Accidental Encounters

by George Friesen

  This background information had not influenced his decision on his brother’s loan request. He agreed to the loan out of a sense of obligation to protect his brother. He felt that Bob was in trouble even though he did not know what. His private banker at Citibank insisted on an appraisal of the oil paintings before providing him with a loan, which would delay matters by weeks when his brother needed the money urgently. That was why he assumed some personal financial risk by using his own investments as collateral.

  The Ottoman Trading Company would have faded from his memory except for what happened on the Aegean Sea cruise that he took shortly thereafter with his wife and daughter. Something unusual happened near the island of Rhodes. The passengers of the Austral leaned against the railing of the ship, cameras poised, eager to capture some unforgettable images of their cruise—a rising sun in a cloudless blue sky, casting rays of pink and gold onto a shimmering Aegean Sea. And in the distance were the imposing fortifications built by the crusading Knights of St. John on the site of the ancient acropolis of Lindos on the island of Rhodes, overlooking a medieval village and the white sandy beaches of St. Paul’s Bay.

  “Look, Dad, over there!” Helen called from the other side of the ship, facing the open sea. He turned to see what was arousing her excitement. Pulling abreast of the Austral on the starboard side was a Greek Coast Guard vessel escorting an old cargo ship flying a flag that he did not recognize with horizontal bands of green white and blue. Members of the Greek Coast Guard boarded the cargo ship and could be seen on deck. The ship had seen happier times. Emblazoned on its side was the name Light of the East.

  Prompted by Helen, Dave asked the captain of the Austral, a genial Frenchman, who happened to be walking by, “Captain Rolland, do you know what is going on with that ship?”

  “I am trying to find that out myself. I will investigate as soon as we dock in the city of Rhodes. That is the destination of the Greek Coast Guard and the cargo ship as well. Talk to me tonight. By then I should know.”

  That evening, the captain of the Austral hosted a cocktail reception for passengers on deck. Dave spied the captain standing near the swimming pool and made his way through the throng. The captain smiled at him as he approached.

  “I have an answer—or perhaps I should say some hypothetical answers—to your question this morning. I spoke to the captain of the Greek Coast Guard. He told me—and this is off the record, you understand—that they had received a tip that the Light of the East was carrying weapons to the belligerents in Syria. When they boarded it, they discovered twenty thousand Kalashnikov assault rifles and explosives hidden in freight containers in the hold without proper documents. They also found traces of heroin in the hold, suggesting that the ship has been used in the illicit drug trade.”

  Melanie and Helen had, by this time, joined them and were listening wide-eyed.

  “Where did the ship originate?”

  “A Ukrainian port near Odessa. I am not familiar with the name.”

  “And the ship is Ukrainian? I did not recognize the flag on the ship.”

  “That is the flag of Sierra Leone, where the ship is registered. But the ownership appears to be Turkish. An obscure company I do not know—Golden Horn Shipping. The captain of the ship, Husayin Yilmaz, and his crew members are also Turkish.”

  “Has the captain explained what he was up to?”

  “He apparently claims that his ultimate destination was the port of Iskenderun in Turkey, but the ship’s papers listed intermediate stops in Tartus in Syria and Tripoli in Libya.”

  “So what do you make of this?”

  Rolland shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? But here are two hypotheses. If the weapons were to be delivered to the port of Tartus, they were probably intended for the Syrian government of Bashar al-Assad. Russia has a naval base at Tartus. A company acting on behalf of the Russian government—which supports the Syrian regime in the civil war—could have shipped the weapons out of a Ukrainian port to avoid implicating Russia.”

  The captain paused while a head waiter whispered in his ear that dinner would be served in fifteen minutes. He continued, “The second hypothesis is that the weapons were to be delivered in the Turkish port of Iskenderun, which is near the Syrian border, to Syrian rebels who control much of northern Syria.”

  “Which do you think is the more probable?” Dave asked.

  “I am intrigued by the traces of heroin on the ship. The Syrian government would be able to pay for the weapons with cash. Those rebels supported by the United States and Saudi Arabia would also be able to pay with cash. On the other hand, if the weapons were intended for the Al-Nusra Front—rebels associated with Al-Qaeda—they would be most likely to pay with heroin. They control areas in northern Syria that are close to the supply lines of heroin flowing from Afghanistan through Iran and Syria into Turkey. In time, the Greek authorities will know which interpretation is correct. In either case, I fear for the future of the Light of the East. It will be destroyed.”

  “You mean blown up?”

  “Oh no, that would be too obvious. The owners of the ship will not come forward to claim it. So the Greeks will permit it to founder and sink in a winter storm in the Mediterranean. But I am being too cynical.”

  “I have a final question,” Dave said. “How could that ship have gotten by Turkish customs officials when it passed from the Black Sea through the Bosporus Straits into the Mediterranean Sea?”

  The captain shrugged once more. “Perhaps the owner of the ship has friends among Turkish officials who do not object to having their palms greased with some extra cash.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Golden Horn Shipping vessel Light of the East and its captain, Huseyin Yilmaz, were both linked to the Ottoman Trading Company, as Dave accidentally discovered in Istanbul. Before he left New York for the cruise, Jerry Braunstein—the consultant from SecurityNet who was in charge of the Europa Bank compliance project—offered to introduce him to a former neighbor and friend, Hayat Yilmaz, who had been attached to the Turkish delegation at the United Nations. She now taught urban and regional planning at Istanbul Technical University.

  Dave emailed her immediately after his family and he disembarked from the Austral at the end of their cruise and offered to take her out for dinner at the Asitane, located in the old part of the city and featuring a menu worthy of a Turkish sultan. She was expecting them but prudently suggested eating at the restaurant in their hotel, the elegant Park Hyatt—a former palace overlooking Macka Park, which was popular with Turks as well as foreign visitors.

  They were grateful for her suggestion. They had risen early that morning to witness the splendor of the former capital of Byzantine emperors and Ottoman sultans as their ship cruised up the Bosporus. After checking into their hotel, they had gone sightseeing: the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sophia, the Hippodrome. Their hectic schedule had left them exhausted.

  As Dave, Melanie, and Helen waited in the reception area on the second floor, a slender woman in a light linen suit, escorted by the concierge, approached them. She wore no jewelry or makeup, but she had a pleasant, smiling face. She held out her hand in greeting. “You must be the Bigelows. Welcome to Turkey’s New York! I am Hayat Yilmaz.”

  After the introductions were completed, they sat in the reception area for a few minutes chatting about their impressions of Istanbul, which they unanimously agreed was an awesome city.

  “I apologize for being late, but I was very busy with some administrative matters. This is the start of a new academic year at Istanbul Technical University, where I teach urban and regional planning.”

  When Melanie protested that they should not have taken her away from her work, she brushed away her concerns. “I am fine now. I finished my work. In fact, I have some free time tomorrow and would like to take you to see Topkapi, the palace of the Ottoman sultans, and then the Grand Bazaar for a little shopping for souvenirs. Wo
uld you like that?”

  They were delighted.

  “Good, then it is decided.”

  Melanie later confided to Dave that she guessed Hayat’s age to be around forty. Hayat was still attractive but unmarried.

  “Have you tried our Turkish wines?” Hayat asked, pointing to the nearby wine bar. “I am not a drinker, but they have an excellent reputation, especially those from Thrace on the European side of the Sea of Marmara and from our Aegean coast near Izmir.”

  Dave promptly ordered two glasses of white wine for Melanie and Helen, a red wine for himself, and a tonic water for Hayat. The wines were delicious.

  After they were seated at their table in the restaurant, Hayat steered them through the menu. “You must try some of these dishes. They are from every part of the former Ottoman Empire. This is a puree of bread, nuts, and chickpeas. That is one of my favorites—apple stuffed with diced lamb, rice, currants, pistachio nuts, and rosemary.”

  As the evening progressed, the conversation turned to the recent riots at Taksim Square just south of their hotel. Hayat said, “The streets may be quiet now, but there is still a lot of resentment against the Erdogan government—which, from the start, had no sympathy for the young people demonstrating against a proposal by real estate interests to redevelop Taksim Gezi Park. For the last decade, there has been a huge building boom in Istanbul. Old neighborhoods that should be preserved and the few green spaces and parks that we have in the center of the city are disappearing.”

  “Did you participate in the demonstrations?” Helen asked.

  “Not initially. But some of my students did, and I was very sympathetic to their cause. Eventually, I joined them. I even appeared on a number of television shows, arguing that any plans to redevelop Taksim Gezi Park should be halted to allow a study to determine what the impact would be on the neighborhood. But so far, to no avail.”

  “Why do you think the Turkish government is so opposed to the demonstrators’ demands?” Helen was always interested in accounts of student rebellion.

  “The current prime minister is a former mayor of Istanbul. His political machine and that of his party is oiled by money from powerful real estate interests. So the prime minister ordered the police to crush the demonstrations with clubs and teargas. The reaction surprised him, I think. What had been a fringe demonstration grew into something much bigger throughout the country. People who did not necessarily agree with the goals of the demonstrators were horrified by how the police treated them. Until now, opposition to the government has been weak, but things are beginning to change.”

  “Hayat, where is this money for real estate investment coming from?” Dave asked.

  “Foreign investors from Europe—and, to a lesser extent, Asia and North America— are putting money into Istanbul, which is the largest city in the region. But much of it is coming from Turkey too. The Turkish economy has been strong for some years now, and a rising business class is looking for new investment opportunities. Also, it is no secret that a lot of it is drug money.”

  “Drug money?” Dave became completely focused.

  “As you may or may not know, much of the heroin from Afghanistan flows through Turkey before ending up in Europe. Turkish gangs control the trade and launder some of their profits by investing in real estate. Casinos used to be a favorite way of laundering money, but that avenue was closed when casinos were banned in Turkey in 1998. Of course, there are still illegal casinos and online gambling.”

  “Casinos and real estate investments abroad would be an alternative as well, wouldn’t they? The illicit drug trade is so international now.”

  “Of course.” Hayat nodded in agreement.

  “I recently visited London and had one of the most interesting taxi rides I have ever had. We were halted on the way to my hotel by a police blockade because they had apprehended some drug smugglers in a truck with a Bulgarian license plate. The taxi driver began telling me how much of the drug trade in Britain is controlled by Turkish gangs who have invested their money in London real estate. He mentioned the name of the kingpin …?” Dave paused as he tried to recall it. “Baybasin … does that sound correct? Did I get that right?”

  Hayat looked grave. “Yes, that name is well known in Turkey. It is a well-connected clan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The illicit drug business in Turkey is often a family business. The Baybasin clan got their start in the drug business in the Kurdish part of Turkey, the southeastern corner, where there is a movement to secede from the country. The insurgents there have often financed their rebellion with drugs. But that is another story. The new wealth of the Baybasin clan has given them access to some very old, established families in Istanbul. For instance, the wife of the patriarch of the Tilki family is Kurdish and is related to the Baybasin clan.”

  “Tilki? Where have I come across that name before?”

  “They started out as owners of the Ottoman Trading Company many years ago but since then have diversified into real estate, banking, and even shipping. They are like an octopus with tentacles everywhere. Their real estate company, Galata Heights Realty, is very active in Istanbul. Their shipping company is small, and you may not have heard of it: Golden Horn. My cousin works there.”

  “Would your cousin by any chance be Husayin Yilmaz? Same surname as yours?”

  “Why, yes. Have you met him?”

  “This is a remarkable coincidence. Earlier this week, we were in the Greek island of Rhodes. The Greek Coast Guard had boarded a cargo ship, Light of the East, which was suspected of carrying an illegal shipment of arms. A huge shipment of Kalashnikov rifles and explosives was found on board. There were also traces of heroin found on the ship. The captain of the ship was Husayin Yilmaz.”

  “Oh my god!” Hayat looked stunned.

  “You did not know?”

  “No, I have not heard from him for a long time.”

  “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Dave apologized. He regretted ever bringing up the subject. An evening that had started out so well was ending on a somber note.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The following morning, Hayat showed no signs of being upset by the news about her cousin. She greeted the Bigelows cheerfully in the lobby of their hotel and thanked them profusely for dinner the previous night. Dave, Melanie, and Helen agreed beforehand that the plight of her unfortunate cousin would not be brought up again unless she first did. Hayat did not, so a conspiracy of silence on the subject prevailed all morning.

  Of course, the splendor of Topkapi Palace—built by Mehmet the Conqueror on the ruins of the imperial palace of the last of the Byzantine emperors—was sufficient to push most unpleasant thoughts aside. Hayat was an excellent guide, explaining how this enormous complex of inner courtyards, ceremonial chambers, council rooms, and living quarters in the harem had served as the administrative center of the Ottoman Empire for four centuries. They could have spent more than the morning there, but eager to escape the busloads of tourists who descended on the palace, they decided to walk to the Grand Bazaar, stopping at a café along the way for coffee and pastries.

  As they made their way through the crowded squares in front of the Hagia Sophia, Hayat maintained her bright chatter. But in front of the Blue Mosque, pathetic groups of beggars—often families with small children holding out their hands for alms from the faithful—caused her to falter. She dug in her purse for coins and placed them in the outstretched hands, tears in her eyes.

  “It is so sad. These are Syrian war refugees. They have lost everything but cannot get work permits in Turkey, so they are forced to beg for a living.”

  When they approached the Grand Bazaar along the Nuruosmaniye Caddesi, her mood again darkened. They were standing by the display window of a design store, admiring some fine sculptures and furniture, when Hayat seemed startled by the reflection of a man getting out of a Mer
cedes-Benz across the street. She turned to look, her mouth compressed in anger, her face slightly flushed. The man briefly paused at the curb, and his eyes locked with Hayat’s. They recognized each other. Dave was certain of that. Then the man entered the office building across the street, and his car pulled away.

  Melanie also noticed the change. “Is anything the matter, Hayat?”

  “No, I am fine.” She forced a smile. “Shall we stop at a café for refreshments before we enter the Grand Bazaar? We will need all of our strength.”

  Over small black cups of steaming coffee and baklava, Hayat became talkative once more. “When I was a small girl, I came to the Grand Bazaar frequently. My father has a small shop there, selling carpets. I used to love it because I felt I was at the center of life—merchants shouting to lure potential customers into their shops and bargaining over the prices of goods, the milling crowds, the mingled aromas of food being cooked, the shops filled with beautiful silk scarves, gold jewelry, and ceramics. But as I grew older, my father thought that it was not appropriate for a young woman to be seen by many young men, so I stopped coming. My visits became very rare.”

  “Hayat, you make the Grand Bazaar sound so exotic!” Melanie exclaimed.

  “Yes, it is exotic, but it can also be dangerous. How should I describe it—like the beautiful cove on an island? The waters can be very alluring, but they may also harbor sunken rocks where dangerous creatures like the shark and the giant octopus lurk.”