So I say to myself as I walk toward the meeting place, I don’t have a gun even though I know I’m meeting violent criminals, murderers actually. This is basically because I also don’t own a gun, never have, and except for hunting briefly as a young man and having had an expert rating in the military with rifle and sidearms, I am appalled at the human carnage they inflict. Nevertheless, with my Stetson hat slightly cocked to the side and feeling confident with the knowledge that Len and his troops have my back, I head straight for the zoo entrance and the public phones just outside it.
I can see the pedestal phones just south of the zoo sign. As usual, this is a busy sidewalk in mild weather and at noon even busier because it’s lunch hour. I have no way to identify my adversary as he has demanded of me. In this respect, he holds the advantage. I don’t even know his name, except for the one we are using for convenience. He could have followed me from the Pierre, or crossing the street, observed my every move for all I know, because I wouldn’t recognize him
Looking at my wrist again, we’ve got a little less than ten minutes until we meet. I begin to relax and slowly, nonchalantly, continue to stroll a half block north, stop at a newsstand, and return south. Approaching the phones again, I notice a tall, dark complexioned Hispanic man with a black mustache nearby, also with a Stetson.
I hesitate for a moment, and he strides toward me.
“Señor Logan, so we meet,” he says menacingly.
“Yes, José, or whatever your name is,” I reply.
“José is fine. Are you alone?”
“Are you?” I ask right back.
José, allowing a tight grin, says, “Touché. It remains to be seen.”
“I need to talk to Allison. Now,” I demand.
“Do you have the merchandise?”
“We’re wasting time. Call her,” I repeat.
“Yes,” José replies. “Her hosts have told her last night that we had arranged a call from you. No sense letting her worry another night.”
“That’s nice of you. What’s the angle?”
“Only protecting our property,” he responds.
I don’t respond, watching intently as he moves to the nearest phone, and a moment later, turns and says, “Your friend wants to speak to you.”
With a lump in my throat, I take the phone. “Allison, is that you?”
“Yes, Kevin dear, I’m so happy to talk to you. Please get me out of here.”
“Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you? Are you all right?” I say, tripping over myself to find out.
“I’m fine, Kevin, no one’s hurt me. They’ve fed me and taken good care of me, but I want to get out of here right away.”
“Don’t worry, honey, you will, and things will start to happen as soon as I hang up the phone, I promise.”
“That’s enough,” José demands. “She’s healthy and unharmed, let’s get on with it.”
“Okay, honey, listen,” I say. “Do you have the keys to the apartment, because I’ve lost mine?”
“What? What the hell are you saying? Who gives a damn about keys? Just get me out of here now, Kevin,” she forcefully demands.
“Hang up,” José demands loudly
“Hang in there, we’ll get you out.” I hear her protesting as they take the phone from her.
José likewise takes the phone away from me and hangs it up. “All right,” he announces, “you found out that your friend is unharmed, let me see my property.”
“Not so fast. I have some questions before that happens.”
“Like what, Señor Logan? And make it quick.”
“Like, the exchange has to be simultaneous. How is that going to happen? I’ll be damned if I’m going to give you the merchandise unless I have Allison with me.”
“No, you were to show me the merchandise. If I was satisfied, we would arrange an immediate transfer, but not here. That is our plan.”
“Okay, you’re right, that’s the plan. So come with me,” I say as I turn to cross the street.
“Where are we going?” he asks suspiciously.
“To see the merchandise across the street.”
With a furtive look around, for cartel troops perhaps, he falls in step. We go directly across Fifth Avenue so that we approach the cab stand coming south and I could see the last cab in line. At a reasonable distance, I can clearly read OMT-4678, thank God. I go directly to the cabbie’s front window, introduce myself, and ask him to release the trunk. José is at my side and follows me back to the trunk. Opening the lid completely, I reach for Allison’s bag, slide it forward, and then zip it open.
“Look,” I say, “is this what you want?”
“Yes,” he beams, “exactly what I want.” He moves several of the dope bags to uncover more of the same.
“Now, where do we make the exchange?” I demand as I re-zip the bag and close the trunk.
“It’s your cab, let’s hop in and I will give the driver instructions.”
I look behind me, across the street, and past the cab. Nothing or no one seems threatening as we stand behind the cab. So I’ve got to make an immediate decision, and even though I recall Len’s admonition, I don’t see the danger with the officer as cabbie.
“Okay, lets go.”
“Straight down Fifth, around Fortieth, I’ll tell you exactly when we arrive,” José says.
As the cab heads south, José immediately turns to look out the back window. I sit silently and think to myself, Good luck in discovering someone following you. New York is not conducive to that, no matter how Hollywood depicts it. There are literally hundreds of cars, trucks, cabs, and personal vehicles all going south, weaving in and out, curb to curb, in a one-way race as fast as they are able. The thirty blocks are managed rather quickly, with a minimum of cross lights.
As we approach Fortieth on the left, José says, “That’s fine, let us off here.”
“This it?” the cabbie asks.
“Yes, this is good. Open the trunk. How much?” he asks.
“Mr. Logan hired me and he wants me to wait,” he says as he waves José off.
“That’s okay, driver, I’ve changed my mind. Thank you,” I say as I hand him a twenty and prepare to depart.
“All right, sir, thank you. I’ll open the trunk,” he replies, inferring that I will have the chance to lift the bag out when I’m ready. I reach in for the bag, lift it out, hold onto it for dear life, and in doing so carefully observe my surroundings. The cab then drives off heading south.
José interrupts me when he says, “I need to call a cab.” Standing on the corner, he waves the first lighted one down. So much for my safe surroundings. We get into the cab and José says to the cabbie, “Don’t worry about the distance, you will be will taken care of. Take me to Thirty-Fourth off Second Avenue.”
“José, where the hell are we going?” I ask.
“Not to worry,” he assures me. “We are almost there.”
The driver moves south on Second Avenue, turns right on Thirty-Fourth Street, and goes about halfway down the block when José shouts, “Here. Thank you.” It is a Mexican restaurant named Cancún.
“Is this it?” asks the cabbie.
“Yes, thank you,” says José and hands the cabbie a twenty. “Keep the change.”
I note a drab building block in the garment district, a laundry, and a valet next to the restaurant that completes the block back to Second Avenue. Above the retail stores it looks like typical fabric shops dealing rolls of fabric, both wholesale and retail, to real and would-be fashion designers.
I have a death grip on the bag and ask again, “Where we going?”
“Inside the restaurant, and after we’re seated, to the restrooms in back at the end of the hall.”
We are seated for a few minutes, then get up and head toward the restrooms. Past the men’s room, I see a baffle at the end of the hallway. José looks around, sees no one, walks around the baffle, unlocks a door marked private with a key from his pocket, and motions for me to follow
. Inside the door we step into a hallway that extends behind the restaurant. To our left a few feet into the hallway are stairs going up and to our right is a long hallway. It appears that there are rooms or offices off the corridor. He motions for me to follow and we continue right some distance where I figure the hallway and offices are behind the restaurant and, I would guess, behind the valet and laundry all the way back to Second Avenue. We stop in a fairly spacious conference room. Wow, talk about the drug fronts, how about the drug backs?
“Well, I’ll be damned. Now where is Allison?” I ask, looking around as I set the bag on the conference table.
“Sit down, we’re waiting for someone,” José orders.
In a few moments, two burly men come in as if summoned. They are obviously thugs and I can only presume they are also armed.
“I want to see Allison now,” I insist, holding the bag in front of me. I look at José across the table, while also keeping a wary eye toward the thugs leaning against the wall by the entrance.
“She’s not here.”
“What? That was the deal. Where is she?” I holler belligerently, as I bolt to my feet.
“Sit down and calm down, she’s safe. You talked to her, she’s just not here,” he says.
“Then, what the hell am I doing here?” I try to sound demanding.
“You are here, Mr. Logan, to answer some questions from us, after which, if you are cooperative, you will see your Allison and both of you will be released.”
This time I see him reach under the table and I now know how he signals for someone. In a moment, an expensively dressed man comes in to greet me with a “Good day, Señor Logan, we have been looking forward to meeting you. You can call me Pablo.”
“I wasn’t looking forward to meeting you and I don’t care what your name is. I made a deal with José here. You have your dope and you haven’t released the hostage as promised.”
“All in good time,” Pablo says pleasantly, taking a seat. “We want to know all about you taking our property, where you had hidden it, and who you have told about it. Once we find out the answers to those questions, you will be released unharmed.”
“That wasn’t part of the bargain,” I respond.
Smiling, Pablo leans forward. “Really? he asks. “As a businessman representing your company around the world, you are really genuinely surprised that there is no honor among thieves? And I place you as one of them.”
Damn, I’m thinking, what a mess I’ve made of this whole deal. I did exactly what George and Len told me not to do, allow myself to be taken hostage. It wasn’t even forced. I volunteered! Now Len and the troops don’t know where I am because José changed cabs, and I’m here and Allison’s elsewhere, and they’re not about to let us go, no matter what I tell them. Why did I let this happen? Why? And, especially, how do I get out of what appears to be a very secure and hidden prison? On top of all that, I may have an idea of what kind of place they might be holding Allison, but what good is it going to do me?
Twenty
Unknown to me, Len, using the vast NYPD resources with the help of the FBI and the DEA, was frantically attempting to locate me as I struggled with the precarious situation I found myself in.
Fortunately, there were redundant backups to the taxi tracing. In addition to several cabs driven by police officers following our cab and the tracer attached to the underside of the taxi, Len had the good sense to also use a police helicopter. One of the police taxis briefly caught sight of our cab pulling to a stop before Fortieth and passed that information to the copter, which then picked up José hailing a new cab that turned east on Fortieth and followed him downtown to Thirty-Fourth.
Because of heavy traffic and the narrow street, the copter personnel could not pick up our exit from the cab and did not see anyone entering a building.
In the meantime, I faced a barrage of questions aimed at uncovering what I did with the drugs found in my bag, who was with me at the time, how I disposed of them, and why and to whom I had talked during the two weeks that I was overseas. Some of my answers were partially truthful, others outright fabrication.
I confessed that Allison was my confidant after I had discovered the drugs when I inventoried my suitcase in her apartment in preparation for my trip to South Korea. Thereafter, upon my return, I had her bring me the drugs in a carry-on on an employee pass flight. After I picked her up at the airport, we drove to Grand Central and stored them in another locker. That’s why I was able to retrieve them so quickly.
I repeated what I told José on the phone. That the only person other than Allison that I had confided in was my friend Len. I added that Len might have been considering profiting from the sale of the drugs, but that once Allison was kidnapped, any thought of selling them was killed by the ransom. That last bit was to explain why, in his counseling to me, he was not about to let anyone in law enforcement know about it.
I’ve never considered myself an accomplished liar, as I could attest to some terrible scenes in the past about infidelity, but the need was great in these circumstances. So I recited the worst possible lies without a stammer or stutter and appeared almost genuinely honest because I conveyed I was so terribly afraid of what might happen to me. They say that necessity is the mother of invention and I certainly invented enough story and discomfort to reasonably satisfy my captors.
Whether José and Pablo would accept that I was just a f--- up that couldn’t take advantage of the situation, or whether I was too afraid of the police or of losing my job, or other reasons of insecurity, I got the impression that they pretty much believed me.
But all that effort in acting meant nothing. They may have been relieved somewhat, but they weren’t about to let me go. After the grilling, I was brought into an adjacent office and in shirtsleeves was handcuffed to a chair by the two goons. Apparently, they were going to wait to assess the fallout to see if I was telling a straight story. As I sat there bound uncomfortably to the wooden chair, I wondered whether this might be the last I would see of anyone. It’s not a good place to be physically, and in my mind.
I need to think of something positive, outside of the fact that the police may find me in time. One of my thoughts was about when Allison went off on me for asking about the keys to my apartment. During our conversation, I heard some distinct sounds that were familiar enough to know that she would not be here. While we talked only briefly, I wanted to continue to hear those familiar sounds and asked a question that would definitely elicit an answer that allowed me further confirmation.
No, as much as I dreaded that she was going to face another night or more as a kidnap victim, I believed that she was being held in comfortable surroundings. The distinctive click of tin hitting china and then tin hitting tin, was a sound I was all too familiar with. Whenever room service was brought in for me, which was most of the time, it was delivered by table rather than by tray because there was more than one person being served and definitely more than a single course. Uncovering the food on the plates and stacking those tin covers on top of each other delivers a china click and a hollow ring from the tin covers. Besides those telltale sounds, I also heard the drone of a TV in the background. No question about it, Allison was being held in a hotel. I also believe that she had several people providing security and there were several recipients of the room service meals.
So, I’m sure she’s not here, and if I can get out of here, I will use my connections to find out where the cartel may be keeping her.
I received water during the debriefing prior to the handcuffing, but nothing else. They left the door open, presumably because they wanted to keep an eye on me, but I hadn’t seen anyone walk by. I couldn’t tell the time because my wrists were handcuffed behind me, and the area I was in was in the building’s interior and didn’t have windows. I believed, however, that it was approaching mid afternoon since I had been here about three hours. I fervently hoped that the NYPD would find me rather quickly. Unfortunately, that was not the case and I wondered why it was
taking them so long.
Within the next half hour, a loud bang, like a door slamming or a blunt instrument hitting a wall, followed by a loud yell, broke the silence of my captivity and raised my hopes that my wait could be over. I heard louder voices giving orders. “HANDS UP! DROP YOUR GUN! POLICE! FBI!” All those commands were the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard, together with doors slamming, people running, and at least two gunshots.
Presently, police in SWAT uniforms with guns pointed, entered the room. “NAME! NAME! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” the first man shouted.
“KEVIN LOGAN!” I shouted back.
“Good, you’re the guy we’re looking for,” he said as another one approached me and pulled a pair of pliers from his jacket and released the cuffs. Others at the doorway and in the hall stood back to back pointing rifles.
After he helped me to my feet and asked if I was all right, he told me that they had put a watch on the area that the copter had identified, but they needed to ensure that all entrances and exits could be accessed within seconds to avoid any danger to the hostage. They had also sent undercover people into each of the retail outlets posing as customers.
They determined that the least amount of danger to bystanders would be in the laundry or valet, rather than the restaurant, and they identified a back entry in each of the stores near where I was held. They had simultaneously attacked both locations. They had captured several of the cartel personnel, including José and Pablo. They also told me they were looking for Allison, but did not find her, and there wasn’t any indication she was being held there.
With several police cars diagonally spread across the street and flashing lights, I was led to a cruiser to bring me back to the precinct. I spoke briefly with Len on the police radio assuring him that I was unharmed and would see him shortly.
His first reaction to my disheveled appearance was concern for my well-being, his second, relief that they had recovered the drugs intact from José. He was all smiles with that news. While I’m sure that the recovery, clearly a secondary concern, was of great relief based on his new relationship with the DEA, he was disappointed to hear that Allison was not a hostage at that location.
Turbulence Page 14