellín and across the Colombian countryside, we had a leak. Someone inside one of our organizations was dirty. They were feeding Escobar information that allowed him to stay ahead of us. And I’m not willing to have that happen again. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”
“I understand,” Eugene said, glad for the explanation.
Landry brought the conversation back on topic. “While Agent Garcia looks over the phone logs, I’ll be checking with Customs and Immigration to see which of Pablo’s relatives have been using their passports in the past few years. But that only gives us the international flights.”
“Check their frequent flyer miles,” Cathy Maxwell said. “They may have used frequent flyer miles from their credit card or one of the airlines to take a domestic flight.”
“Excellent idea,” Landry said, making a note in his book. He swiveled around in his chair and directed his next question at Eugene. “Have you heard from your friend in San Salvador? The one trying to track down your wife and daughter.”
Eugene had given this a fair amount of thought and knew exactly how to answer. Pedro was his ace in the hole, and he wasn’t about to hand over control of his inside man to the task force. He could sense by now that it was in Maxwell and Landry’s nature to take charge of situations, and that wasn’t going to happen with Pedro. “No, I haven’t,” he replied evenly. “I thought he might have called by now, but we agreed that if there was nothing to talk about, we wouldn’t call.”
“You should try calling him,” Landry said. “You never know.”
Eugene shook his head. “No. He may be in a compromised situation, and a phone call could raise suspicions. I’ll just wait for him.”
“Okay,” Landry said, irritated at Eugene’s firm stance. “Whatever you say.”
A knock on the door interrupted them, and one of the junior agents stuck her head in. She held a page off a memo pad in her hand.
“Mr. Landry, this gentleman called for you a few minutes ago. I thought you’d like to know.”
Alexander Landry took the paper, thanked the woman, and glanced at the name. His lips turned down, and frown lines appeared on his forehead. He swallowed and said, “It appears our little group just got bigger.” He handed the paper to Cathy Maxwell. She looked at the name and shook her head.
“What’s wrong?” Eugene asked.
“It’s a summons from one of our old colleagues. He wants us to fly up to Kentucky and meet with him concerning our sudden interest in Pablo Escobar.”
“You don’t like him for some reason?” Eugene asked.
“He’s just not someone you trifle with,” Alexander said. “We’ve just lost control of our investigation.”
He handed the scrap of paper across to Eugene. On it were three words and a telephone number.
Senator Irwin Crandle.
Chapter Seventeen
Irwin Crandle, Republican representative to the U.S. Senate for the State of Kentucky, was a king-maker of the highest echelon. Although his state represented only eight electoral votes, the president, when asked to name his most cherished supporter, always included Irwin Crandle on the short list. His influence in D.C. was legendary, and those who crossed him were political roadkill in a very short time. Mess with Crandle and you better start contemplating retirement.
His tenure in the international arm of the National Security Agency during the tumultuous years when the Colombian cartels were pumping cocaine into the U.S. at an unprecedented rate gave him firm footing in the espionage community. His NSA posting in Bogotá stuck him squarely in the middle of the action. And since Centra Spike was run jointly between the NSA and Delta, Crandle had his fingers in both the military and political pies. That coveted position gave him free rein as to methods in the clandestine fight against the narcos, and he yielded that power with malice. Some observers commented that they were glad Crandle was American, not Colombian, or he would have been their fiercest foe. Crandle didn’t fight the war to eradicate drugs, he fought it to look good and get promoted.
He took the same approach to politics as he did the Colombian assignment. He used his connections in Delta and NSA to dig up dirt on his opponents. And once he had it, he didn’t just sit on it. He used the dirt to pummel opponents into submission. His tenacious behavior allowed him to achieve a position of immense power in D.C. Show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser, was his unofficial motto.
Irwin Crandle was well known to both Cathy Maxwell and Alexander Landry, and they recognized him the moment they stepped through the French doors and onto the paving-stone patio behind the senator’s stately mansion on the outskirts of Frankfort, Kentucky. He was now in his early sixties, well tanned with silver hair and a fashionable matching goatee. At five-ten and one-seventy he was not a physically intimidating man, but his intensity more than made up for his average physique. His teeth were too perfect, and screamed caps. He stretched his hand out, and a large diamond set in eighteen-carat gold glittered in the afternoon sunlight.
“Hello, Cathy,” he said, wincing slightly from the strength of her grip. “How’s the family?”
“Fine, Senator,” she replied. “And yours?”
“Very well, thank you.” He withdrew his hand and turned to Alexander Landry. “Alexander, it’s been a few years.” Again, the hand and the smile.
“Six years, Senator. The last time was at The Willard Inter-Continental in Washington. You were the keynote speaker at an anti-drugs convention.”
“You’ve done well at the DEA, Alexander,” he said warmly. “And you with the agency,” he added, glancing back at Cathy Maxwell. “Look at us, a handful of jungle- rats who tracked narcos fifteen years ago. Who would have thought we’d all do so well?”
Landry motioned to the remaining two men.
“Senator Crandle, this is Agent Eduardo Garcia from the El Paso office, and Eugene Escobar, Pablo’s cousin.”
Crandle shook Garcia’s hand first, then grasped Eugene’s. “My thoughts are with you at this difficult time, Eugene,” he said, steering his guest to a set of patio furniture beside a large pond covered with water lilies. A plate of cheese and crackers and a large pitcher of lemonade sat on the wrought-iron table. It was a practiced habit of Crandle’s to always use given names when first meeting someone. “I understand your wife and daughter have been kidnapped.”
“Yes, sir.”
The politician’s face took on a look of grave concern. He spoke directly to Eugene when the group of five was seated. “This is a serious situation, Eugene. Cathy called me from the jet while you were en route from El Paso and brought me up to speed. I understand you’re reluctant to reveal exactly who has your family.”
“They were specific, sir. Mention their names and my wife and daughter die.”
Crandle pursed his lips and remained thoughtful. “It would help to know, but we can work around it. But if you ever feel it’s time to let us know, we’ll use the information however we can to help our investigation.” He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Eugene, we’ve been here before, Alexander and Cathy and I. These are not uncharted waters. We worked under the most arduous conditions during our time in Colombia, and we got results. And we’ll get results again. I promise you.”
Eugene swallowed and nodded. Sitting in the research room in El Paso, he had been overwhelmed by the response to his predicament, but this was on another scale altogether. During the flight from Texas on Crandle’s personal Learjet, Alexander Landry had taken the time to enlighten him on just how powerful the Kentucky senator was. He had direct access to the President of the United States, could empower the considerable resources of the NSA with a single phone call, and was a wealthy man, with access to millions of dollars. His personal fortune was a direct result of his time in Colombia, chasing Pablo Escobar. While jointly running Centra Spike he had employed every form of electronic tracking device in existence, most of them not yet on the open market. When Escobar died, Crandle’s job was done and he had returned home to the United States. But he brought with him an arsenal of knowledge of surveillance hardware and software. Crandle created a public company, floated an IPO on the New York Stock Exchange, raised one hundred and forty million dollars, and never looked back. He provided state-of-the-art surveillance equipment to America’s largest and most paranoid corporations. He charged a fortune for his expertise and the companies paid gladly. When he moved into the political ring, he was barely challenged in his run for the senate. For whatever reasons, his competition melted away at just the right times, and Crandle slid into his seat in Congress unopposed. And now, this well-connected and powerful man sat across the table, assuring Eugene that they would get results.
