“Don’t believe every bullshit story you hear,” Bob retorted. “He blames me for the failure of the ransom attempt and wants to get even.”
Malone silently spun on his heel and walked toward the locker room, leaving Bob in confusion as to whether he believed Ozmen’s accusation. Had Murat offered Malone a reward for killing him? If so, he did not have much time. Becky and he had better check out of the hotel immediately.
But maybe not. Help should be arriving soon.
At that moment, Bob’s phone rang. He jumped even though he had been alerted by email the night before to expect a call. He heard a clear, crisp voice: “Mr. Bigelow, this is Sergeant Baker of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We went to the suite where Buzz Malone is staying, but his employers said that he is in the gym.”
“Yes, I can confirm that. I am in the gym now. He just went to the locker room and is probably taking a shower.”
“Please do not leave the gym before we arrive. We need you for positive identification.”
Moments later, two Mounties arrived. Bob pointed in the direction of the locker room. “He is still in there.”
When Malone emerged from the locker room fully clothed, handcuffed, and flanked on either side by a Mountie, he seemed startled when Bob said, “This is your man.”
Malone could not contain his fury. “You Judas! You piece of shit! I will get you for this!”
The two police officers advised him to keep quiet or he would be gagged. Bob resisted the impulse to lift his middle finger to Malone in contempt. He waited for the police officers and Malone to get into the elevator before he took the stairs to the lobby.
Two police cars with flashing lights were parked in front of the lodge. Curious guests gathered at the entrance to see what was happening. One policeman stood by the cars, and a second took up position in the lobby to provide cover if necessary. The doors of the elevator opened, and Malone was marched across the lobby to one of the waiting cars. He would be extradited under police escort on the next flight to New York.
When Bob got back to the honeymoon suite, room service had already delivered breakfast. Becky flashed a grin when he reported on the morning’s events. “The Mounties always get their man!”
Some of the burden of guilt resting on Bob’s shoulders began to lift. A smile of relief spread across his face. The capture of Malone had happened so fortuitously that he wondered whether life was a series of random events after all. It was the sort of philosophical question that his brother, Dave, would appreciate.
Rough Justice
Chapter Sixty-Two
Dave Bigelow had not seen Ahmet Ozak for months, ever since his interview with the Turkish journalist in New York, when he had revealed his suspicions about Demir Ozmen. Now the occasion of Dave’s second site visit to the headquarters of the Europa Bank subsidiary in Istanbul had given them an opportunity to meet again. They were sitting in a coffee shop as the journalist related the tumultuous events in his life that had followed the publication of the article connecting Ozmen to the brutal beating of Hayat Yilmaz. He had tried to interview Ozmen before the release of the article, but his requests for a meeting had been met with silence. Days later, Ozmen’s dead body had been retrieved from the Bosporus.
The manner of his execution was typical of the slayings that occurred during turf battles between Turkish drug gangs. That had intrigued the editors at Ozak’s news agency, who had transferred him back to Istanbul to begin a series of investigative articles about the Ottoman Trading Company. The question they had posed was whether Ozmen had been a rogue employee, as the company claimed, or was there a deeper, more sinister link between the company and the international drug trade?
“Would I have undertaken this assignment if I had known how it would end?” Ozak shook his head ruefully. “At first, I had the support of my editors. But months later, they fired me under political pressure. I am now a freelance journalist making out as best I can. My former newspaper will accept occasional articles from me on cultural or sports events, but not on politics or the international drug trade.”
“What do you mean by political pressure? What happened?”
“I started my investigation by contacting the father of Hayat Yilmaz. He confirmed what you told me about the reason for the breaking off of the betrothal between his daughter and Demir Ozmen. I gained his trust. He introduced me to his nephew, Husayin Yilmaz, who is in hiding because he is accused of killing a number of the company’s employees, including Ozmen. I asked him whether he had shot Ozmen in revenge for the death of Hayat Yilmaz, as the company claims. He denied it. He suspects that the company killed Ozmen. I believe him.”
“Was there ever a thorough investigation into how Hayat died?”
“There was an investigation, but not a thorough one. The conclusion was that Hayat Yilmaz died from an accidental substitution of medications, not from her injuries. The medications were administered by a temporary nurse, who was subsequently dismissed for incompetence, although no charges were pressed against her by the police or public prosecutor. She has disappeared, according to my acquaintances at the hospital. The official explanation was not satisfactory. Apparently, this nurse was not some inexperienced young girl but, rather, a matron with twenty years of nursing behind her.”
“But shouldn’t that raise all kinds of questions?” Dave was shocked.
“Officially, no—but privately, yes. I checked into the personal life of this matron and discovered an interesting link to the Ottoman Trading Company. She is the mistress of a man who is the personal bodyguard of Omer Tilki, president of the company.”
“Omer Tilki? But what would be his motive for wanting Hayat killed?”
“She knew something that he did not want to become public.”
“Such as what?” The answer came to Dave as soon as he finished the question. “Drugs?”
Ozak nodded. “There is a family connection between the Tilki clan and the Baybasin clan, which runs the British drug trade. Birds of a feather flock together.”
“It makes sense that Ozmen could not have planned the overdose of medications administered to Hayat. He was a hostage in Mexico. Planning something like that would have taken more time than the one or two weeks he had after his return to Turkey.”
“Agreed. When I raised some of these questions in the articles that I wrote, my editors started receiving death threats in the mail. They feared that a lawsuit by the Ottoman Trading Company against the newspaper was imminent. But the Tilkis abhor bad publicity and retaliated by getting their friends in government to revive the bogus tax evasion case against the newspaper. It was much more effective. The message was clear. Drop this line of inquiry or you will get hurt. My editors caved in and fired me.”
“So what hold do the Tilkis have on the government?”
Ozak smiled cynically. “Money. They are major contributors to the prime minister’s campaign to change the constitution so that he, as president, can become the elected sultan of a revived Ottoman Empire.” His face tensed. “But perhaps I have said too much. I must watch what I say if I want to avoid arrest for treason.”
The two men finished their remaining coffee in silence. Dave glanced at his watch, thinking about an early morning meeting he had scheduled.
Ozak gestured to him. “I promised Cengiz Yilmaz that I would take you to see him. Do you have the time? He wants to thank you for your friendship and support for Hayat. He would also like you to meet someone.”
“At his home?”
“No, at his shop. He is a carpet dealer in the Grand Bazaar, not far from here.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Many of the shops in the Grand Bazaar were already shuttered for the evening when they arrived. They were greeted warmly by Cengiz, who conversed with Dave in the front room of the shop using Ozak as an interpreter. The mysterious person whom he had wanted Dave to meet was not present. Cengiz ass
ured Dave that he would arrive soon.
A loud creaking noise from the back room—as if from the unoiled hinges of a door—heralded the arrival of the stranger. Cengiz pushed aside the hanging carpet that separated the front of the shop from the back and motioned to Dave to follow him. The dimly lit storage room was filled with carpets rolled up on the floor and stacked against the wall. No one was evident until a large carpet in one corner of the room began to move. A tall, bearded man suddenly emerged from the dark shadows into the light.
He greeted Cengiz and then strode toward Dave with an outstretched hand. In halting English, he introduced himself. “I am Husayin Yilmaz.”
Dave had guessed the stranger’s identity the moment he saw him. He hesitated, then reached out to grasp the hand of a wanted murderer.
Cengiz directed a request at Dave, which Ozak translated. “My nephew is in a very difficult situation, wrongfully accused of murder when he was only acting in self-defense. He cannot expect true justice in our country. For Hayat’s sake, can you not help him as well?”
“How can I help?” asked Dave when he understood the question.
“You must have powerful friends in the US government. Could you use your influence to help him gain asylum in the United States?”
Dave had not expected this appeal and was unprepared to respond immediately. A minute elapsed before he responded, “It would be difficult. There is a 1979 extradition treaty between the United States and Turkey in murder cases. However, there are political exceptions. A request for extradition can be refused if it is politically motivated, and that assumes that you had already gained entry into the United States, Husayin. That is a separate issue, which I will discuss with the information officer at the US consulate in Istanbul. She was a classmate of mine at Princeton. We are having lunch later this week.”
After Cengiz and Husayin had expressed their gratitude for whatever he could do, Dave excused himself. As he walked with Ahmet out of the Grand Bazaar to a nearby taxi stand, Dave could no longer contain himself. “Ahmet, where in the hell did he come from? He appeared out of nowhere.”
Ozak laughed. “It is a well-kept secret. At the back of Cengiz’s shop is a door with steps leading down to the Yerebatan Sarayi, which means ‘sunken palace.’ It is better known in English as the Basilica Cistern. It was built by the Emperor Justinian I to provide water to his great palace. It survived the Ottoman conquest and, for many years, also served the needs of the sultans’ Topkapi Palace.”
“Now why has no one ever mentioned it to me before?”
“Most tourists miss it. They walk above it not even knowing that it exists, even though it has many wooden bridges over the water that permit exploration.”
“And hiding too?”
“Yes, and that too.”
“But I think Husayin must be spending much of his time above ground. He looks too sunburned to be hiding during the day in the Basilica Cistern.”
“That he does,” agreed Ahmet. “I feel sorry for Husayin. The last few months have been very frustrating for him. If he is thinking about gaining asylum in the United States, he must be giving up on ever bringing the Tilkis to justice. Omer Tilki is a very elusive man. He rarely appears in public, and when he does, he is surrounded by bodyguards.”
“And apparently, he does not respond to telephone calls. Elizabeth Waters, the information officer at the US consulate, mentioned to me when I called her that she has been trying for months to set up a meeting with Omer Tilki to explain US reasons for requesting the extradition of Murat, the former head of the company’s New York office. His secretary’s standard response is that he will get back to her, but he never does.
“Finally, this week, her anger boiled over. She offered Tilki’s secretary time on three different days when she could meet with him. His schedule was completely booked, she was told. ‘Even on Friday?’ she asked. Especially on Friday, because Tilki, apparently, is going to announce in front of the Blue Mosque, with the media present, the funding by his company of the Turkish-Syrian Friendship Foundation to assist Syrian refugees who have fled the civil war in their country.”
“This Friday?” asked Ahmet curiously. “Do you know what time?”
“Around midday, I assume. Elizabeth said she would be able to have lunch with me because Tilki cannot meet with her at that time.”
Ahmet was silent as he opened the taxi door for Dave. He knew someone who would be very interested in that information.
“Can I offer you a ride somewhere?” asked Dave.
“No, thanks. I just remembered I forgot my cigarette lighter at Cengiz’s shop. I will need to go back before he closes for the night.”
It was minutes later when Dave recalled that he had never seen Ahmet smoke a cigarette.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Two days later, Dave was sitting on the terrace of the Sultanahmet Palace Hotel restaurant, which had views of the Blue Mosque and the sparkling Sea of Marmara in the distance. He was chatting with Elizabeth Waters about Husayin Yilmaz’s chances of being given asylum in the United States.
“I am not hopeful. Relations between Ankara and Washington are already strained. Whatever the merits of Husayin Yilmaz’s case, Washington will hesitate to make things worse. But I promise you that I will test the political waters and make some inquiries on his behalf.”
Waters was a personal friend of Professor Oguz of Istanbul Technical University, who had suggested the restaurant to them. Professor Oguz had not yet joined them because he had been delayed in traffic. It was a pleasant day in May with bright sunshine and a soft warm breeze blowing from the south. The murmur of street noise drifted up to them, punctuated by the persistent calls of muezzin to Friday prayers.
“What a perfect choice,” said Elizabeth in her cheerful Midwestern voice. “So atmospheric—and the menu looks interesting too. It’s too bad about the traffic, but Professor Oguz should be here shortly. Have you known him long?”
“A business associate, Jeff Braunstein, and I were here on a business trip last September for some meetings at the Turkish head office of Europa Bank. On impulse, we stopped at the College of Architecture of Istanbul Technical University to ask about Hayat Yilmaz, a friend of ours who had taught there. That’s how we met him.”
“Wasn’t that extraordinary? Hayat brutally beaten and tossed into the Bosporus, rescued by a fisherman, only to die at one of the best hospitals in Istanbul from an accidental dose!”
“At least that is the official explanation,” responded Dave just as Oguz joined them at the table. “I am skeptical.”
“My apologies for being late,” said Oguz, “but the traffic today in Istanbul is horrendous. I overheard your comment. I do not have much confidence in the official findings either.”
“Do you think there was a cover-up?” asked Jeff.
Oguz grimaced as he spoke. “There was speculation in the press, encouraged by a report from the Ottoman Trading Company, that Demir Ozmen was responsible for Hayat’s death and that her cousin then killed him in revenge.”
“There is one problem with that speculation, Professor Oguz,” retorted Dave. “As someone who shared his captivity in Mexico, I am confident he had no opportunity to plan Hayat’s death from an overdose of medications. After his return to Istanbul, he would not have had enough time to come up with some elaborate scheme.”
“I could not agree more, Dave.” Oguz chuckled. “I do not endorse the company’s explanation. It is another of those Turkish mysteries.”
“I wonder if it really is a mystery,” Dave countered. “Ozmen’s employer has to be the primary suspect both for her death and for the cover-up.”
Elizabeth Waters glanced at Dave and nodded in support. “In the United States, the Department of Justice has shut down the New York office of Ottoman Trading Company as a front for an illicit drug operation. The head of that office, Murat, escaped arrest and fl
ed back to Turkey, where he succeeded Ozmen as vice president for special operations at corporate headquarters. The Turkish government has not yet acted on a US request for the extradition of Murat. In fact, our ambassador to Turkey has urged an investigation into the operations of Ottoman Trading Company several times, but he is being stonewalled.”
“Relations between Turkey and the United States are somewhat troubled right now over Egypt and the Syrian civil war—”
“Don’t make excuses for the Turkish government, Professor Oguz,” interrupted Waters. “This goes much deeper than differences over foreign policy.”
Oguz sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. Emir Tilki and his son, Omer, are important supporters of the governing party, holding fund-raisers which helped it to win our recent local elections. The anti-government demonstrations in Taksim Square have been crushed through the arrest of many of its organizers and supporters, who now await trial for sedition and even treason. The prime minister has his eye set on becoming our next president in August, and he will not act against any of his important business supporters in the forthcoming election campaign.”
“In other words, the Ottoman Trading Company is protected against an official investigation unless there is a change of government in Turkey?” asked Dave.
“Precisely, Dave,” agreed Waters. “And from what Professor Oguz has said—and I concur completely—that is unlikely to happen.”
“I have faith in my country, and justice will happen, sooner or later,” opined Professor Oguz. “But why don’t we place our orders for lunch? Our waiter has been waiting patiently for us. Would you like me to recommend some of our Turkish specialties?”
Chapter Sixty-Five
A few hundred yards away from the restaurant, throngs of the faithful were exiting onto the public plaza in front of the Blue Mosque after listening to Friday prayers. Some of them stopped to press coins into the outstretched palms of beggars, whose numbers had swelled since the start of the Syrian civil war.
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