He paced the floor nervously. Several times he pulled his briefcase from underneath the bed to check whether the ransom money was still there and had not disappeared mysteriously while the maid had cleaned his room. A poor night’s sleep and now these new developments in Morelia had rattled him. Was his mission beginning to spin out of control?
The call, when it finally came, was thirty minutes late. It was from an unidentified caller. At first, there was no response to his greeting, but after a pause of ten seconds came the question: “Are you alone?”
“Yes,” answered Bob. He waited for the caller—who spoke English with an unmistakable Mexican accent—to introduce himself.
“I am Pedro Guerra. We have Demir Ozmen.”
Bob breathed a sigh of relief. This was the man that his boss in New York, Recep Murat, had said would be calling him. “How is he?”
“He is okay. He is worth something to us only if he is alive.”
“To which group do you belong—Knights Templar or Los Matas Zetas?” Bob wanted to clear up the confusion over which gang had actually kidnapped Ozmen.
“It is not necessary for you to know that.”
“But how do I know that you really have Ozmen?”
“I have a message for the president of your company. If the exchange of five million dollars in cash for the prisoner goes smoothly, El Chapo will be contacting him directly, as he requested, about a long-term business relationship.”
That reassured Bob. He recalled the recent teleconference in Murat’s office shortly before his departure for Mexico City. Emir and Omer Tilki, the owners of the company in Istanbul, had expressed an interest in using the ransom negotiations to explore working with a different Mexican cartel than the one they had linked up with.
“What’s your connection to what is going on in Morelia?”
“You mean the seizure of the cathedral? None whatsoever. I have only news reports of who is responsible, but they do not belong to us.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“The police and military are on high alert in Mexico City. If you are under observation, they may try to follow you and spring a trap. Therefore, we must take precautions.”
“But I have been very careful,” protested Bob.
The caller cut him off. “Do as I say. Tonight you will eat dinner at a nearby Mexican restaurant, Villa Maria. A table has been reserved for you on the second floor for 6:30 p.m. At precisely 8:00 p.m., get up and walk to the back of the dining room as if you are going to the men’s room. Instead, take the back stairs to ground level and go through the exit door to the back alley, where a black BMW will be waiting. Ask the driver for directions to the Sanatorio Español because you are not feeling well. His reply should be ‘I will take you there.’ You get into the car, and he will take you to a destination where you will turn over the agreed ransom.”
“You will be releasing Demir Ozmen to me at that time?”
“You will be dealing with my men. I will be watching you, but you will not see me. The Turk will be freed as soon as we have confirmed that the conditions for his release have been met.”
Bob did not like the sound of those words. “But how can I be sure that you are keeping your end of the bargain?”
“What choice do you have? Do as I say or you will never see Ozmen again.” The caller hung up abruptly.
Bob walked to the window of his hotel room to peer out, wondering what he should do next. There was no unusual police activity in the busy street scene below, but appearances could be deceptive. Were his movements being watched? Growing up in an affluent Connecticut suburb had not prepared him for dealing with murderous Mexican kidnappers or scheming Turkish drug dealers. What guarantee did he have that he would not be mugged and shot by the driver who picked him up behind Villa Maria? He thought about calling Recep Murat, but that would be pointless. He was on his own.
Except that he was not entirely on his own. There was Miguel Rodriguez, the DEA agent in Mexico City. He picked up his phone and called the number that he had memorized.
“I have been waiting for your call,” said Rodriguez. “Have the kidnappers contacted you?”
“Yes, a few minutes ago. But I don’t like the plans for tonight. I need some backup.” Bob described the instructions that he had been given. “Can you provide me with some protection in case I need help?”
“I can arrange to have two police cars parked near the exit from the back alley behind the Villa Maria. They will follow the BMW after you have been picked up. Do you have a locator app on your mobile phone?”
“What do you mean?”
“It is an app that you download so that your movements can be traced. Parents like to use it to keep track of their children. Try Mama Bear. Google discontinued support for its Latitude app last month. Take care of it this afternoon and keep your phone on at all times tonight.”
“Did the man who called you this afternoon identify himself or his organization?”
“He introduced himself as Pedro Guerra, but he was vague about which gang he belongs to. He referred to El Chapo—whoever in the hell he is—contacting the president of Ottoman Trading Company if the Ozmen deal went through.”
Rodriguez seemed surprised. “You do not know who El Chapo is? That’s the nickname of Joaquin Guzman, the head of the Sinaloa Cartel.”
“So who carried out the kidnapping?”
“The Los Zetas gang that has seized control of the cathedral seems to think it was the Knights Templar. But my sources indicate that it could have been Los Matas Zetas, rivals of the Knights Templar. It is complicated, but both are allies of the Sinaloa Cartel, which uses them as violent enforcers against Los Zetas.”
These arcane references to Mexican drug gangs bewildered Bob. “You mean the seizure of the cathedral could be a big mistake, directed against the wrong party?”
“Possible, even likely,” answered Rodriguez. “Those hostages in Morelia are depending on you, even if they do not know it. If you can free Ozmen and show his face in public, the hostage crisis should be over, and you will be a hero.”
“And if I screw up?” asked Bob.
“Los Zetas has no scruples about killing civilians. A lot of innocent lives could be lost.”
Chapter Four
When Bob Bigelow arrived at Villa Maria, the restaurant was already boisterous with mariachi music and a large clientele, even though the dinner hour was early by Mexican standards. He waited at the reception desk for the jefe de sala to arrive.
“Senor, you have a reservation?”
“Yes, at 6:30 p.m., for a party of one on the second floor. My name is Bigelow.” Bob spelled his name.
“I have a reservation here for a party of five at 7:00 p.m. under the name of Bigelow. The Four Seasons Hotel called an hour ago to make the reservation.”
“No, there must be a mistake. I did not make the reservation personally. My … uh … secretary called this morning to reserve the table.”
“Ah, pardon my confusion, senor. I see it now. Please follow me. I will introduce you to your waiter. Would you like to check your briefcase?”
“No, thank you. I prefer to keep it with me,” said Bob, clutching the handle of his briefcase more tightly.
“As you wish.”
At the foot of the stairs, a smiling waiter was ready to take him to his table on the second floor. Soon he was seated and poring over the menu. His stomach was churning nervously, and he considered not ordering a main course but ultimately decided in favor of a margarita and grilled red snapper served on a bed of rice. He remembered to tell the waiter that he had to leave at 8:00 p.m. and was assured that he would get his food and the bill promptly.
Within minutes, a cocktail waitress in a short body-clinging dress approached his table carrying his margarita. Despite her bleached blond hair, she was strikingly attractive. “My name is
Marizol,” she spoke softly, her eyes dwelling on him. “Enjoy your evening, senor.”
Normally, Bob would have given her an appreciative response. But tonight, he was tense and focused. The stakes were too high. He recalled one of his father’s favorite sayings: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions and well-laid plans that go awry.”
Knock on wood, he thought as he tapped his knuckles against the table.
He removed his phone from the inside of his suit jacket for an incoming call. It was Rodriguez again. By now, the noise of the music and the voices of many diners speaking at the same time had become a roar. He bent over his table, trying to make out what Rodriguez was saying. He heard snatches of sentences: “Hostage in Morelia killed … Cars waiting outside to follow you … Any change in your plans?”
Looking up to make sure that the waitress was no longer standing by his table, Bob raised his voice to make himself heard. “Hostage killed?” He had not checked on the hostage crisis before leaving his hotel. “Who was it?”
“Fernando Velasquez. A prominent Mexican businessman.”
Bob sucked in his breath and remained silent, then remembered he had not answered Rodriguez’s question. “No, no change in plans. Pedro Guerra has not called again.”
“Bueno. Call me if he does.”
When the call ended, Bob placed his phone on the table. He wanted to make sure that he would be able to pick it up quickly if necessary. Unfortunately for Bob, he was unaware that while he was talking to Rodriguez, a waiter had ushered a group of five men to their table only twenty feet away. If his food had not arrived at that point, he might usefully have spent a few minutes surveying the diners at nearby tables so that he would have been able to choose his escape route.
Instead he was eating his grilled red snapper with renewed gusto. Despite the jarring news about the hostage, his stomach had settled, and he had not eaten much since breakfast. As fate would have it, the path that led from the adjacent tables to the men’s washroom passed by Bob.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Dave Bigelow. “Bob, what are you doing in Mexico City? I could have sworn I saw you on Wednesday afternoon. Now I know I wasn’t hallucinating after all.”
Bob swallowed his food carefully to avoid choking. His heart sank as he mustered a smile for his brother. “Hello, Dave. Fancy meeting you here. Small world, isn’t it?”
“Didn’t you get my email? I sent you an email the day before yesterday asking whether you were in Mexico City. When you didn’t respond, I concluded that I was imagining things. You’ve been on my mind a lot lately.”
Bob shook his head in denial. “I didn’t get it. Maybe it went into spam. You know how unreliable email can be sometimes.”
“You’re here on business? I can’t help noticing your large briefcase. What business can be important enough to keep you on a Friday night in Mexico City? Nobody does important business this late.”
Bob evaded the second question but answered the first. “Yes, I’m here on business. And you?”
“The same. I am involved in a major project monitoring a European bank. They were fined by the Department of Justice for laundering money on behalf of Mexican drug cartels, among other things.”
“No kidding.” Bob tried to keep his voice as bland as possible. It was so like Dave to puff up his feathers about some damn project of his.
“Would you like to join us?” asked Dave, pointing in the direction of his table. “My buddies—Jeff Braunstein and three auditors on our team—and I are enjoying our last night here before we fly home tomorrow. We wanted an authentic Mexican night out, and this is the restaurant that our hotel recommended. Strange coincidence that we should choose the same restaurant.”
“Another of life’s ironies,” said Bob mockingly. “You were always the philosopher, trying to figure out whether our lives are predetermined or shaped by random events. But let’s not get into that. The short answer to your question is that I can’t because I have to leave at 8:00 p.m.”
“When the evening is still young? Well, let me at least buy you a drink. What are you having tonight? Margaritas? Okay, waiter, bring us two margaritas at this table,” Dave called out to the waiter who was standing unobtrusively a few feet away.
Moments later, the same blond waitress who had served Bob his first drink arrived with the margaritas.
Dave looked at his brother curiously. “A lot going on in your life?”
“You could say that.”
“How’s Andrea?”
“We broke up.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Dave sympathetically. He saw that the subject was sensitive and dropped it. “A lot of strange things happening in Mexico today.”
Bob nodded. “You mean the hostage crisis in Morelia?”
“I know the man who was shot—Fernando Velasquez. I met with him only two days ago, right after my arrival in Mexico City. He is … was the general counsel at Europa Bank.”
Bob muttered his sympathies then retreated into silence. Dave made a final attempt to keep the conversation going. “They make fabulous margaritas here, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do.” Bob sipped dutifully at his drink but then stopped. He could feel the alcohol going to his head. He looked at his watch. It was 7:50 p.m. “Sorry, but I have to go. Waiter, my check please!”
Chapter Five
After signing for the bill, Bob grabbed his briefcase and headed downstairs. A black BMW was parked in the back alley near the exit, just as Pedro Guerra had said. He tapped on the passenger window, which the driver lowered.
“Can you give me directions to the Sanatorio Español? I am not feeling well.”
“Hop in. I will take you there.”
Bob opened the back door of the car and sank into the seat. He was not alone. There was another passenger sitting in the back seat who, despite the late hour, was wearing dark sunglasses. His curly black hair was slicked back, and his teeth flashed white against his brown skin.
“Buenas noches! We are glad to be of assistance, Senor. . .?”
“Bigelow.”
“Ah, yes, Senor Bigelow. We have been expecting you.” The man did not introduce himself—which, in normal circumstances, would have been odd. But this evening was anything but ordinary. Instead he looked intently through the side windows and then craned his neck to look back as the car exited the alley onto Galileo. He could see a man running after them, waving something that he held in his hand.
“Did you leave someone behind, Senor Bigelow? There is someone in the alley running after us.”
“No, I am alone.”
The activity in the back alley had not gone unnoticed by Pedro Guerra. He was a meticulous planner, which is why he had advanced so far in the Sinaloa Cartel. He was sitting by a window in the building across the alley from the Villa Maria watching a man running down the alley in pursuit of the BMW.
One can never be too careful, he thought as he picked up his phone and called one of his men parked in a minivan on Galileo.
“Did you see that man come running out of the alley?”
“Yes, he just got into a taxi heading down Galileo.”
“Follow him!”
Then Guerra called the driver of the black BMW. “Pablo, make sure you are not being followed. A gray Ford Explorer parked in the back of the restaurant started up just as you were pulling away. It could be an unmarked police vehicle.”
Pablo looked in his rearview mirror. “I see him. He is fifty meters behind us.” He whistled between his teeth. “There are two of them. The second Explorer is in the other lane, twenty meters behind the first. I will lose them,” he promised Guerra.
As Pablo turned the BMW onto Avenida Horacio, he accelerated in the direction of Parque America. “Ernesto,” he called out to the man in the back seat, “Policia!”
Ernesto twisted his body to lo
ok through the back window. Bob, on hearing the word policia, was about to do likewise; but he arrested his motion and felt the inside of his suit jacket. Empty! Where was his phone? He remembered leaving it on the table in the restaurant. Had he forgotten it? His dismay as he realized his mistake only increased when he turned around because he was staring into the barrel of Ernesto’s gun.
“Looking for your gun, Senor Bigelow?” He reached over and patted Bob’s suit jacket.
“I don’t have a gun,” insisted Bob. “I was looking for my phone. I think I forgot it in the restaurant.”
Ernesto seemed unconvinced. “Who are those people following us? We do not like to be double-crossed.”
“I have no idea who they are.” Bob was terrified.
“Hand me your briefcase,” ordered Ernesto, pointing with his gun. “I want to see what other surprises you have for us.”
Bob reluctantly complied. “It’s not locked,” he said.
Ernesto opened the briefcase and squealed in delight over the crisp Cleveland bills neatly bundled. “Magnifico!” While continuing to point his gun at Bob, he called Guerra on his phone.
“I have the money. Do you want me to count it?”
“Later,” Guerra replied curtly. “There is no rush.”
“What do you want me to do with Bigelow? Shoot him?”
Bob understood enough Spanish to know that his life was hanging on a thread. He was sweating with fear.
“Tell him the deal is off. Police were not part of the bargain. We keep the money and Ozmen. When you have lost the police, return to base. We will figure out what to do with Bigelow and Ozmen later.”
Chapter Six
Accidental Encounters Page 2