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more money to Efraim Roa for laundering than I can remember. Roa was the key man in the Cali cartel, and he was more than happy to get some of the Medellín cartel’s business. So I knew how much money was coming in and where it was coming from.”
    â€œSounds like you knew a lot of details about how the cartels operated. You’re lucky to be alive.”
    Fidel grinned and his teeth protruded from beneath thin lips. “I was never a threat. I didn’t dress nice and flash wads of cash around at hip discos. I kept my mouth shut and my nose in the books. Gacha made a ton of money, and I was merely an efficient cog in the wheel.”
    â€œWhat happened when the Colombian government killed Gacha in ’89?” Eugene asked.
    Fidel disappeared into the kitchen for a minute, then returned with two beers. He handed one to Eugene and sat down. “I got out. Gacha was my contact to the cartels. With him gone I was like the guy without a chair when the music stops. I knew your cousin and Carlos Lehder and the Ochoa clan, but it wasn’t the same. I had Gacha’s trust, but that never extended through to the higher levels. If I’d stayed, I would have died.”
    â€œYou left with nothing?” Eugene asked.
    Fidel motioned to the decrepit surroundings. “It’s not so bad, Eugene. I’ve got enough money stashed away to keep me in beer and pot until I die. It’s not the Taj Mahal, but this place is paid for. And I got out with my life. That’s more than a shit load of others.”
    Eugene took a sip of beer, and nodded. “What can you tell me about Mario and Javier Rastano that might help me find Julie and Shiara? Anything at all, Fidel.”
    Fidel grinned. Again, the ugly teeth. “I might be able to help you there, my friend. So long as you forget where you heard this.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThere’s no way the Rastano clan would risk taking hostages back into Colombia. They’re respected businessmen in Medellín, and the last thing they want is problems that could tie them to the cocaine trade.”
    â€œThey’re not still active, are they?” Eugene asked.
    Fidel gave him a disbelieving look. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You think that these guys just closed up shop on a two or three hundred-million-a-year operation? Not a fucking chance. They’re still moving product. None through Bimini though. So what does that tell you?”
    â€œThe pipeline through Panama into El Salvador is still intact?”
    Fidel held his beer up in a mock toast. “You got it.”
    â€œAnd you think my wife and daughter might be in El Salvador?”
    Fidel just shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
    Eugene pursed his lips and gave Fidel a long, hard stare. “I’ve got a question for you, Fidel.”
    â€œAsk away.”
    â€œYou’ve been out of the business for almost seventeen years. How come you know so much about what’s going on?”
    Fidel finished his beer, and found a small space on the messy coffee table to set the empty. He lit a cigarette and breathed in the smoke. “Think about our conversation, Eugene. Everything we just talked about, with the exception of the El Salvador route still being open, is history. Read a book on the cocaine trade in the eighties and you’ll get the same story. Except without the personal touch. So, in fact, I don’t really know what’s going on these days.”
    â€œBut the El Salvador connection. You’re sure it’s still active.”
    â€œPositive.” There was a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m out of the business, but a couple of guys I met while I was involved are still running drugs. One is a boat captain and the other is a port coordinator for the shipments. They stop by on occasion. Isla de Margarita is a wonderful vacation spot, and I make sure they’re well taken care of while they’re here.