Accidental Encounters

by George Friesen

  ACCIDENTAL

  ENCOUNTERS

  GEORGE FRIESEN

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 BY GEORGE FRIESEN.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2018904938

  ISBN: HARDCOVER 978-1-9845-2263-4

  SOFTCOVER 978-1-9845-2262-7

  EBOOK 978-1-9845-2264-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

  Rev. date: 05/31/2018

  Xlibris

  1-888-795-4274

  www.Xlibris.com

  777778

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  I. The Road to Hell

  II. The Police Informer

  III. Fugitive from Justice

  IV. Amateur Sleuth

  V. Breaking Point

  VI. Hanging by a Thread

  VII. A Second Chance

  VIII. Unfinished Business

  IX. A Fishing Expedition

  X. Rough Justice

  To Connie

  Hell isn’t merely paved with good intentions; it’s walled and roofed with them. Yes, and furnished too.

  –ALDOUS HUXLEY, The Collected Works (1953)

  All things to be truly wicked must start from an innocence.

  —ERNEST HEMINGWAY, A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition (2010)

  Acknowledgements

  The initial idea for this novel occurred to me during an Aegean Sea cruise with my family. Syrian refugees huddling on the docks in Rhodes, a tramp steamer boarded by the Greek Coast Guard, furtive drug sales on the streets of Istanbul and a slide toward authoritarianism in Turkey stirred my imagination. After my return home, new perspectives were added by my attendance at a lecture on the violent drug scene in Mexico; the indictment by the US Department of Justice of a major European bank for money laundering; a revelation by a friend of his troubled relationship with a brother which was impeding settlement of an inheritance; and the death of a television celebrity from an overdose of drugs. These separate strands began to weave themselves into a story.

  While real events provided the impetus for this novel, it is a work of fiction. The main characters in this novel are products of my imagination and any resemblance to real individuals is coincidental. In my research on the international drug trade, I did not find evidence of an attempt to create a trans-Atlantic alliance of drug gangs. That too is fictional. However, that does not mean such an alliance is impossible or will never be attempted.

  Many individuals have contributed to the successful completion of this novel and not all of them can be listed here. Andrew, Bryan, Jill and Emily have read all or part of this book and made constructive comments but I bear sole responsibility for how their advice was applied. I appreciate the dedicated efforts of the staff at Xlibris, including Fatimah, Cheryl and Shane, in helping me to achieve my goal. Special thanks, of course, go to my wife, Connie, whose encouragement and support for this project has never wavered.

  Introduction

  The Road to Hell

  Chapter One

  Appearances can deceive. A bright sun in a cloudless sky had ushered in a perfect day for a wedding at the cathedral in Morelia. The cream of Mexican society was assembled to witness the marriage of the governor’s niece to the handsome scion of a wealthy businessman. The chords of a wedding march soared joyfully from the massive pipe organ, the largest of its kind in Mexico, as the father of the bride escorted his daughter—dressed in an elegant white dress that accentuated her slender figure and long dark hair—down the aisle to the altar, where the groom was waiting.

  Every detail of the celebration was flawless except for the timing. Right place but wrong time. Ten minutes into the service, the voice of the officiating priest was interrupted by a loud shout.

  “Sit down if you want to live!” The harsh and powerful voice echoed in the vast stillness of the cathedral. Pushing aside the priest and the wedding couple in front of the altar, the masked man aimed his gun at the man in the front pew. The visibly shaken governor of the Mexican state of Michoacán complied hastily.

  “You asked who we are. We are Los Zetas. No one trifles with us. We do not believe in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. For every eye that we lose, we take ten.”

  A collective shudder passed through the wedding guests who, only minutes before, had chatted happily about how the young couple seemed ideally matched for each other.

  “But why?” gasped the totally bewildered governor. He could not understand why a drug cartel whose stronghold was on the Gulf coast should have launched a daring raid on the west coast of the country—and not against a rival gang but against members of high society. This outrage was unprecedented in the drug wars that were devastating parts of Mexico.

  Brandishing his gun for emphasis, the terrorist shouted, “Listen to me! We have seized the cathedral in Morelia to retaliate for the recent kidnapping of a Turkish businessman and the murder of his associate in Veracruz. The criminals—the Knights Templar, who hail from this state—still go unpunished because you are protecting them!”

  He jabbed the index finger of his left hand accusingly at the governor.

  El Verdugo (“The Executioner,” for that was how Heriberto Lazcano was known within his cartel) glanced at the television crew, which had initially gathered outside the cathedral to record the arrival of the state governor and other leading citizens. Now they had been admitted into the cathedral to record a more dramatic event.

  He gazed directly into the television cameras. “We have a message for the Mexican government and the nation. Until Demir Ozmen is released, hostages chosen at random will be shot daily and thrown outside onto the steps of the cathedral. If the federal or state governments attempt to take the cathedral by force, we will use explosives to destroy this building and everyone in it.”

  An incredulous murmur rippled over the congregation.

  “Please, young man, reconsider your action!” The elderly priest, Father Antonio Cardozo, moved cautiously toward the gunman, speaking so softly that it was almost a whisper. “This is the house of God. Do not commit sacrilege. Whatever your quarrel with the governor may be, do not harm this innocent young couple and the people who have come here to celebrate their marriage. In God’s name, let them go!”

  The gang leader bared his teeth and snarled, “Do not provoke me, priest! One more word out of you and you will be the first to die!”

  The sobbing of the bride became uncontrollable. She collapsed into the arms of the bridegroom.

  The gang leader glared at the governor. “We do not want to destroy the happiness of this young couple. If you use your phone to persuade your cronies in the Knights Templar to release the Turk, all of you will be free.”

  The ashen-faced governor whispered, “I will do what I can.” But he did not feel confident. Being called the protector of the Knights Templar was wildly inaccurate. At worst, he had ignored their criminal activities because he was power
less to break their organization. Where was this madman getting his information? Yet he had to do something. He was friendly with some local businessmen who were alleged to have contacts in the Knights Templar organization, but would these indirect contacts suffice? He turned toward the weeping bride, his eyes begging for forgiveness.

  Lazcano’s eyes swept over the elaborate baroque and neoclassical interior of the cathedral, including the sculpture of Christ. He was not overawed by his surroundings. Religion had never been a part of his life, even as a boy. He had no religious scruples. For him, all power flowed from the barrel of a gun. He spat into the chalice on the altar and placed his weapon next to it, smiling with satisfaction as he heard the shocked exclamations of the wedding guests.

  Despite the potential risks, he and his men had managed to seize the cathedral without firing a shot or incurring casualties. Because the bride was the niece of the governor of the state of Michoacán, it had been widely reported in the media that he, accompanied by senior government officials, would be attending. The governor had presented an irresistible target. The curious spectators and well-wishers had been oblivious to a dozen young men—grim, tense, and armed—who blended into the crowd.

  Suddenly, Lazcano stiffened. He heard the plaintive cry of a child. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement in the shadows. One of the hostages was disobeying his order to remain seated. He saw the priest holding a young girl by the hand, advancing toward him. He reached for his gun.

  Father Cardozo knew that it would be dangerous to ignore this hothead’s commands, but even in a crisis, children had to go to the toilet. The child’s mother had appealed to him. Surely, the gunman would be reasonable. He saw the gunman pick up the weapon that he had placed on the altar.

  “Stop where you are!” shouted Lazcano. “Look, priest. I have warned you before. Do I have to put a bullet in your head to make my point?” He fired over the heads of the wedding guests, the bullet embedding itself in the rear wall of the cathedral. The sound of the shot reverberated.

  Shrieking with terror and holding her hands over her ears, the girl ran back to her mother. The priest did not move. “Please. This girl needs to go to the toilet.”

  “She can wait.”

  “Only if you expect this crisis to be over in the next hour. If God is willing, it can happen. But perhaps we should plan for a longer duration.” The priest spoke firmly. In his experience, miracles were rare, even if one prayed long and hard.

  Lazcano considered the request. Under his most optimistic assumptions, the crisis would be over in hours. He shouted to the governor, who had been on his phone continuously for the last hour. “How much longer will this take?”

  The governor called back, “The head of the state security administration is calling everyone who might know about the kidnapped Turk. This could take a long time.”

  Lazcano looked at the priest and then at the wedding guests huddled near the front of the cathedral. Hundreds of them. What if the hostage crisis dragged on for one day, even two? His plans to seize the cathedral had not taken into account the mundane details of how to care for the hostages. Grudgingly, he conceded the priest’s request that hostages in groups of four would be permitted to use the toilets under escort. Five minutes, no more.

  As the hours crawled by, the hostages coped as best they could—by sleeping, engaging in whispered conversations, and keeping their heads down. None of them wanted to be the first hostage selected at random to be shot if the crisis dragged on.

  Except for one. Fernando Velasquez was willing to risk his life in attempting to escape. He was troubled by thoughts of his very sick wife and the two small children who would totally depend on him if she died. He also needed to get back to Mexico City to protect his job as general counsel at Europa Bank. Earlier in the week, the branch manager and he had met with an American lawyer, David Bigelow, who had been hired by the US Department of Justice to investigate serious lapses in anti–money laundering practices at the bank. He knew that the branch manager would be looking for a scapegoat, and he feared that it would be him.

  As the late afternoon light inside the cathedral began to fade, the priest noticed that the tall businessman, with whom he had exchanged a few words, had not returned from his toilet break.

  Lazcano had also noticed the absence of Velasquez. He beckoned one of his lieutenants who, after a brief consultation, walked quickly in the direction of the toilets. Moments later, there was a flurry of activity. Guards who had previously stayed in the background now paced up and down the aisles, their guns ready to fire. Other guards began to inspect the nave for the missing hostage, then widened their search to the towers and the crypt below the nave.

  The missing hostage was found hiding in a closet behind the vestments of the cathedral choir. Two husky guards dumped Velasquez at the feet of Lazcano. Blood flowed from his nose and from gashes on his forehead. His suit coat was ripped and soiled. His eyes were closed, and his mouth gaped open.

  Lazcano turned toward the hostages, who watched wide-eyed with fear. “We have treated you leniently, and this is our reward. Now let this be a lesson to you. Anyone who tries to escape will be shot like a dog.” He pointed his gun at Velasquez.

  “Wait!” pleaded the priest as he moved toward Lazcano. “I beg you to have mercy. This man tried to escape because he loved his family.”

  “The time for mercy is past.”

  “In God’s name, no quarrel is worth the life of this man. Take my life and spare his. I am an old man nearing the end of my life. He still has reason to live.”

  Lazcano sneered at the priest, “So you want to be a martyr?” Turning to his guards, he ordered, “Take this meddlesome priest away. I will deal with him tomorrow.”

  He pointed his gun once more at the head of Velasquez and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Two

  Dave Bigelow was unaware of the hostage crisis until he strode into the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Mexico City. He had been tied up with meetings at Europa Bank all afternoon, investigating breaches of US anti–money laundering laws. The lobby would normally have been filled with guests or visitors sitting at tables and enjoying afternoon tea or cocktails in the hushed grandeur of its lobby. He looked in the direction of the concierge desk. He needed a reservation at an authentic Mexican restaurant tonight, but no one was there. Instead a crowd had gathered in a corner of the lobby in front of a flat-screen television.

  He did not need to wait long. The concierge returned to her desk, apologizing for her absence. There had been a horrifying development—the seizure of the cathedral in Morelia by a terrorist gang—that had caught the attention of guests and staff alike. Many lives were at risk. The terrorists wanted the release of a Turk kidnapped by a drug gang. She shook her head as if mystified by this madness.

  Within minutes, she had come up with a recommendation—a restaurant not far from the hotel, which was very popular with locals and tourists alike. She would call to make the reservation for five people at seven o’clock. She wrote the address on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  A wave of gasps from the crowd assembled in front of the television rolled across the lobby. Dave walked over to see what was happening. The doors of the cathedral had opened. Two hooded men appeared, brandishing guns, and were followed by gang members carrying the body of a tall man dressed in a business suit, whom they dumped onto the front steps of the cathedral.

  The hostage crisis had claimed its first victim, but Dave felt emotionally detached from what he was seeing on the screen. Terrorist violence was common fare on television and the internet. He had also witnessed the collapse of the twin towers from his office in downtown Manhattan on that fateful September 11. Nothing could compare to that horror. He returned to the concierge’s desk and asked if she would please confirm his flight back to New York the next morning.

  As he walked toward the hotel elevators, he automat
ically checked his emails. Still no response from his brother. Whatever Bob was up to, he could surely take a few seconds to reply to his query. That would be simple courtesy. But then Dave brushed away the mild irritation that he felt. Why should he expect more from his ungrateful brother?

  Before he could get on the elevator, an outcry from the crowd in front of the television set rekindled his curiosity. He retraced his steps.

  A woman standing next to him spoke to him in English. “The victim has been identified. He is Fernando Velasquez, an executive at Europa Bank.”

  Dave was shocked. He stammered, “You-you mean the general counsel at Europa Bank?” He had met with the man only two days ago.

  Chapter Three

  At midday, Bob Bigelow, sitting in his room at the W Hotel in Mexico City, was flicking through the channels on his television set to relieve his boredom. He stopped at Channel Five. He was fluent enough in Spanish to understand what was being reported—the anxious faces of relatives and spectators gathered in the plaza in front of the cathedral in Morelia and the strutting masked spokesman for the terrorists who demanded the release of a Demir Ozmen in return for the safety of the hostages.

  He pursed his lips in surprise. Had he heard the name “Demir Ozmen” correctly? What in the hell was going on? He listened intently. Again he heard the name: Demir Ozmen. The man whom he had come to Mexico City to ransom was now the cause of a mass hostage-taking in Morelia? He could not believe his ears. He eased back in his chair and muted the television. What had he gotten himself into?

  He waited tensely for the call, which had not come as expected precisely at twelve noon. As the minutes slipped by, he checked his emails for new messages, once again ignoring the query from his brother Dave. Was Dave right in thinking that he had seen him near the entrance to Europa Bank on the Paseo de la Reforma in Mexico City on Wednesday? He had just arrived from the airport and could have sworn that he had seen Bob exiting the bank. Responding to that question would only raise more awkward questions, for which he had no time. He had enough troubles to deal with.