Accidental Encounters

by George Friesen

  “I do not follow your meaning, Father.” Omer seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “What impresses me about the kidnapping of Ozmen is the daring and skillful execution shown by Los Matas Zetas in the heart of Los Zetas territory. Their success and the confusion of Los Zetas about their true identity suggest that the grip of Los Zetas over the drug routes along the Gulf of Mexico to the United States is weakening. Some of their leaders have recently been arrested. Infighting and police arrests allow few Mexican cartels to remain on top for long, as you know.

  “If the rumors are true that Los Matas Zetas is allied with the Sinaloa Cartel, then negotiations for the release of Ozmen might provide an opportunity for communicating with Joaquin Guzman, the reputed lord of the Sinaloa Cartel. That could be the start of a very profitable business relationship, if our venture with Los Zetas fails. Is that understood? I have to go now, Omer, and will leave you to work out the details of Ozmen’s ransom.”

  Murat broke the brief silence that followed Emir Tilki’s signing off. “What a brilliant man your father is, Omer! I like his plan. Now how can I help to get Ozmen released?”

  “We need to send someone to Mexico City to establish liaison with the kidnappers. Because of the importance of this matter, perhaps you should go, Murat.”

  Murat protested immediately. “I would go except that I have too much business to take care of in New York. I have a better idea. Why don’t we send Bigelow?”

  “Can he be trusted?” Omer Tilki barked. “I do not want an amateur.”

  “He is totally reliable,” Murat assured him smoothly.

  Bob had no wriggle room. He did not want to go but could hardly voice his reluctance to the president of Ottoman Trading Company, not to mention the head of the New York office. He knew that Murat was making excuses. There was nothing that important going on in New York. He just did not want to put his own neck at risk. Bob avoided looking at Murat to disguise his growing dislike for the man.

  Speaking directly to Omer Tilki, Bob asked an obvious money question, “How will I deliver the ransom?”

  “We cannot send you to Mexico City with a suitcase filled with five million dollars in cash. That could create issues with customs. Therefore we will be transferring the money from our Cayman Islands account to our account with Europa Bank in Mexico City. The address is on the Paseo de la Reforma.”

  “When will I be leaving?”

  Murat cut him off before he could finish. “My secretary will make the reservations for you. Assume that you will be flying to Mexico City tonight. You will be staying at the same hotel as before.”

  “Let’s get the important details settled first.” Tilki’s voice left no doubt as to who was in charge. “Murat, I will confirm with you later, but I am confident that Wednesday morning Bigelow will be able to go to the Europa Bank branch to withdraw the money. Then he can go back to his hotel room and await further instructions.”

  “Okay, so that’s the easy part. How does he make contact with the kidnappers?”

  “We will do that for him.”

  “But how?”

  “Simple. They allowed Ozmen to use his phone so that he could call me. We will call them back on his phone. We know his number. We will arrange a meeting for Bigelow, if that is necessary, or a place where he can drop off the money. He should not be at risk.”

  Let’s hope, Bob thought before asking an important question. “Are you coordinating with Diego Alvarez on this plan, Mr. Tilki?”

  “No, we are doing this on our own. Because of the enmity between Los Zetas and the other cartels, Diego Alvarez would only hinder communications. If you should accidentally meet him, he must not know about our plan. Understood?”

  After Tilki hung up, Murat made a cutting motion with his hand against his throat. “There is a lot at stake here. Don’t screw up!”

  The warning was clear. Bob nodded his head uneasily. If the plan went awry, he would not be able to call Diego Alvarez. But he did not want to leave himself totally defenseless and dependent on the mercy of the Ottoman Trading Company. To protect himself, he knew what he needed to do.

  As Bob walked toward the door, Murat mused aloud, “I wonder why Tilki is so annoyed by this woman. I will have to make a few calls to Istanbul to find out. When Ozmen was in New York for the meeting, he seemed distracted at dinner. Sometimes he can be a very good conversationalist, but not that night. Perhaps this woman is the reason.” He snickered in anticipation of the incriminating affair that he expected to discover.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Before leaving for lunch, Bob informed Murat’s secretary that he would not be returning to the office that afternoon. He needed to go home to pack for the trip and to arrange for his neighbor to take care of his dog. However, as soon as he was out on the street, he called Shafer. “I need to see you and Connors this afternoon. I have something important.”

  “Can you meet now?”

  “Yes. The earlier the better.”

  “Okay, we’ll see you in an hour at the usual place.”

  Bob arrived at the Hilton Garden Inn before Shafer and Connor. After glancing nervously at his watch and checking his email messages, he daydreamed. In a few weeks, he would have his share of the money from the Sotheby art auction. He would not need a job at the Ottoman Trading Company any longer and would disappear without leaving a trace. He would say goodbye to Murat, Shafer, Connors, Andrea, and his brother, Dave. A new life far away from New York, a man without a history starting life afresh! Connors and Shafer entering the room quickly erased the smile from his lips.

  “So what’s up?” Connors asked. “I hope this is bigger stuff than the Best Shoes deal!”

  “I think it could be. After that meeting last week, the two Turks, Ozmen and Comooglou, went to Veracruz to negotiate some business deals with Alvarez.”

  “Do you know what kind of deals?” Shafer asked.

  “Murat didn’t tell me. Look,” Bob protested, “I didn’t call you guys because I want to alert you to some drug deals that might be happening. Something bad happened to Ozmen and Comooglou when they visited Veracruz. Ozmen’s been kidnapped, and Comooglou was killed!”

  Shafer and Connors looked at each other. “This could be interesting. When did it happen?” Shafer asked.

  “Two days ago, in broad daylight, in Veracruz!”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  Bob recounted what he had learned from Murat and Tilki about the attackers and then outlined the plan for ransoming Ozmen. “What scares me about this plan is that Alvarez does not know about it, and I’m not supposed to tell him! What if something goes wrong? I can’t call him. Tilki says using him as liaison with the kidnappers would compromise the negotiations for Ozmen’s release.”

  “Tilki is probably right. Alvarez would be suspect in the eyes of Los Matas Zetas or Knights Templar or Sinaloa or whoever is behind this kidnapping. But there could be more to this plan than meets the eye.” Connors looked at Shafer.

  “Such as?” Shafer queried, his eyebrows raised.

  “I smell a double cross in the making,” Connors said.

  Bob nodded in agreement. “Emir Tilki, the chairman of the company and father of the president, implied as much when he joined the teleconference.”

  “Tilki may want to keep this rescue plan secret because he is thinking about changing sides. He wants a reliable business partner in Mexico, and this kidnapping has raised questions about whether Los Zetas will be around for the long haul. Sinaloa and their allies—whether Los Matas Zetas or the Knights Templar—might look like a better bet.”

  Bob did not like the helpless feeling of being a pawn in a triangular power struggle between one Turkish and two Mexican drug cartels. “Look, guys, I am desperate. The reason I asked to meet with you is that I need some protection. I could be killed in some Mexican standoff. Don’t you have some agents in Mexico C
ity to call if I have to?”

  “Bob, don’t you like our business? Getting a case of the nerves?” Shafer joked.

  Connors was supportive. “I see your point, Bigelow. Which hotel are you staying at tonight?”

  “The W Hotel on Campos Eliseos. The same place as last time.”

  “Ah yes, a very popular place with the highfliers of Mexican society. Even the drug lords like to go there. We have an agent who covers the scene at the W Hotel—a young man named Miguel Rodriguez. He knows who you are from your last visit. Here is his telephone number.” Connors handed Bob a piece of paper on which he had written the number. “Memorize the number and then destroy this note. Don’t add this number to the directory on your phone, and call him only if you absolutely need to, okay?”

  “Thank you,” Bob said. It was better than nothing.

  But his relief was short-lived. When Shafer stood up to leave, he shook Bob’s hand and gravely said, “Good luck, Bob!” Isn’t that what commanding officers said to fighter pilots before they left on a suicide mission in wartime?

  Fugitive from Justice

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  If Ozmen conveyed an air of indifference while Dave Bigelow questioned him about the woman in Istanbul, his mind was far from settled. How had this man Bigelow—a complete stranger until less than twenty-four hours ago—been able to ask such probing, discomforting questions? Was he who he claimed to be—a lawyer from New York in Mexico on business? Maybe he was from the FBI working in cooperation with the Turkish police—a potentially dangerous man who should not be allowed to live.

  But how could he get rid of him? He would find a way. Even in this hellhole, there must be a way. He was a resourceful man, a survivor with street smarts who had outwitted more clever rivals many times.

  His mind flipped back to the morning of the day he had been kidnapped. Sitting at a sidewalk café in the Zocalo, the center of Veracruz, he had taken a call from Tilki on his phone. Tilki had wasted no time on pleasantries about their visit to Veracruz. He had gotten straight to the point. “How is business?” he barked.

  Ozmen replied, almost smugly, “Everything is going as planned.” He waited in vain for a rare word of praise.

  “Good, but we still have a problem.” Tilki’s terse sentence, spoken in a soft voice but with a hint of menace, caused Ozmen to pull in his breath sharply. “I was visited this morning by Inspector Tosun of the Istanbul Police Department. That is the second police visit in ten days. We are not pleased.”

  Ozmen felt a shiver run down his spine. Why had Tilki used the pronoun we? Was he suffering from Ottoman delusions, using the royal we to refer to himself? Or perhaps, more ominously, he had consulted with the patriarch, Emir Tilki, about the matter which displeased him.

  Suspecting what the answer would be, Ozmen nonetheless asked, “Why?”

  “Hayat Yilmaz. She is still alive!”

  Ozmen choked, as if someone had hit him in the stomach. “Alive?” he gasped. “But how could that be?”

  “I claimed ignorance when Tosun asked me about your betrothal to her when you were university students many years ago. But something the police officer let slip implied that she is still alive. I had one of my assistants scan the newspapers for the last two weeks. There is no obituary reporting on her death. He called Istanbul Technical University, asking for her. The receptionist said that she was on temporary leave, having suffered a mishap. She is probably being kept under guard at one of the city hospitals. In what condition, we can only speculate. But she must not be allowed to talk. That would be bad for you and for the Ottoman Trading Company. No scandal must be allowed to touch the company!” Tilki stressed the last words.

  Ozmen stood up from the table and walked a few steps away from Comooglou, whose eyes were fixed anxiously on him. Comooglou knew that something was wrong, but what? Ozmen felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, stinging his eye. “What do you want me to do?” he whispered into his phone.

  “I would like to send you to hell!” Tilki exclaimed. Then, after a pause, he asked, “When are you planning to come back to Istanbul?”

  “We plan to fly to Mexico City tomorrow and then take the next flight back to Istanbul.”

  “When you get to Mexico City, await further instructions. Do not come back to Istanbul until I tell you.”

  “What do I tell Comooglou?”

  “Tell him whatever you want. That is the least of your worries.” The call disconnected with a bang.

  Ozmen’s head was reeling as he and Comooglou walked across the Plaza des Armas to a side street where their driver and car were waiting. A momentary act of rage, when he had struck Hayat Yilmaz on the side of her head, now threatened to destroy him. Omer Tilki did not forgive mistakes easily, particularly when the reputation of Ottoman Trading Company was at stake. If Tilki had deliberately consorted with the powers of darkness to send Ozmen to hell, his abduction by a Mexican drug gang in Veracruz could not have been planned more successfully.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ozmen remembered the day when he got out of his car in front of the office building of Ottoman Trading Company, his mind preoccupied with police disruptions of drug shipments into the British market, and he spied Hayat across the street. Their eyes locked for the first time in decades, and then she looked away. He was not able to read the expression on her face. Was it disgust, anger, or simply embarrassment?

  That evening, he found out. He was working late, after office hours. The main receptionist had already gone home, and the night guards were on duty. She came to the front entrance, and one of the guards had called him with a suggestive leer in his voice. “There is a young lady to see you. Should I send her up?” It would not be unprecedented for harried, overworked executives to avail themselves of the services of ladies of the street.

  On impulse, he agreed to see her. He regretted the way their betrothal had been terminated—with stormy words followed by icy silence. Their families no longer socialized with each other. He had lost track of her over the years, focusing on his business career. He was now married with children, but he had to confess that his matronly wife no longer excited him. Then Hayat resurfaced during the Taksim Gezi Park demonstrations, appearing on television and looking poised, slim, and attractive. She was introduced by television interviewers as a university professor and a former member of the Turkish delegation to the United Nations.

  Their meeting began awkwardly, as if they had never been childhood friends or once betrothed at university. To put her at ease, he remarked, “You have been very visible lately in public.”

  “You mean the Taksim Gezi Park demonstrations?” Then she added with a wry smile, “We were aligned against you, as you must know. Galata Heights Realty has a significant interest in the development of Gezi Park.”

  “That we are on opposite sides is regrettable. How can I help you tonight? Have you come to make a peace offering?”

  “I will not sacrifice my principles. You know me too well.”

  “You have not changed over the years?” It was a question more than a statement.

  “No, but I think you have, unfortunately.”

  “You must be referring to my thinning hair?” he countered, trying to take the sting out of her rebuke, but he felt his anger rising. Why had she come if she wanted to insult him?

  “I think you know what I mean, but I did not come here to discuss that tonight. I do not want to revive the past.”

  “Then why have you come?”

  “To request your help in getting the release of my cousin, Husayin Yilmaz, who is now in a Greek prison after his ship was seized by the Greek Coast Guard near Rhodes. He was the captain of a ship belonging to the Golden Horn Shipping Company, a subsidiary of the Ottoman Trading Company.”

  “Your cousin means nothing to me. Ottoman Trading Company has many employees, and I do not know him.”

 
She winced, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Does it mean nothing to you that we were once friends and were even betrothed to be married?”

  “Aha, so you do want to bring up the past after all,” he said mockingly. “On what charge is your cousin being held?”

  “My sources tell me his ship was carrying an illegal shipment of arms to rebels in Syria.”

  “Then he must have taken this action on his own, without authorization from Golden Horn Shipping. Our businesses are completely legitimate.”

  Her lips compressed in anger. “Do not take me for a fool! That assertion is a complete lie, and no one should know that better than you. My cousin has told me about the illegal drug business of Ottoman Shipping Company. If he was taking arms to the Syrian rebels, it was with full knowledge of the company, who expected to be paid in heroin.”

  “Your cousin is playing a dangerous game by spreading those false rumors. He should be punished. Maybe we should let him rot in that Greek prison!”

  His derision put her on the defensive. With trembling voice, she pleaded, “Do not hold what I have said against my cousin. He swore me to secrecy when he told me. He has never told anyone else, believe me!”

  “But you did not keep your vow with me! You told me!” he replied, his voice rising.

  “That is because of who you are. I would never tell anyone else, nor would I try to blackmail you with the public authorities.”

  “And who am I?” he shouted sarcastically.

  “An idealistic young man who I once knew and loved, who has become coarsened and corrupted over time—first by supplementing his student income with small drug sales to Western tourists in Istanbul, then becoming the protégé of the notorious heroin smuggler Abdullah Catli and, finally, rising to a prominent executive position at Ottoman Trading Company.”

  “Abdullah Catli has been long dead. I have risen to my current position of vice president of special operations by dint of hard work and my wits. I have not done badly for the son of a small shopkeeper!” he retorted.