Accidental Encounters

by George Friesen

  Dave felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. He could not disagree with Bob’s conclusion. Dead men did not talk and would not be able to identify the kidnappers to the police.

  “We can either wait—hoping that we will be found and rescued in time—or we can plan our escape.” It was Ozmen again. “Do either of you have friends in the US government or in the FBI who could pressure the Mexican government to act quickly? Your disappearance must have been reported by now.”

  It seemed to be an innocent question, and Dave responded without thinking. “I am sure my friend Jeff Braunstein, who is here in Mexico City with me, has contacted the US embassy by now. But the US government does not act quickly, so there is not much hope from that direction. Funny that you should ask about the FBI. My college roommate at Princeton joined the FBI after graduation. In fact, he had dinner at my house only a few weeks ago. But he is probably busy with matters other than freeing the hostages of Mexican drug gangs. Where are you, John Shafer, when I need you?”

  Bob cringed inwardly at the mention of his FBI handler.

  “Then we must plan our escape.”

  “But how can we, Demir?” asked Dave. “They always come in pairs and have guns. We have no weapons.”

  “Oh yes we do!” Ozmen turned his head, looking in the direction of the reeking chamber pot in the far corner, and guffawed. “This is not a time to be fastidious!”

  Bob squinted at Ozmen with his one good eye. The dour Turk seemed unusually talkative and in good spirits tonight. He sensed that something was wrong. He put his hand on Dave’s arm and whispered so that the Turk could not overhear, “Be careful what you say. I do not trust him.”

  Dave nodded to show that he understood. A silence fell over the room. The light dimmed as evening approached.

  The sound of a key turning in the lock broke the stillness. It was around dinnertime, but the guards did not bring in their evening meal. Instead, they summoned Ozmen once more for further questioning by Guerra.

  “What have you learned?” asked Guerra impatiently.

  Ozmen smiled, relishing his role of agent provocateur. “I have some information which you may find useful. Dave Bigelow, as I suspected, has ties to senior police officials in the United States. He is a friend of John Shafer of the FBI.”

  “I do not know that name, but I will have my people check it. Go on!”

  “The Bigelow brothers are planning to escape. They may do something desperate, even throwing the chamber pot at the guards to catch them by surprise and break out of here.”

  “Have some supper while I check on John Shafer.” Guerra pointed to some food and beer on the table.

  Ozmen ate rapidly while Guerra spoke to someone on his mobile phone. Before he finished, he heard Guerra swear in Spanish and then approach him with gleaming eyes.

  “Ozmen, John Shafer is a senior narcotics official with the FBI in New York. You have done well, my friend. Tomorrow afternoon, we plan to leave this place, and we will take you with us. Then we can start work on planning the business relationship between Sinaloa and the Ottoman Trading Company. But tonight you must return to your cell so that the Bigelow brothers will suspect nothing. We will dispose of them in the morning.”

  When the guards returned Ozmen to their room, the Bigelow brothers did not ask how he had fared. Although he had been gone for about thirty minutes, he showed no signs of physical abuse or duress. Strangely, he belched as if he had bolted down food too rapidly. They waited in vain for their dinners to be delivered, their hungry stomachs growling. A wall of suspicion now separated the Bigelow brothers from Ozmen.

  The thought occurred to Bob that their captors would not want to waste food on men who were about to die. Lowering his voice to a whisper too soft for the Turk to hear, Bob made a daring proposal. “We should jump the guards the next time they come in. Damned if I am going to sit here like a dumb duck waiting to be gunned down!”

  “If I am going to die,” Dave whispered back, “I want to go with dignity. No chamber pot.” Then he had an idea. “What about the blanket on the Turk’s bed? We could throw it over the head of the first guard to enter this room and tackle him before the second guard reacts. They probably are not expecting a fight from us, so we could catch them by surprise.”

  Bob shook his head doubtfully. “Less chance of success, I’d say. But if that’s what you want, let’s do it. But we do not bring the Turk into the plan!”

  Hanging by a Thread

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Diego Alvarez was seething with anger. He felt like killing someone, especially Omar Morales, who had not returned any of his calls. This morning, he had had a long telephone call from a tearful and sobbing Maria Elena. Her favorite uncle—the priest presiding at the marriage ceremony at the cathedral in Morelia—had been executed by his captors. She had watched a television report in horrified disbelief as his body had fallen on the front steps of the cathedral.

  “How could they do such a thing to this holy man? These Los Zetas people are animals! Diego, how can you work with such people? I have never questioned you before, but now I am. If you love me, you must break off with them at once!”

  He had tried to explain to her that he was trapped—that once a drug gang owned you, you could never leave voluntarily. But his protestations had only made her more hysterical.

  Then in the afternoon, he had received a summons from the military commander responsible for security in the state of Veracruz. The summons to the Municipal Palace had at first annoyed him. Had he not already shared everything he knew about the kidnapping of Demir Ozmen with the military police? What could he possibly tell them that they did not already know?

  That was precisely what worried him as he parked his car near the Plaza de las Armas and walked quickly across the square to the Municipal Palace. The soldiers guarding the building looked straight ahead, observing whoever was entering or leaving. When he introduced himself at the reception desk, he was told, “Colonel Reyes is expecting you. Second floor to the right of the stairs.” He knew Colonel Reyes well, but they had an understanding not to meet in public places, if at all possible.

  His worries were confirmed when an aide ushered him into the office of Colonel Reyes. This was not going to be a private meeting. Two of those present he recognized: Captain Segundo of the Mexican Navy and Miguel Rodriguez, an agent of the DEA. The fourth person was not familiar to him, but he looked American.

  Anticipating his question, Reyes said in English, “Allow me to introduce John Shafer of the FBI in New York.”

  “Mucho gusto, Senor Alvarez,” said Shafer, shaking his hand. “Hablemos Espanol!”

  Alvarez glanced nervously at Reyes. It was difficult enough leading a double life as a businessman and a member of Los Zetas. But there was a third dimension to his life—that of police informer—which, if it ever became known to Los Zetas, would mean instant death in the most grisly manner imaginable. Most probably hours of torture followed by beheading or being burned alive. Until now, he had sought to minimize the risk of leaks by always meeting privately with Reyes. Why was Reyes now putting him at personal risk by giving him no warning that other people would be present?

  Again, Reyes seemed to read his mind. “You have no reason to worry about anyone here, Alvarez. We wanted this meeting because the circumstances are extraordinary. The president of Mexico has appealed to me to find a way to communicate with those members of Los Zetas who have seized hostages in the cathedral in Morelia. As you must know, two innocent hostages have already been shot and thrown out onto the front steps of the cathedral—one of them a banker who is a personal friend of the American ambassador to Mexico.”

  “The second victim, the priest, is the uncle of my girlfriend, Maria Elena,” said Alvarez. “She called me this morning. It is very sad! She could not believe Los Zetas would do such a thing!”

  “So we agree this carnage must stop. This
catastrophe has been a horrible mistake. We have every reason to believe that the kidnappers of the Turk were not the Knights Templar but were rather Los Matas Zetas, working on behalf of the Sinaloa Cartel.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” asked Alvarez, pulling the cigarette from his mouth.

  Reyes got straight to the point. “Do you know the leader of the group who seized the cathedral? Perhaps we can persuade him to abandon this mad venture. We would guarantee safe conduct for him and his men. Storming the cathedral could result in many casualties and do much damage to a historic building.”

  “Agreed,” echoed Segundo, whose marines would probably have to carry out such an operation.

  “I know him only by reputation. He is a hothead, a deserter from the military who is both bold and brutal. He goes by the nickname El Verdugo, the Executioner. I argued with our leadership against this mission, when I heard who was going to head it, but to no avail. Perhaps now they will be open to reason because this mission is directed at the wrong target and is also discrediting Los Zetas. I will do my best, but I can make no promises.”

  “Thank you, Diego. You have been very helpful to us in the past, for which I am grateful.”

  That was as effusive as Reyes would ever get, but his gratitude only made Alvarez wince. July 2013 was the month when the Mexican Navy had captured Miguel Trevino Morales, the leader of Los Zetas, on a rural road outside of Nuevo Laredo in the state of Tamaulipas bordering on Texas. Alvarez had provided the tip to the military. He was one of the few people within Los Zetas who had known the location of Morales at the time, but he had gained that information accidentally by talking to Morales’s accountant, who was not even aware that he had betrayed his boss. Therefore, the finger of suspicion did not point directly at him.

  Alvarez said nothing for a moment but kept his eyes focused on Reyes. “You and I have an understanding—that in return for helping you, you will help me to start a new life, maybe in another country. When I got into this business as a young man, it was a gentler time. No longer. I think it may be time for me to leave.”

  “Help us one more time,” countered Reyes, “and I will deliver on my side of the bargain. Perhaps with help from our friends.” He glanced at Shafer.

  “You must realize,” pleaded Alvarez, “that every time I stick out my neck, I risk making a new enemy within Los Zetas. Since Trevino’s arrest, the situation has become more unstable internally. My life could be in danger.”

  “Understood. But you agree to help us?”

  “Yes. One more time.” Alvarez got up to leave. “Will that be all? I need to get back to my office.”

  “Perhaps you can help with another matter,” Shafer said. “An American, Bob Bigelow, was involved in a botched attempt to ransom Demir Ozmen. We believe he is being held by the Sinaloa Cartel at a location near Mexico City. The operation is being run by a man named Pedro Guerra, but he is not staying at the location which the Mexican Navy has under observation. What do you know about him?”

  “Guerra is a former military officer whom we once tried to recruit into Los Zetas. He reports directly to Ismael Zambada, the right-hand man of Joaquin Guzman. If you capture Guerra, you may gain information that will lead to the arrest of Zambada and ‘El Chapo’ Guzman.” Alvarez smiled. There was a hint of malice in his voice.

  “Would you know where Guerra sleeps at night?” asked Miguel Rodriguez, who had listened silently up to this point.

  “I can only guess. Guerra has a girlfriend, a bleached blonde named Marizol Flores. She is a cocktail waitress at a restaurant, the Villa Maria on the Avenida Homero. I do not know where she lives, but if you find out, you will know where Guerra is sleeping at night.”

  There was a ripple of laughter around the room.

  “Did you know about the ransom plan by the Ottoman Trading Company?” asked Shafer.

  “No, this is news to me. After the kidnapping, I called Omer Tilki, the president of the company in Istanbul, and gave him the best information that I had at the time. I said that Ozmen was being held by the Knights Templar—which, apparently, is wrong. He is a cool customer. He said nothing about his plans to attempt an initiative independently of Los Zetas.”

  “What is the relationship between Ottoman Trading Company and Los Zetas?” Shafer already knew, but he wanted confirmation.

  “The exchange of goods between Ottoman Trading Company and Veracruz Sugar is to provide cover for the shipment of drugs by Los Zetas from Mexico to Europe. In fact, there is a ship leaving port tomorrow from Veracruz, destined for Liverpool, with a secret cargo on board.”

  “The name of the ship?” demanded Reyes sharply.

  “Atlantica,” responded Alvarez.

  “We shall seize the ship immediately.”

  “Wait, Reyes. Don’t be hasty,” protested Shafer. “Let’s think about this before acting. Wouldn’t we gain more by letting the ship make its voyage? It might give our British friends an opportunity to do serious damage to Ottoman Trading Company’s drug network in the United Kingdom.”

  Reyes nodded his agreement. “I see your point. It would also be better if we do not get distracted from our immediate priorities in Morelia and Mexico City. Thank you, gentlemen! Let’s keep in touch.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Now comes the hard part, thought Alvarez as he headed toward the door. He could feel Reyes’s eyes following him. As soon as he had left the Municipal Palace, he walked across the Plaza de las Armas to his parked car. Before he could open the door, a man stepped out of the shadows, tossing his unfinished cigarette to the pavement.

  “Hello, Diego. Visiting your friends at military security?”

  Alvarez laughed nonchalantly, although inwardly he quaked. Within Los Zetas, this man had been nicknamed Lobo (the Wolf). He was used as an enforcer by Omar Morales, the brother of the captured leader and the head of the cartel’s criminal operations. “I am seeing them more often than I would like, ever since the kidnapping of the Turk.”

  “Have you called your secretary for messages? Omar would like to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “You will have to ask him. May I?” Before Alvarez had given permission, he had opened the passenger door and eased his slim frame into the car.

  “Is Omar in Veracruz?”

  “No, but he is not far away, on his yacht. Juan and Raul are with him.”

  The three main contenders for the succession to Miguel Trevino, thought Alvarez. “Having a strategy session?” he asked.

  Lobo shrugged. “Perhaps.” His face was inscrutable, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses.

  “Where should we go?”

  “There is a private airfield west of Veracruz. You have been there before. A helicopter will take us to the yacht.”

  An hour later, they were landing on the deck of an enormous yacht anchored in the cove of an island some fifty miles off the Mexican coast. Alvarez had no time to admire the lush vegetation of the island or the sparkling waters of the Gulf of Mexico. He was immediately ushered by Lobo below deck to the stateroom, where the leadership of Los Zetas was seated around a polished oak table. Their protectors sat against the wall by the windows, guns strapped across their chests, their hard eyes observing every movement inside the room and on deck.

  After a brief exchange of greetings, Omar explained the reason for their summons. A brutal man who had stamped his character on the cartel, he did not mince words. “We have this little problem in Morelia. I personally approved this mission to seize the cathedral and selected El Verdugo to lead it. He is a good man who obeys orders without flinching. But Juan here has moral qualms about the shooting of innocent hostages until our demands are met. Raul is neutral, with no strong feelings one way or the other. What do you think, Alvarez?”

  Juan interjected before Alvarez had a chance to speak. “I do not want you to misrepresent my position, Omar.
All of us here are in agreement that we do not give a damn about the Turk. This is a turf battle, pure and simple, to show that Los Zetas cannot be trifled with by Sinaloa and its proxy, the Knights Templar. But turf battles need to be conducted with intelligence. Alienating Mexican public opinion on behalf of some Turk is stupid!”

  Raul chuckled appreciatively over this comment while Omar glowered. It was a widely shared view within the cartel that Omar was less bright than his captured brother.

  Alvarez could feel their eyes fixed on him. He had known Juan the longest, the man responsible for the financial operations of the cartel and generally more to his taste than Omar or Raul. He was a dropout from college rather than the Special Forces division of the Mexican military and had a touch of refinement. Although he was as cynical as the other two, he preferred to use bribery and blackmail rather than brute force to achieve his ends.

  Alvarez looked at Raul as he spoke. If he could sway him with his arguments, then the hostage crisis in Morelia would end. “Do we even know for certain that the Knights Templar kidnapped the Turk and butchered some of our colleagues, leaving them to rot on some abandoned farm? I have information from an excellent source in Mexico City that the real criminals are Los Matas Zetas, acting as a proxy for Sinaloa.”

  Omar protested, “We had recently made incursions into the territory of the Knights Templar. Was it not logical to conclude that they were retaliating against us?”

  “Logical, yes, but not necessarily correct,” said Alvarez.

  “How good is your source?” asked Raul.

  “He has always been very reliable. He is a double agent working for both us and the DEA in the United States. I discovered his weakness, which made him sympathetic to our cause. He has an expensive taste for mistresses and fast cars.”

  Juan smiled approvingly.