Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  Eugene managed a slight smile. “I’m feeling much more confident, sir, with you on board.”

  Crandle returned the smile, then broke into a low chuckle. “Pablo Escobar. Who would have dreamed the man would still be alive? It’s almost incomprehensible.”

  The French doors leading to the great room opened and a man walked onto the deck. He was in his early fifties with a thin horseshoe of hair encircling an otherwise bald head. He wore aviator glasses, which hid his eyes and didn’t suit his narrow face. He kept a neatly trimmed mustache, just touching the top of his upper lip, and sideburns, which he allowed to creep down past the bottom of his earlobes. His clothes were golf casual with slip-on loafers, no socks. He broke into a grin when he saw Cathy and Alexander.

  “Bud,” Cathy said with a wide smile, rising and giving him a handshake and a hug. “My God, it’s really you.”

  “Hi, Bud,” Alexander said, shaking the man’s hand and pulling up an extra chair. “You look great.”

  “Irwin told me I’d recognize a couple of old faces, but I never dreamed it would be you two,” he said, sitting in the proffered seat. “Who are the new guys?”

  Irwin Crandle did the introductions. “Agent Eduardo Garcia, El Paso DEA, and Eugene Escobar, this is Arthur Reid. But no one ever calls him Arthur. I bet he doesn’t even remember that it’s his real name. Call him Bud.” The three men shook hands. Bud Reid poured a glass of lemonade from the pitcher and took a sip.

  “What’s this all about, Irwin, that I have to jet in from Seattle on a moment’s notice?” He looked at Cathy and Alexander. “And what’s with the spooks? We back in the narco business?”

  In 1993, Bud Reid was a key player in the search for Pablo. He coordinated the field operations for both Centra Spike and Delta Force. Only Irwin Crandle, and General William F. Garrison of Joint Special Operations Command, had greater authority over the clandestine movements of American troops on Colombian soil. But it was Bud Reid who made the decisions that continued to bring the men safely home. He was revered for his ability to predict the cartel’s moves, and numerous major busts, including airfields and jungle laboratories, were attributed directly to his cunning. In the world of counter- narco-terrorism, Bud Reid was a legend.

  “We’re back,” Alexander said quietly. “And guess who the target is?”

  Bud Reid shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Pablo Escobar.”

  Reid cocked his head slightly, as though one ear was full of water. A smile began to creep over his face, then disappeared. He reached up and slowly removed his sunglasses. His eyes were those of a man who has seen too much for one lifetime. “You’re not kidding,” he said.

  “No, we’re not kidding,” Cathy said. “It’s starting to look like we missed him.” She and Alexander took turns filling in the ex-special ops coordinator, including the kidnapping, the numbered Swiss account and their progress to date.

  At the end of the quick briefing, Bud turned to Senator Crandle and asked, “How did you learn about this, Irwin?”

  “I still have my fingers in more pies than Little Jack Horner,” the senator said with a grin. “Actually, this one was easy. It isn’t often that high-ranking agents from DEA and CIA book flights to El Paso within a few minutes of each other. It was simple to look back over the reports EPIC filed that morning and see what they’d latched on to.”

  Cathy looked puzzled. “Then you knew about Eugene’s report to Agent Garcia at the same time we did. Why wait almost two days before contacting us?”

  “I figured twenty-four to forty-eight hours and you’d either be back in D.C. or set up in El Paso. When you didn’t buy tickets to return home, I knew you were on to something.”

  “Christ, Irwin, you don’t miss a thing,” Alexander said.

  “It’s Senator now, Alexander,” Crandle said, but there was levity in his voice and Landry knew he was kidding. “But back to the point at hand. It seems we have a problem. If Pablo Escobar is indeed alive, we’re going to look like complete fools on the world stage. Not to mention the fact that this is one very dangerous man.”

  “He must have cooled his jets a bit,” Bud said. “He’s not running around killing people like he used to or we’d know about it.”

  “If he decided to disappear,” Alexander said, pouring lemonade into his glass, “he would disappear. Pablo Escobar was never the type to do anything half-assed. And even though we were tearing his drug empire apart, piece by piece, he still had incredible financial assets at his disposal. From what Eugene saw when Pablo was staying with his cousin Raphael in Medellín, he was planning his disappearance long in advance. He lost weight, started eating healthy and exercising and stayed out of the sun. And he must have had the look-alike who was killed surgically altered months beforehand. He knew what he was doing, all right.”

  “Then let’s look at where he was diverting money just before he died,” Crandle said. “Cathy, look back over any known accounts Escobar was using at the time and see where the money was going. Maybe there’s something out of the ordinary.”

  “Senator, there’s one thing we should discuss,” Cathy Maxwell said. “I think I speak for Alexander when I say we don’t mind Bud Reid coming on board, but this little task force is beginning to grow. And we all know what can happen when you involve too many people.”

  “Ah, yes. The leak we never plugged. Keeping the group small is an excellent idea, Cathy. Agent Garcia and Eugene had no involvement in tracking Pablo in the early ’90s, so that just leaves the four of us. Surely to God it wasn’t one of us who kept Pablo one step ahead of a firing squad.”

  Alexander Landry nodded his approval. “We’ll be fine if we keep it in-house and do our own research. No support staff. We’ve got everything we need at our fingertips at EPIC down in El Paso.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come down to see you in Texas,” Crandle cut in. “But the president is in Kentucky today and I have to meet him in about two hours. I couldn’t possibly have made EPIC and back in the allotted time. I’d like to thank all of you, especially you Eugene, for flying up for this meeting. Now, I still have an hour before I have to dress. Let’s formulate our action plan and delegate the work. Cathy, how do you think we should approach this?”

  “CIA database is a wealth of information, sir. We have ongoing records of many of Escobar’s associates from the time we allegedly killed him until present day. We can go back over those records and…”

  Eugene waited until Cathy had finished talking and then excused himself. He strolled down the path past the lily pond and into the neighboring woodlands. The talk was technical, and specific to the programs on the CIA and DEA computers—and Egyptian hieroglyphics to him. If any questions came up that only he could answer, they could wait and ask him on the flight back to El Paso. He wondered briefly if Crandle still had top-secret clearance to the National Security Agency database; rumor had it that the information stored on NSA’s computers was second to none, worldwide. That would certainly help.

  He had been in the gardens for about half an hour when his phone rang. He answered it on the third ring. “What’s new in San Salvador?” Eugene asked.

  “Nothing. I’m trying to get in shape for the bout tomorrow, but I’m rusty as hell. I’ll be lucky to make it through five rounds.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Eugene said. “Things are really coming together on this end. We’ve got another heavy-hitter interested in helping us find Pablo.” He explained the appearance of Senator Irwin Crandle on the scene. “This guy is connected.”

  “No grass growing under your feet,” Pedro said. “Maybe you guys will actually find Pablo in time. You’ve certainly got one hell of a team put together on short notice.”

  “I’ve been lucky,” Eugene agreed with his friend. They spoke for another minute or two, then terminated the call. Neither man wanted to be overheard and the shorter the calls, the less the risk.

  Eugene branched off the main path into a grove of white pine and mature tulip poplar.
He craned his neck and stared up the towering trunks. At eighty feet the top branches swayed gently in the afternoon heat, and beyond them was luminescent blue sky. It reminded him of the rainforest canopy near Angel Falls where he had spent eight years of his life with the most wonderful woman on the planet. For some reason, thinking of Julie didn’t depress him as it had for the past few days, but gave him strength and optimism. Tomorrow was Saturday and once it rolled past, one week of his time allotment was gone. But he had made monumental strides over the past six days; far more than he could ever have hoped. And now the group of DEA and CIA agents, coupled with Irwin Crandle and Bud Reid, were poised to begin the search in earnest. The resources of the United States’s three premier agencies were at their disposal. If Pablo Escobar was out there, living life on the lam, the net would soon begin to close in.

  Eugene stopped beside a Kentucky coffee tree and ran his hand across its rough bark. The sound of running water crept through the trees, and somewhere in the forest a starling trilled. And for a moment he was home again, in his beloved Angel Falls, with his wife in his arms and his children running through the trees. The virgin forest, thick with ferns and dripping with moisture, closed in on him like a warm blanket. He pulled Julie close to him and kissed her on the lips. She mouthed I love you and returned the kiss. They had lived the simple life, yet wanted for nothing. He was a happy man.

  Then reality returned and he was alone in the Kentucky hills.

  But for the first time in a week he felt invigorated, hopeful even.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pedro closed the phone and smiled. The news from Eugene was good. He didn’t know Senator Irwin Crandle, but someone of that stature had to be a good addition to the team searching for Pablo. He slipped the phone in his jacket pocket and looked around.

  The taxi was just passing San Salvador’s Galerías shopping mall, a flashy monument to the wealth of Colonia Escalón. But it didn’t interest Pedro, and he stared out the other window as they drew deeper and deeper into the most exclusive enclave of the mountainous city. The houses bordering the street were set back, their expansive front lawns decorated with beds of bright orchids and ornamental shrubs. A strip mall, similar to millions of malls in the continental U.S., appeared, tucked between a football field and a school. A fitness center occupied almost half the mall, and the parking lot adjacent to the gym was filled with Mercedeses and other high-end cars. Two women dressed in spandex exited the club, as Pedro paid the driver and grabbed his bag from the rear seat. They both smiled as he passed, and he grinned back. Being noticed by attractive women was one part of his life where he’d never had problems. He entered the club and crossed the tile floor to the reception.

  “Hi. I’m Pedro Parada. I have an appointment in the gym at ten o’clock.”

  She glanced down at her schedule sheet where visitors were listed alphabetically on the right side. His name was on the list. “Could you sign in, Señor Parada?” she asked, indicating a guest book just off to the right. After he had signed, she said, “The gym is toward the back of the facility, but you’ll want to change first. Men’s lockers are around the corner immediately behind me, first door on the left. The locker attendant will find you a locker and supply you with a combination or a key lock. Enjoy your visit.”

  He thanked her and found the locker room. He was given a quick tour, so he’d know how to find the showers and sauna baths after his workout, and then assigned a locker. He tipped the attendant and quickly slipped into his shorts and T-shirt. It was just before ten when he entered the vacant and quiet gym. Pedro had been in a slew of gyms and boxing facilities, but never anything like this. The floor was a regulation-size hardwood basketball court with a temporary boxing ring set up in the center. A moveable rack sat against one wall, covered with skipping ropes, boxing gloves and head protectors. Next to the gear was a freestanding punching pillar with a heavy bar and two smaller punching bags. Although it wasn’t a permanent fixture, the ring was of better quality than Pedro had ever set foot in. The sprung floor was lively, the ropes taut but forgiving. The lighting was excellent; there would be no fooling an opponent by working bad lighting in this ring. He bounced about the ring for a minute, just getting the feel, then hopped off the canvas to the hardwood, picked up one of the skipping ropes hanging on the wall and went to work.

  It had been a couple of years since he laced on the gloves, but he had worked out almost every one of those seven hundred and some-odd days, and kept himself in prime physical condition. His routine was brutal: cardio, weights and agility training that lasted almost two hours. And he took few breaks. Couple that dedication to staying fit with a careful diet, and Pedro Parada was still the deadly machine he had been a few years back as an Olympic hopeful. He just needed a tune-up.

  He was sweating from the rope when a couple of men entered the gym. The wall clock read 10:20. Both men were dressed in street clothes and stayed just inside the door, watching him. From the description Eugene had given him, neither man was Javier Rastano. He finished with the rope and hung it on the wall before selecting a set of gloves from the eclectic collection of bag and sparring gloves. Before donning the gloves, he removed two long tensor bandages with Velcro ends from his bag and wrapped his hands. He put a few turns on his wrist, then covered the knuckles, spread his fingers, loosely wrapped them and then snugly wrapped his thumb. He made a fist and the wrap felt perfect. He affixed the Velcro and slipped on the gloves. When he looked up, there were four more people in the gym, all standing close to the first two men. Again, Rastano did not seem to be present. As he watched the six men watch him, his opponent entered the room.

  The man was dressed in boxing trunks and wore no shirt. His gloves were already in place, which struck Pedro as ridiculous. The man wasn’t sweating so he hadn’t worked out at all before donning the sparring gloves. That meant he had no intention of skipping prior to the bout. To Pedro, that categorized the man as either so far his superior that he didn’t need to warm up, or a complete idiot. He knew he would find out soon enough.

  As the other fighter walked closer, a casually dressed man in his early to mid-thirties walked in and stood just inside the door. He was tall and tanned with long hair almost to his shoulders, slicked back behind his ears. The look suited him. And from the description Eugene had given him, Javier Rastano had just arrived. The six men, who had previously been milling around or just leaning against the walls, came to life. They gathered about Rastano, talking and gesturing. This continued for a minute and then Rastano came forward.

  “I’ve been told you’re not a bad fighter,” he said when he was a few feet from Pedro. “Do you feel up to a sparring match?”

  “Sure,” Pedro said. “Who am I sparring with?”

  Rastano motioned to the other fighter, who had entered the ring and was dancing about, bouncing off the ropes and hammering out a few jabs and truncated undercuts. “His name is Sal. He’s not great, but he’s not bad either. If you’re any good you should be able to beat him.”

  Pedro nodded. “And who exactly are you?” he asked.

  “Javier Rastano.” He glanced at Pedro’s hands, encased in the sparring gloves. “I’d shake your hand, but…”

  Pedro grinned. “After,” he said.

  Rastano returned the grin. “Sure. After. You ready to get going?”

  “Not really. But I don’t think Sal’s had much of a warm- up either, so fair’s fair.”

  “Then let’s go,” Javier said.

  Pedro slid under the ropes, inserted his mouth protector and knocked gloves with Sal. A referee, complete with a striped jersey, entered the ring and had them meet in the middle. “Five rounds, three minutes each, with a one- minute break between each round,” he said. “No low blows, break when I tell you and if I call the fight you stop punching. Does each of you understand these rules?”

  “Fuck, yes,” Sal said, salivating. “Let’s get going.”

  “Sure,” Pedro answered, wondering what the hell he was doi
ng in the ring with this rabid dog.

  They split and went to their corners. A small man in his late fifties was in Pedro’s corner, with towels, water and a stool. His face was creased with wrinkles and he was dressed in faded jeans and a simple T-shirt. “I’m José,” he said as Pedro approached. “Your corner man.”

  Pedro shook his head. “Rich people,” he said. “Best ring I’ve ever fought in, a carded referee and now my own corner man. Where’s the ESPN film crew?”

  José laughed and Pedro knew from the look on his face that they were from the same side of the tracks.

  The bell rang, signaling the start of the fight. Sal waded right in, throwing a few jabs and even a quick left hook. Pedro danced lightly on his feet, staying in a classic basic boxer’s stance, one foot ahead and one back, and easily avoided the first few punches. He traded a couple of punches, but let Sal come to him for most of the first round. Pedro counted the attempts and when the bell rang to end the first round, Sal had thrown forty-one jabs, seven left hooks and twelve straight rights. Of the sixty punches, not one had landed. And Pedro had learned the answer to whether the man was a technically superior boxer or an idiot. He was an idiot.