Accidental Encounters
Page 16
Hours passed. Then a shot had been heard, and the body of a businessman had been thrown onto the front steps of the cathedral. The reassuring words of the cameraman now rang hollow. No one knew what would happen next.
Television anchors had given up on live reporting from the cathedral square and had resorted instead to documentaries on the virulent drug wars plaguing Mexico as gangs battled over lucrative trade routes to major markets in the United States and Europe. A learned professor from an American university and a fellow from a libertarian policy institute in Washington, DC, had debated the merits of legalizing drugs to break the hold of the gangs. Should governments tax and regulate drugs in the same way as alcohol?
Members of the Turkish media were also interviewed to elaborate on the impact of the hostage crisis on public opinion in Turkey, where it was receiving full coverage in all the major newspapers and television channels. They conceded that the Ottoman Trading Company was not being forthcoming with information except to confirm that Demir Ozmen was a senior executive who had traveled to Mexico to negotiate some new business deals, pending official approval of a free trade agreement between Mexico and Turkey.
Maria Elena awoke with a start on her sofa. She was surprised that she had been able to doze off. Midday light was slanting through the blinds on her windows. The television set was still on. The hosts of the morning shows were almost apologetic in reporting that nothing had happened overnight or this morning, as if news should be entertainment. She stood up to walk toward the kitchenette. Her mouth was parched, and for the first time in more than a day, she felt a pang of hunger.
Then the news broke. She could tell from the excited pitch of the news anchor’s voice that there was a major new development. She turned back to the television set. A reporter was standing in the square, pointing toward the pink cathedral bathed in golden light by the sun. The doors to the cathedral had opened. The masked leader of the gang, flanked by armed guards, emerged from the gloom inside, shoving the priest before him. The priest, whose vestments were torn and in disarray, was praying. The scream that Maria Elena felt rising in her throat died within her as the terrorist lifted his gun and fired into the back of the priest’s head. The gunmen then withdrew into the cathedral, closing the doors.
“Oh my god!” She repeated it several times before collapsing on the sofa. She was in shock. It had happened so quickly that she wanted to believe that it was a bad dream. But bad dreams end, and the continuous television coverage made clear that this one would not. Within two hours, the cameraman who had been selected by Los Zetas to be their messenger to the world had heard their explanation of what had transpired.
The businessman had been shot because he had tried to escape during a toilet break. The priest had pleaded for the life of the businessman, offering himself as a sacrifice so that he would be spared. His request had been denied, but since he seemed to desire martyrdom, the leader of the gang had decided to oblige his death wish.
Maria Elena felt impotent rage rising within her. She knew her uncle. He would not have wanted heroic martyrdom. He was merely acting as a witness for his faith. His last prayers would not have been for himself but, rather, for the safety of the hostages and the souls of their captors. Father, forgive them for they know not what they do!
She wondered why Diego had not called her. Did he not know what had happened? She picked up the receiver to call him.
Chapter Forty
It was midafternoon when the solitude of the three prisoners, each withdrawn into his own thoughts, was broken by the sound of a key turning in the lock. They had become accustomed to the background noise penetrating the thin walls of their room—the voices of their captors, the ringing of phones, the occasional hum of a vehicle driving up to their motel unit and then departing, and in the distance, the relentless roar of traffic on the nearby highway. But the unlocking of the door riveted their attention. It was too early for their evening meal. What could it mean?
Two guards entered the room, their hands resting on the holsters of their guns. “Ozmen?” one called out to the Turk, motioning for him to come with them.
Slowly, as if fearing the worst, he got up from his cot and, without glancing at the Bigelow brothers, walked past the guards into the adjoining room. They quickly followed him and again locked the door.
Dave and Bob exchanged glances and strained to hear what was happening in the other room. The murmur of voices was audible, but they could not make out individual words. Neither liked the man, but to their relief, no shots rang out—nor did Ozmen cry out in pain.
Bob broke the silence first. “When you were questioning Ozmen about this woman you know in Istanbul—”
“Hayat Yilmaz?”
“Yeah, her. That jogged my memory. Just before I left New York, I was sitting in on a teleconference between Murat and Tilki to discuss what should be done about Ozmen’s kidnapping. Ozmen is in deep shit with Tilki about some incident involving a woman. Tilki is so ticked off, he initially considered not ransoming Ozmen and leaving him to die.”
“Was the woman’s name mentioned?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
The brothers relapsed into silence. Each man wondered who would be next.
When Ozmen, flanked by the two guards, entered the adjoining room, he saw a third man dressed in civilian clothes but whose erect, trim bearing and abrupt manner of speech identified him as a man who had once served in the military. Clearly in charge, he invited Ozmen to sit down and then introduced himself.
“My name is Pedro Guerra. I know who you are. The media has identified you as a Turkish businessman, Demir Ozmen, vice president for special operations of the Ottoman Trading Company. Your kidnapping has caused a lot of disruption in our country. The cathedral in Morelia was seized by a gang demanding your release. Two hostages have already been executed.”
Ozmen eyed Guerra warily. Why tell him about the execution of hostages? Was this to intimidate him?
“Do the people who seized the cathedral belong to your gang?” he asked.
“No, they are much too stupid to belong to my gang. Vicious dogs sniffing at the wrong scent.” He laughed contemptuously. “Tell me, what were you doing in Veracruz?”
“I was trying to arrange a trade deal with Veracruz Sugar.”
“With Veracruz Sugar or with Los Zetas? The activities of you and your colleague—the one who was, unfortunately, killed—”
“Comooglou.”
“Has aroused the curiosity of our informant in Veracruz. First, you were the guests of Diego Alvarez—an executive of Veracruz Sugar who is known to have ties to Los Zetas—at a heavily guarded luxurious villa. Each morning, you were picked up by a chauffeur-driven limousine with bodyguard and taken to the docklands, where you spent an unusual amount of time inspecting a cargo ship, the Atlantica, which had been selected for the transport of refined sugar. This is a relatively new ship, still in good condition and specially fitted, I believe, with secret compartments to conceal contraband. The ship was expected to leave port in ten days.
“You, of course, tried to disguise your real purpose. On the second and third mornings, you went to different parts of the docklands, where the papers you showed to the security guards indicated that you were two Turkish businessmen interested in either shipping Mexican automotive parts to Turkey or in exporting vegetables to the United States. These are standard procedures for someone trying to set up a highly sophisticated drug smuggling ring.”
Ozmen sat impassively, not admitting to anything.
“You see, my organization knows everything about you. You may wonder who we are. We are Sinaloa, the main rivals of Los Zetas, and we will do anything to sabotage their plans to establish some sort of transatlantic partnership. Besides, you are dealing with the wrong people. We should be your partners.”
Ozmen was impressed. “What are you suggesting?”
“No. We have talked only about how things went wrong.”
“Yes, they did go wrong. There was a police trap. Someone tipped off the police. If Tilki changed his mind, he could have done it to make sure that he kept his money. But what is five million dollars compared to what he could earn over the long term dealing with us? No, it had to be someone else. What do you know about Bigelow?”
“He joined Ottoman Trading Company at the beginning of this year to handle our financial accounts in the New York office. The head of the office there has used him to carry some important messages, but I cannot vouch for his reliability.”
“My hunch is that Bigelow is a police spy.”
Ozmen nodded. “I share your suspicions. Either Bob Bigelow is incompetent or he is a police spy. I am also worried about his brother. He asked me some questions that could only be of interest to the Turkish police. I would not trust him. He could be dangerous.”
“Both could be police spies. We will deal with them when the time comes.”
“I could call Tilki to confirm his continued interest in working with Sinaloa,” offered Ozmen, eager to align himself with his captors. “You still have my phone, don’t you?”
“I have thought about that,” replied Guerra, “but with both the Mexican and Turkish governments now on high alert, there is too much risk. Your call could be intercepted. Still, you could be helpful to us.”
“How?”
“Talk to the Bigelow brothers. Get close to them. Maybe they will confide some secrets to you. If you succeed, then we can start thinking about how and where to release you. Understood? My boss and I have decided to spare you. We still have not made up our minds about the other two. I am inclined to shoot Bob Bigelow, but his brother—maybe I will let him live.”
Ozmen was only too willing to comply. The solution to his dilemma had presented itself. After all, what were the Bigelow brothers to him—troublemakers at best and police spies at worst. He would happily betray both of them for his freedom.
“May I offer a suggestion?” he said. “If you shoot one of the brothers, it would be safer to shoot both of them.”
Chapter Forty-One
When Ozmen was shoved back into the room, the curious Bigelow brothers waited only until the guards had left, locking the door behind them, before they fired questions at him.
“That took a long time. What did they want from you?” asked Bob.
“The same old things. Those guys are like an old record. They always ask the same questions.” Looking disgusted, Ozmen sat down on his cot and sighed. “I am losing hope of ever getting out of here alive.”
“Did they get rough with you?” Dave asked anxiously.
“Not this time. But who knows what will happen next time?” He crooked his index finger as if he was pulling a trigger. “Those guys are tough.”
A key turned the lock to the door once more. This time, the guards pointed to Dave when they entered. He looked at Bob as he walked toward the door. “Keep the faith, brother!”
After Guerra introduced himself, he got quickly to the point, mixing his tactics to keep Dave mentally off balance.
“You are related to Bob Bigelow?”
“Yes, I am his brother.”
“How long have the two of you worked together?”
“What do you mean?” The question puzzled Dave.
“For the police.”
“You are mistaken. We have no connection to the police. I am a lawyer from New York in Mexico City on business, and my brother is chief financial officer for the New York office of the Ottoman Trading Company.”
“What did you know about the police trap last night when the ransom money was transferred to us?”
“Nothing at all. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t lie to us!” He walked over to Dave and hit him across the face. “You were seen at the restaurant last night sitting at the same table as your brother shortly before we picked him up, as agreed, for the transfer of the ransom money. What did he tell you?”
“He told me he was in Mexico City on a business trip and had a meeting after dinner last night. That was the last I saw of him until your men brought me here.”
“Then why were you running after his car?”
“I wanted to return something to him that he had forgotten at the restaurant.”
“It couldn’t have waited until you were both back in New York?”
“It probably could have. I don’t know why I did it. It was stupid of me.”
“Do you know a Miguel Rodriguez?”
“No, I have never heard the name. Who is he?”
“He is an agent working for the Drug Enforcement Agency in the United States. My sources tell me that he tipped off the police about the ransom deal. What I am trying to find out is who told him about the ransom deal. Was it you or your brother?”
“I think you are mistaken about my brother and me.”
“What kind of business did you say you are in? Why are you in Mexico City?”
“I am part of a team hired by the US Department of Justice to work on an anti–money laundering project at Europa Bank, which has a branch in Mexico City.”
“Who is laundering money?”
“Drug gangs and terrorists.”
Guerra laughed. “So you are one of the guys making life difficult for people like me.” He walked up to Dave, who steeled himself for another blow.
“Do you have a family?”
“Yes, a wife and daughter.”
“Look, if you want to see your family again, tell us what you know. Your brother is a police collaborator. Of that we are certain.” Turning on his heel, Guerra tossed a final threat over this shoulder. “Think about my offer if you want to live. You still have a little time.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Bob’s interrogation came next, lasted longer, and was more brutal. It began with a blunt accusation: “Your brother told us you are a police spy!”
“That’s not true! My brother would not tell a lie!” he replied with heat. It could not be true, even if he had reason to doubt his brother, because Dave could not have known about his FBI ties.
“Then what were you discussing at the restaurant last night? Instructions from the DEA?”
“Look, my brother and I met by accident at that restaurant. He did not even know that I was in Mexico City. We were just catching up on what was happening in our lives. Let him go!”
Guerra struck Bob across the mouth. “You expect me to believe that bullshit? Tell me the truth!”
“That is the truth!” Bob tried to avoid the second blow, but it glanced off his right eye.
“If your brother is what he says he is—a New York lawyer investigating Mexican banks and not a police liaison—then I will start believing in fairy tales. His life is hanging by a thread. If you want your brother to live, tell me who your police contact in Mexico City is and what you did to set up the trap.”
“I don’t know how the police found out.”
“Ever hear of Miguel Rodriguez?”
Bob shook his head. “No, who is he?”
“Your phone records indicate that you received a call last night while you were eating dinner at Villa Maria. Who called you? We have not been able to trace it. It was from someone with an unlisted number.”
“It was from my girlfriend. She wanted to check on me.”
“You are lying. One thing I know for certain—you are a police informer. You are the
only person who could have tipped off the police. None of my men would have done it. We have worked together for years. I completely trust them. You have one last chance. You may not give a damn about your own life, but do you want your brother’s death on your conscience?”
Bob’s voice shook as the threat to his brother hit home. “I was only following orders from my employer. I am not a police spy.” Another blow fell on his head.
Then Guerra’s mobile phone rang, giving Bob a temporary respite. He was certain that nothing was to be gained from a confession. The kidnappers did not live by a code of honor. If he admitted that he had had contact with Miguel Rodriguez, they might still kill his brother and him as well. Nonetheless, he knew that he would never be able to face Dave’s wife and daughter again if his brother was killed by their captors and he somehow survived. He had made a mess of his life, and now he had dragged his brother into it.
When Bob was pushed back into the room after his ordeal, the other two prisoners could see evidence of his beating in the fading afternoon light—blood trickling from a bruised lip and a swollen eye showing the first signs of discoloration.
But Bob was still defiant, whispering to Dave, “I told that bastard Guerra the truth—that I was only delivering the money from Ottoman Trading Company for the release of Ozmen. I knew nothing about a police trap! But he did not believe me.” His emphatic tone convinced Dave.
“What do you think they will do with us?” asked Ozmen, injecting himself into the exchange.
“Shoot us! When I was in there”—Bob motioned with his head toward the other room, where their captors kept guard—“Guerra received a telephone call. My knowledge of Spanish came in handy. I picked up enough from Guerra’s responses to know that all the major highways leaving Mexico City have police or military blockades. Motorists are being stopped, and their vehicles are being inspected. Guerra’s last question to his caller was what he should do with the excess baggage. He was looking at me when he asked that question.”