Shafer took charge. “You have been under surveillance for some time, well before the death of Fred Sanford. Do you know an investment banker named Edward Sutton? He was admitted into hospital on April 3 after injecting heroin. He identified you as the supplier who sold him the drug at a charity ball. Two months later, a retail executive, Alfred Draper, was stopped for reckless driving. Tests indicated that he was under the influence of a drug, cocaine. In his car, police discovered a pouch of heroin. He said he had met the vendor of the drugs at a political fund-raiser at the Waldorf-Astoria. He did not know the vendor’s name, but his description fits you.”
Bob began to have difficulty breathing. His sweaty palms told him that he was in deep trouble.
“Our labs have analyzed the heroin in the Sutton, Draper, and Sanford cases. They have the same source—Middle Eastern. Perhaps you could shed some light on the origin of the drug and how it is getting into this country.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Do you know Tony Santelli?”
“We were roommates during a college semester in Mexico City.”
“The police raided his apartment a few weeks ago. He evaded arrest at the time. They discovered a stash of drugs—also Middle Eastern in origin—and combed the place for fingerprints. Yours were among them.”
“Look, I can explain. Tony threw a birthday party some weeks back. He invited a whole bunch of people, me included. I don’t know much about his personal life or why he would be in trouble with the police.”
Shafer snorted in disbelief and then looked quizzically at Brown. Brown nodded his head in agreement.
“When did you last see or hear from Tony Santelli?”
“At his party.”
“Not more recently since his apartment was raided?”
“No.”
“Where were you on Monday night of this week?”
“With my girlfriend, having dinner at her place.”
“That squares with what we know about your whereabouts. You have an alibi. Tony Santelli’s body was found floating in the Hudson River on Tuesday, inside a garbage bag, a gunshot to the head. The coroner estimates the time of his death as Monday night. Do you know who would want to kill Santelli?”
Bob was so shocked by the news of Santelli’s death that he could barely whisper, “No.”
“He called the police last Saturday, offering to turn himself in, but he never showed up at the bar where he wanted to be picked up. An informant claims to have last seen him on Monday in the company of a big burly guy—someone who looks like a nightclub bouncer. Does the name Buzz Malone mean anything to you?”
“He works at Ottoman Trading Company as the driver and personal bodyguard of Recep Murat.”
“Any idea why Murat would need a bodyguard?”
Bob remained silent.
“At least you can confirm some personal details. Dropped out of a business program at New York University after two years of college? Divorced? The brother of David Bigelow, a partner at a prominent New York law firm?”
Suddenly, Bob became agitated, his numbness fading. “You leave him out of this!” he snapped.
“For his sake, I will do my best.” Shafer smiled. “Dave was my college roommate at Princeton.”
“If you are going to lock me up, I demand to see my lawyer.”
“We have a better idea.” Shafer looked over at Brown, who again nodded his head. “You are free to go, even though we have enough evidence to arrest you and put you behind bars for some time. The reason is that we would like you to work with us. You are a small fry in the big pond. We would like to catch the big fish. You could be very helpful.”
“How?”
“We have our suspicions about Ottoman Trading Company but no proof. You have access to the financial records of the New York office of OTC and contact with head office in Istanbul. Over time, if you gain their trust, you should be able to gather useful information about their operations.”
“If I cooperate, what do I get in return?”
“Leniency. We might even drop all charges.”
Bob was tempted. What other option did he have? He could try to escape to a country that did not have an extradition treaty with the United States, like Brazil, but what kind of life would he have? Andrea would not follow him if she found out why he was fleeing.
He swallowed hard. “Let me think about it. Where can I reach you if I decide to work with you?” he asked, looking at Shafer.
“My office is in the Federal Building in downtown Manhattan.”
“Okay.” He looked at both Brown and Shafer then walked out of the conference room and through the front doors of the police precinct, a drowning man gasping for air.
Chapter Twenty-One
Several days after Shafer’s offer, Bob was summoned to Murat’s office. He was nervous when asked to close the door and sit down. What did Murat know about the death of Tony Santelli? Had Murat ordered Buzz Malone to meet with Tony Santelli to prevent him from turning himself in to the police?
For a moment, Murat said nothing while he fidgeted with the drawer of his desk. As the seconds ticked by, Bob’s panic heightened. Did Murat have a gun in the drawer? Was he next on Murat’s hit list? When Murat finally spoke, his large eyes focusing on Bob, he made a proposal that nearly bowled him over.
“My visitors from Istanbul and I discussed your future yesterday. You have done a good job taking care of the financial records of the New York office to make sure that nothing will seem irregular to our auditors. Our public image must be that of an ordinary trading company and nothing more. That is very important to the owners of this company. But as you know, we have a sideline business.”
He paused to let the words, spoken with a thick Turkish accent, sink in. His intonations were not harsh, but he substituted the sounds of “v” and “w” for each other and had difficulty with the diphthong so that “th” sounded like “t.” He also struggled with the sounds of “er” and “or,” which came out sounding like “oor.”
He continued, “You received drugs from me to peddle to your wealthy and glamorous friends. They belonged to the company, not to me. There was some risk to me in trusting you, but you have an expensive lifestyle. I calculated correctly, did I not—that you could use extra income? Unfortunately, I had to mention to my visitors that your failure to pay for these drugs is a stumbling block to the further advancement of your career in this company.”
“No longer!” Bob interrupted as, with shaking hands, he extracted a check from his wallet and placed it on the desk in front of Murat. He had received the expected money transfer from his brother that morning, and as previously instructed by Murat, he had made the check for a million dollars payable to GH Holdings rather than Ottoman Trading Company.
Murat’s somber face was suddenly wreathed in smiles. “We have had a few tense moments when it appeared that you might be unable to pay for the merchandise.”
“I made some bad investment decisions. I am not a spendthrift,” Bob had said defensively.
“Ah yes, the stock market can be fickle at times. I prefer real estate myself. But let us put that behind us. I apologize if I seemed unpleasant at times.”
Bob prudently disguised his anger, shrugging his shoulders. “No problem.”
“There have been some recent police enquiries about you. I was always confident that you would be discreet in your sale of drugs. Should I be concerned? We would not want a repetition of the police raid on Tony Santelli’s apartment. He was, fortunately, not an employee of Ottoman Trading Company so that he cannot be directly traced back to us.”
“No need to worry,” Bob lied smoothly, steadily meeting Murat’s gaze. “The police only wanted to talk to me about a call Fred Sanford made to me about my upcoming wedding.”
Then, casually, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Have you heard from Tony
Santelli since the police raid?” Bob’s curiosity about Murat’s role in Santelli’s murder had finally overcome his caution.
Murat picked up Bob’s check from his desk, examining it as if he wanted to verify its authenticity. His face was impassive and his eyes hooded when he looked up. “Yes, he called me at home and left a voice-mail message that he needed to talk to me. He said that he was using a prepaid disposable phone because he did not want the police to be able to trace his call. He angered me because, as you know, I do not like to be called at home.”
“When was that?”
Murat frowned before answering, “I cannot remember exactly. It was on the weekend. Then on Monday of last week, he called my office—something he had never done before. It showed bad judgment. I was in a meeting and my secretary was away from her desk so that Buzz Malone took the call. Santelli sounded very upset. Buzz offered to help him. They agreed to meet at a Starbucks in Chelsea, but Santelli never showed up, and we have not heard from him again.”
Neither met nor heard from him again? Bob thought, his heart pounding. That contradicted what John Shafer had said about Santelli last being seen in the company of Malone.
Murat’s face now relaxed into a smile. “But that’s enough about Santelli. He was a talented but unreliable man. Not right for our organization. Unlike you. Demir, Batur, and I concluded yesterday that you could be very helpful to us in setting up a new business in Mexico. I looked at your file. You studied Spanish in high school, and you spent a semester at the National Autonomous University of Mexico before you dropped out of college.”
Bob nodded, not wanting to arouse Murat’s suspicions by probing further about Santelli, his roommate that semester. “Yes, that’s right. What kind of business would this be? Are you talking about transferring me to Mexico City?”
“No, you can be more useful to us here. You would continue as you are now but would make occasional trips to Mexico, acting as liaison with our trading partners. It would be a typical trading operation, exchanging electrical equipment for tomatoes and avocadoes or whatever else we can come up with.” He winked at Bob. “Would this interest you?”
“Why, that sounds great!” Bob’s voice cracked. The proposal was risky, and he was nervous, but what choice did he have? He had to play along if he wanted to keep his job and not provoke Murat. “Would there be any danger to me? I mean, the drug gangs in Mexico have become increasingly violent in recent years.”
Murat hastened to reassure him. “No risk at all. You would be an American businessman visiting Mexico. The Mexican drug gangs only attack each other. You have lived there and, since then, have visited Mexico a couple of times. A very pleasant country.”
No risk at all. Murat’s words echoed in Bob’s mind as he hurried into Penn Station on a late lunch break, stopping at a shop to buy a throwaway phone. After getting the FBI telephone number from information, he waited anxiously for John Shafer to answer.
Turning back was no longer an option. His mouth dry, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow, Bob awkwardly introduced himself.
Shafer did not seem surprised by his call. “Have you thought over my offer?”
“Yes. I-I need to see you,” Bob stammered.
“Where are you now?”
“Penn Station, using one of those disposable cell phones. I don’t want this call to be traceable or to be seen anywhere near the Federal Building. Where can we meet?”
“I can’t come to Penn Station now. Let me think for a moment.” There had been a long pause. “Okay. Let’s meet at six at a bar in the Edison Hotel on Forty-Seventh Street West between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. I think it’s called Rum House. I will be sitting at the bar with someone I would like you to meet. We will save a seat between us. When you get there, walk over to join us.”
That evening, Bob walked from his office to the meeting with Shafer, stopping several times to survey other pedestrians. He felt paranoid about being followed by Buzz Malone or any of Murat’s other henchmen.
Tour groups milled around the ornate Art Deco lobby of the historic hotel as he entered. It was not a businessmen’s hotel. The Rum House, just off the lobby, was already lively. Most of the clientele were casually dressed. Shafer, sitting at one end of the curving bar, stood out because he was in a business suit. The seat next to him was empty.
Bob walked over to claim the empty seat. Only after he placed his order with the bartender did Shafer speak to him, but as if they were casual strangers.
“Nice evening, isn’t it?”
Shafer looked around to make sure that no one was close enough to overhear, but there was no danger. The happy hour chatter in a crowded barroom provided safe cover. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the man sitting to Bob’s right.
Bob took the man on his right to be a tourist, casually dressed in denims and open knit shirt, sneakers, a baseball cap on his head, a camera slung over his shoulder. His eyes were intently fixed on the television screen over the bar, watching a baseball game between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. But now, as if on cue, he turned toward Bob and introduced himself.
“Hi. I am Jim Connors of the Drug Enforcement Agency.” He did not shake Bob’s hand but rather pushed a cocktail napkin in his direction. Protruding from underneath was the corner of a card with his contact information.
“Jim and I work closely together. He will be your alternate contact if I am not available,” Shafer added. “Jim has written my direct telephone number on the back of his card. To be safe, memorize the contact information and destroy the card.”
“By the way,” Shafer whispered, “the bartender at the Bar Boulud positively identified you as the man who drank with Fred Sanford the night he died.”
Bob knew instantly that Shafer was bluffing. It had not been the Bar Boulud. But Bob felt trapped. His world was spinning out of control. He wanted to run out of the bar and escape, hail a taxi on the street to take him to Kennedy Airport. But where could he go? Running would be futile. They would eventually find him. Somehow he had expected this first meeting to be different. A few welcoming words from Shafer, for instance. Instead, Shafer was making clear who was in charge. He would be their informant, not a colleague—someone to be used until he was no longer needed.
Connors broke the silence. “John tells me you might have something interesting to tell us.”
Bob took a deep breath. “There was a new development today. Murat called me into his office today. I have been asked to help OTC set up a trading operation in Mexico. Murat wants to get a slice of the illegal drugs flowing into the United States.”
“This will be a drug operation only?”
“No, a legitimate trading operation—with a sideline. Murat discussed this proposal with two Turks who visited him yesterday.”
“What are their names?”
“I know only their first names, Demir and Batur. I can get their last names if you want. They weren’t around today, so they may have flown back to Istanbul last night.”
“Don’t arouse suspicion by asking too many questions. We can check the departing passenger lists. So when do you go to Mexico?”
“Next week. Mexico City. I do not have detailed instructions yet.”
“Anything else?”
“Murat admitted to me that Santelli had called him at home and at his office just before he was killed. Malone had agreed to meet him, but Murat claims that Santelli never showed up.”
Shafer grimaced. “We will follow up on that lead. By the way, a report crossed my desk late this afternoon. We have been monitoring your checking account. There was a very large deposit and almost simultaneous withdrawal this morning. Anything you want to tell us?”
Bob gulped. Didn’t he have a right to privacy? “I owed Murat money for some uh … merchandise that he had given me.”
“How much was th
e check?”
“A million dollars.”
Connors whistled softly. “Nice. And the merchandise was …?”
“Cocaine and heroin.”
“To whom did you make out the check?”
“GH Holdings, an affiliate of Ottoman Trading Company in the Cayman Islands.”
“A typical daisy chain. Multiple stops before it gets back to headquarters,” Shafer said.
“Do you know any of the other people who have been peddling drugs for OTC, apart from the late Tony Santelli?” Connors asked.
“No.”
“Interesting,” Connors murmured as he got up from his chair and walked closer to the television screen to get a better view. The Red Sox had just hit a home run.
Shafer motioned to the bartender to get him another drink. “Let’s keep in touch. Keep feeding us information. But don’t take any crazy risks, understood?”
The meeting was over, but Bob’s career as an informer for the FBI and DEA had just begun.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Murat gave Bob careful instructions before he departed for Mexico City. The host for the lunch at the Olivier—a French bistro on the fashionable Avenida Presidente Mazaryk—would be the commercial attaché at the Turkish embassy in Mexico City, Kemal Balbay. He had worked tirelessly to bring about the free trade agreement between Mexico and Turkey, which would be signed and ratified in December. Also attending would be Aslan Celik—chairman of the Turkish Federation of International Trade and a good friend of Emir Tilki and the Ottoman Trading Company—who was visiting the Mexican capital from Istanbul.
These worthy gentlemen would provide cover for his meeting with the most important person there: Diego Alvarez, an executive with Veracruz Sugar. The ostensible object of the luncheon was to discuss the import of Mexican refined sugar into Turkey and to explore similar opportunities in the United States. If an opportunity presented itself, he could deliver a sealed envelope to Alvarez during lunch. Otherwise, Alvarez would call him and invite him to a second meeting at a place of his choosing, where the delivery could be made without attracting notice.
Accidental Encounters Page 8
