Accidental Encounters

by George Friesen

  Two guards entered the room and silently placed the prisoners’ food by the door before leaving. Once more, the door was locked. Ozmen breathed a sigh of relief. A simple lunch of tacos and beer was better than nothing, which would be a sign their captors had decided to kill them.

  The three men bolted down their food and drank their beer without conversation until Ozmen sensed that someone was staring at him. Self-consciously, he brushed away a fleck of food at the corner of his mouth and looked up. But he was mistaken in thinking that Dave was about to comment on his eating manners.

  “Demir,” he said with a smile, “while you were sleeping, I was thinking that the president of your company—what’s his name again?”

  “Omer Tilki.”

  “Thank you. Omer Tilki must have a very high opinion of you if he is willing to pay a ransom of five million dollars for your release.”

  Ozmen’s lips twitched in a slight smile as if he was too modest to acknowledge the compliment. The reality was so different. On his first day of captivity, when his kidnappers had insisted that he call his boss in Istanbul to relay their demands using his own phone, Tilki’s response to his plea had been chilling. You are not worth that much! This was after Ozmen had explained to him the consequences of a failure to deliver the ransom. They will cut off my head! If Tilki had decided to pay the ransom, it was for reasons other than loyalty to him. He was certain of that.

  Dave did not dwell on the ransom, which he had used only to lead to a different objective. Ozmen was not prepared for Dave’s question when it came.

  “Do you know someone named Hayat Yilmaz?”

  Ozmen’s eyes narrowed as he held his breath, struggling to remain calm. Even in this Mexican hellhole, he could not escape. He managed to keep his voice steady when he replied, “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I met her recently through a mutual friend when my family and I were on a cruise in the Aegean Sea. She showed us around Istanbul, including the Grand Bazaar, which is not that far from where your company is headquartered.”

  “Istanbul, as you must know, is a very large city with millions of people. Most people remain strangers without ever meeting each other.” There was a touch of condescension in Ozmen’s voice.

  Dave protested, “But she was quite prominent—a university professor who appeared frequently on television during the Taksim Gezi Park demonstrations.”

  “I may have seen her on television a few times, but I cannot recall what she looks like.” Ozmen’s face remained impassive, not betraying his inner turmoil.

  Dave knew he was lying. The man had something to hide. He thought quickly about what he should do next—confront Ozmen with his former betrothal to Hayat Yilmaz? But if this man was the person who had attacked Hayat, he was potentially dangerous and could turn violent if pressed too hard. Could he rely on Bob, who was listening curiously, to come to his defense? He decided to test his brother’s loyalty.

  “My question was not as naive as it might seem, Demir. I visited her parents’ home recently when I returned to Istanbul on business. They showed me a photo of her and a young man to whom she was betrothed twenty years ago. The man looked very much like you.”

  “Perhaps he was my doppelgänger.” Ozmen shrugged derisively.

  “If he was your doppelgänger, why would he also go by the name of Demir Ozmen?”

  “Ozmen is a common name in Turkey. It seems to me to be a remarkable case of coincidence, nothing more. Why are you so interested in this woman who is only a casual acquaintance, if I may ask?”

  “She was badly beaten on the last night of my family’s vacation in Istanbul. I was questioned by the police, who are looking for clues.”

  “Well, I am sorry. I cannot help you there.”

  Dave decided to switch to a different subject. “Hayat mentioned that she has a cousin, Husayin Yilmaz, who is captain of a Golden Horn Shipping vessel owned by your company. Ever come across him?”

  Ozmen answered without hesitation. “Ottoman Trading Company is very large, and shipping is a relatively small part of its operations. I am vaguely familiar with the name Golden Horn Shipping but have no direct knowledge of its activities or this captain Yilmaz.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to say Why are you bothering me with these silly questions?

  “Pardon my ignorance, but what is your current position in the company?” asked Dave.

  “I am the vice president for special operations, which means that I am responsible for opening up new markets, such as Mexico, or developing lines of business outside of our traditional areas of banking, real estate development, and trading in chemicals, automotive parts, footwear, and commodities. If you will excuse me, I would like to get some sleep.”

  Ozmen lolled back on the cot and rolled over to face the wall. His message was clear. He would ignore any further questions.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Father Cardozo kneeled in the sacristy of the cathedral in Morelia. He was praying for the quick release of the kidnapped Turk and the peaceful resolution of the hostage crisis. He had no access to a television or radio or computer but suspected that, by now, the cathedral would be surrounded by police, armored vehicles, and military personnel. With the governor of the state among the hostages, the federal government would be responsible for a resolution of the crisis.

  There would be a breaking point. If the terrorists proceeded with their plan to execute a hostage each day, the pressure on the Mexican president to act would be overwhelming. What then? The outcome of a military assault on the cathedral could not be in doubt, but the cost in innocent lives and the destruction of the church building he loved horrified him.

  The priest was grateful that he had been allowed to spend the night here, in the company of church vestments and the archdiocese records, familiar objects that gave him comfort. He had done what he could to save the businessman’s life, and the rest was in God’s hands. He rose from his kneeling position and sat down at his desk, his head bowed in reflection and remorse.

  Was he the one who was responsible for the breakdown in security? The cathedral should have been cleared of tourists—of anyone who did not have an invitation to the wedding—an hour before the service began. Anyone attending the wedding had to enter through the front doors. So how had these terrorists managed to elude detection by the security guards?

  The plazas surrounding the Cathedral of the Divine Savior had buzzed with activity this Friday morning. Businessmen, shoppers, tourists, and government officials entering or leaving the State Palace immediately in front of the cathedral had filled the historic center of this old colonial city with the sounds of life. As noon approached, wedding guests had congregated at the front entrance to the pink-stoned cathedral as they waited for the arrival of the bride and bridegroom. Strolling musicians especially hired for the event entertained them while vendors hawked flowers and flasks of champagne.

  He should have been in his office by eleven o’clock, preparing for the wedding ceremony, but he had been running late. He had been visiting a travel agency across the plaza to plan a trip to Italy and Spain upon his retirement in six months. Loaded down with travel books and pamphlets, he had pushed his way through the crowded plaza to a side door of the cathedral, to which he had a key. It was only a short distance from the side door to the sacristy, where his vestments were stored. Perspiring in the late morning heat, he had fumbled for his keys, relaxing his grip on the travel material, which had tumbled to the ground. Before he could stoop to pick up the books and pamphlets, a young man who had been standing nearby had rushed to his aid.

  “May I help you, Father?” he had asked in a pleasant voice. Father Cardozo remembered that the young man had quickly picked up the scattered material and then had held the door open for the priest after he had unlocked it. The priest had thanked the young man for his kindness and hurried to his office, assuming that the door would close and lock behind him. But
it had not. The young man must have held the door slightly ajar and then slipped into the dark interior of the cathedral unobserved, waiting for an opportunity to admit his comrades.

  Ten minutes into the wedding service, masked men—their guns at the ready and grenades held aloft—had rushed to the altar and taken up position at the doors, blocking any attempt to escape. The outnumbered security guards had no choice but to surrender their weapons.

  Hours later had come the execution of the businessman. He had protested to no avail, only incurring the wrath of the terrorist leader. The guards had beaten him as they dragged him away before throwing him into the sacristy. One of his assailants resembled the young man who had helped him earlier in the day to retrieve his scattered brochures and unlock the cathedral door. His formerly pleasant features were now hardened into a savage mask.

  “I will pray for your soul,” he had promised before the door was slammed shut.

  Hours passed before the sound of footsteps outside the door alerted him that his fate had been decided. The door opened and three men entered—El Verdugo flanked by two guards. No word was spoken. The guards seized him by his arms and led him out of the sacristy into the nave of the cathedral. He shrugged off their hands and walked slowly down the corridor toward the massive doors at the front of the church. It was a desolate scene—women weeping, men sitting in stone-faced silence. Which among them would be the next victim?

  The guards threw open the doors. The priest was blinded by the midday light. He felt the cold metal of a gun pressed against the back of his head. His last thought was Father, protect the innocent victims of my mistakes!

  The Police Informer

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bob glanced warily at the Turk, who had once again stretched out on his cot but with his eyes open. Occasionally his eyes flicked toward Bob. Ozmen’s suspicions were well-founded although Bob had denied his accusation. He was a police informer, but not a willing one. He had been forced into it. In retrospect, he was certain the evening in Greenwich six weeks ago, when he had gone to plead for Dave’s help in getting a loan, had been the opening move by the FBI to entrap him.

  That night, John Shafer, Bob’s FBI handler, had invited himself and his wife over to Dave’s house for dinner. “Just passing through town and would love to reminisce about our college days at Princeton”—or so the pretext went. Dave was too trusting and honorable to suspect Shafer’s real motive, which was to ferret out information about Bob’s activities. Bob had known Shafer for only a few weeks, but he judged him to be a man cynical enough to use old friendships, even to employ blackmail against his friend’s brother, in pursuit of his professional goals, which included the shutdown of the Ottoman Trading Company operations in the United States.

  Of course, Shafer would not have known that Bob would drop in unexpectedly. Shafer’s curiosity would have been aroused when Dave excused himself from the dinner table because he had to meet with his brother. Was that why Shafer had come in from the patio just as Bob was about to leave Dave’s house—to catch a glimpse of him?

  Bob’s meeting with Dave that evening was awkward. It was their first meeting since Bob’s divorce from his wife, Jennifer. To break the ice, he brought along his Boston terrier, Jack, who succeeded at making friends wherever he went. He dreaded this meeting, requesting it only as a last resort because he hated to admit that he had made a mistake after their father’s death two years ago.

  At that time, Dave had proposed to divide the estate equally with Bob after the sale of the family home in Greenwich and the auction of their father’s valuable art collection at Sotheby’s in New York. The proposal had been reasonable, but Dave’s patronizing manner in offering to overlook Bob’s unpaid debts to their father had grated. What had he called it—an offer too good to refuse! Left unsaid but implicit was Bob’s need for money.

  Impetuously, Bob had objected to Dave’s plan—not to the sale of the house but to the sale of the art collection. He had never shown much interest in art in general and their father’s collection in particular. It was too traditional to suit his tastes. His arguments that the art collection should be kept within the family or at least not broken up had been insincere, deliberately contrived to annoy Dave. He still remembered his satisfaction at seeing the shocked expression on his brother’s face. Their dispute over the art collection had now simmered for two years.

  Seated in his cherry-paneled library lined with books, Dave asked, “Why the sudden urgency? Why do you want to sell the paintings now?”

  Bob said tersely, “I need the money.”

  “So what else is new?” The sarcastic tone of Dave’s voice stung.

  Bob suppressed the urge to shoot back with You are a smug son of a bitch, aren’t you? But his discomfort was evident.

  Dave laughingly apologized, “Don’t take offense, Bob. I meant that as a joke. Besides, we could both use the money! Anything happening in your life that I should know about?”

  Bob improvised what he hoped would be a plausible story—that he was falling behind on alimony payments and was also getting remarried to Andrea, a young lady from Philadelphia who worked in New York as a producer for one of the major television networks.

  He did not mention the real reason for his financial woes: the police seizure of drugs that he had stashed in the apartment of his friend, Tony Santelli. They planned to go fifty-fifty on the deal, but Tony had not paid him yet for his share. Until he did, Bob could not pay their supplier, Murat. Now Tony was on the run trying to avoid arrest. His chances of being paid were slim. Tony had not tried to contact him yet, which was a relief because any communication—a telephone call, a letter—might lead the police to his door.

  “Could you get a bank loan for me using the paintings as collateral? I am okay with selling the paintings at a Sotheby auction, but that would take too long. I need money now.”

  “Couldn’t you get the loan yourself?”

  Bob felt humiliated admitting to his brother, “It would be better if you did it. My credit is kind of shaky now.”

  Dave’s face betrayed his feelings. He did not like the proposal. “How much would you need?”

  “One million. It would be an advance on my share of the paintings.”

  The paintings had been appraised at $10 million, but the proposal stunned Dave, who stammered, “I’d like to think about it over the weekend and discuss it further over lunch next week. How about the Harvard Club?”

  Bob shook his head. He needed no reminders of how he had disappointed his father. Dave, realizing his miscue, hastily agreed to meet at a restaurant instead.

  Then Bob’s phone rang, a fateful call which changed the direction of his life. Jack trotted after him into the hallway, where he talked softly so that Dave would not be able to overhear. He concluded the call with words that he wished now had never been spoken: “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll take care of you. See you in two hours at the same place we met last time!”

  The faint scent that the FBI hounds had been sniffing at now became overpowering.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bob selected a steak-and-seafood establishment in midtown Manhattan, which had been one of their father’s favorites. Photographs of celebrities (movie stars, athletes, politicians) and iconic buildings in New York lined the walls. The lunchtime crowd was thinning. The tables next to them were already empty, and a waiter anxiously glanced in their direction to determine whether they wanted their check. But Dave remained unconvinced.

  “Bob, your story does not hang together. Melanie spoke to Jennifer, your ex-wife, on Sunday afternoon. This may not be news to you, but Jennifer will be marrying a wealthy hedge fund manager in Greenwich in a few weeks. So why should she be beating on you for missed alimony payments? Soon she will have more money than she knows what to do with. You don’t have children to support. So what’s the deal?”

  “Look, I need the money. I don’t need to g
ive you any further explanation. I am a big boy now. I don’t have to answer to big brother. You don’t trust me, do you? You never have, always looking down your nose at me, the little brother who could never quite get his act together.”

  Bob’s face flushed, his voice rising. The waiter turned to look at them.

  “Bob, I am sorry if I pissed you off, but don’t blame me. You would have had the money from the paintings a long time ago if you had only agreed to put them up for auction at Sotheby’s.”

  “I am agreeing now.”

  “Putting the paintings up for auction will take two months. Sotheby’s will want to appraise the paintings again to make sure that everything is in order. Will that be soon enough?”

  “No, I need the money now. It’s rightfully mine. If you get a loan on my behalf, your skin will be on the line for only a few months. We know what the paintings are worth. You’re covered. So why are you stalling?”

  “If I am to get a loan on your behalf, I need some background information.” Dave could not help showing his exasperation.

  “Like what?”

  “For starters, what have you done with the money that you inherited from the sale of Dad’s house and your share of his financial assets? Frittered it away?”

  “Okay, if you want to know,” Bob said through clenched teeth, “I made some bad investments in a biotech company that went bust, using a margin account. My broker is demanding that I pony up the money fast.”

  Dave sighed in relief. At least Bob’s explanation seemed plausible. But he still felt uneasy. “Is that all? You aren’t in some kind of trouble, are you?”