Alvarez watched Raul for his reaction as his mind worked feverishly, in case more questions were asked about his source of information. To his relief, Raul’s eyes moved from him to Omar. Raul was pursuing bigger game.
“Omar, the siege of the cathedral in Morelia would be a serious error of judgment, even a catastrophic mistake, if this information is correct.” It was clear where Raul was heading—to undermine Omar’s goal to succeed his brother as the leader of Los Zetas. “We should be attacking Guadalajara, the heartland of Los Matas Zetas, rather than Morelia.”
Juan, recognizing that the alignment of forces was shifting in his favor, chimed in, “Better still. Since we know that Sinaloa is behind all this, we should strike at their leadership rather than at their proxies. We have a general idea where Guzman and Zambada like to hang out. If we tracked them down and passed the information on to the police, we could cut off the head of the Sinaloa Cartel. That is what they did to us. I am sure that they were responsible for betraying Miguel Trevino.”
Thank you, Juan, for voicing that opinion, thought Alvarez. He offered a word of support to show his appreciation. “The advantage of Juan’s proposal is that it could pay dividends with the Mexican police and the media, who generally have a more favorable opinion of Sinaloa than Los Zetas right now.”
“Why?” growled Omar.
“They are considered to be less brutal.” Those were dangerous words, Alvarez knew, but he did not waver. He had a personal score to settle. Omar’s henchman had ordered the sickening and totally unnecessary killing of Maria Elena’s uncle.
Omar glared at Alvarez. “I see no reason to end the hostage crisis in Morelia. What does it matter which proxy of Sinaloa we strike at or who kidnapped the Turk in Veracruz? The whole point is to make a statement that Los Zetas is not to be diddled with. If a few innocent people get shot along the way, so be it!”
Alvarez glanced at the faces of Juan and Raul and felt a grim satisfaction. Omar was fighting a losing battle and was about to be overruled.
On the flight back to the mainland, Lobo was silent until the helicopter had landed. “Omar did not appreciate what you just did. He will not forget.” Lobo spoke in a low voice, but the warning was clear.
When Alvarez got back to his office at Veracruz Sugar, his secretary had already left for the evening. He shuffled through the messages on his desk and checked the emails on his laptop computer. At the back of his head was the gnawing fear that his life was in danger. It was not the first time. Years ago, when Los Zetas had broken with the Gulf Cartel, he had aligned with the more powerful faction to ensure his own survival, thereby incurring the enmity of a former associate who had then betrayed him to the Mexican military. To avoid arrest, he had agreed to cooperate with Reyes, but his usefulness was now over. He waited until he was back in his car, driving toward the center of Veracruz, before he called.
“Reyes? Good fortune was with us. I was able to act more swiftly than I expected. The siege in Morelia will be lifted on one condition: that the hostage takers be given safe conduct. The governor of Michoacán must accompany them until they have reached safety. Then he will be released.”
Reyes’s sigh of relief at the other end was audible. “Well done, Alvarez! I will inform my colleagues in Morelia and in Mexico City, who will be only too happy to grant the condition. The marines who have encircled the cathedral will be pulled back.”
“Good! Now I have one more request. I have delivered my part of the bargain, and I want you to deliver on yours. I made an important enemy today in Los Zetas. I no longer have the luxury of time. My usefulness to you is finished.”
Father Cardozo’s prayer for a peaceful resolution of the crisis in the cathedral was answered. El Verdugo had already chosen his third victim for execution—the father of the bride, who was the brother of the governor—when he received a text message from Omar Morales to lift the siege of the cathedral. Fifty-four hours after their ordeal had begun, the wedding guests and the bride and bridegroom filed out of the cathedral, dazed and even hysterical with relief. No apologies were made by the terrorists, who were driven to an undisclosed location on the outskirts of Morelia, where their cartel had helicopters waiting to evacuate them. The governor was released unharmed.
Chapter Forty-Five
With the end of the hostage crisis in Morelia, top priority was now given to the rescue of the three kidnapped foreigners. The manager of the Villa Maria had been reluctant to divulge the home address of Marizol Flores. Her privacy needed to be protected. But then a small bribe had persuaded him to provide the information: a luxury apartment building in the Polanco district within walking distance of the hotel zone and the Paseo de la Reforma. It was only one block off the prestigious Avenida Presidente Masaryk, which was lined with multiple elegant boutiques. The building was clearly beyond the means of a cocktail waitress, but the manager had never been sufficiently curious to ask what her other means of support were.
The police in Mexico City had staked out their quarry carefully. Unmarked police cars were parked across the street and behind the building, guarding both the entrance and the exit. Plainclothesmen loitered inconspicuously on the street, watching her leave the building early that morning. She was a statuesque bleached blonde dressed in a chic Gucci jacket and short skirt and wearing very high heels. She did not go far—only to a small convenience store where she bought some breakfast items, presumably because she had a guest.
When she returned, nothing seemed amiss. The concierge, who had greeted her on the way out, now remained immersed in the morning newspaper, reading about the end of the hostage crisis in Morelia. The police had already won his cooperation with the flash of a badge, a wink, and a small financial inducement.
Only when she got off the elevator on the fifth floor did she begin to feel alarm. The man who had accompanied her on the elevator got off on the same floor and followed her down the hallway. She had never seen him before and knew that he was not one of her neighbors. It was not a large apartment building. When she placed her bag of groceries on the floor to fumble for the key in her handbag, the man paused behind her.
“May I assist you, senorita?” he asked.
She turned quickly, ready to swing her handbag at his head, when she noticed a number of men running down the hallway toward them. She opened her mouth to call for help, but then realized that this was more than an attempt to burglarize her apartment.
“Pedro! Pedro! Run! It’s the police!” she screamed.
Her lover was shaving in the bathroom with the door open when he heard scuffling outside the apartment and Marizol’s scream. Cursing, he grabbed his gun and phone and scrambled to reach the sliding french doors leading onto the balcony. The apartment faced the back of the building. Peering over the edge of the balcony, he dismissed the idea of jumping; the drop was too far. He also noticed the unmarked cars parked below and a sharpshooter huddled on the roof of a neighboring building. He was trapped.
However, he still had one option: to exchange the lives of the three hostages for his freedom. Quickly he dialed Ernesto’s number. “Ernesto, are you there?” he shouted into his phone after several rings.
Ernesto finally picked up. “Pedro, what’s going on?”
“Marizol’s apartment is surrounded by police. My only chance to escape is to bargain the lives of the hostages for my release. You stay on this call until I give the order. If the police refuse to play along, shoot that bastard Bigelow.”
“Anything you say, Pedro. But which Bigelow? We have two of them.”
“If you don’t know, shoot both of them!” bellowed Guerra.
“There is something you should know, Pedro. Something strange is going on. I was looking out the window when you called. There are helicopters hovering over our motel.”
“Shit!” Guerra’s cursing was interrupted by the booming voice of a police officer using a megaphone to speak through the open fre
nch doors.
“Pedro Guerra, you are under arrest. The building is surrounded. There are four police officers in this apartment. You cannot escape. Surrender peacefully if you want to live.”
“Never! I will go peacefully on only one condition—that you give me my freedom in exchange for the lives of the hostages. Ernesto, are you still there?”
“I am still here,” replied Ernesto calmly.
“Who is guarding the prisoners?”
“Diaz. They are in the other motel unit. I will walk over to carry out your orders, if necessary.”
Guerra glanced at the open french doors through which he could hear voices speaking. “Hey, puerco, what do you say?” he shouted.
The police officer in charge ignored Guerra. He was on his phone talking to Captain Segundo, the navy officer in charge of the marines who had surrounded the Guadalajara Motel.
“Do not bargain with Guerra,” said Segundo crisply. “We have used infrared sensors to determine where the hostages are being kept. They are confined to one room in unit 7. There are three of them—presumably the Turk and the two missing Americans. The guard is in the other room. In unit 6, there are three people who have free movement in the two rooms. They are probably the other kidnappers. Wait a minute! One of my helicopter pilots is reporting that one of the men has left unit 6 and is walking toward unit 7.”
“So what do you intend to do, Captain Segundo?”
“Is it not obvious? Attack!”
At the Guadalajara Motel, Ernesto had just completed his call to Diaz when he became aware that the two helicopters, which had been hovering overhead at a distance, were suddenly diving toward him. He started running toward unit 7 just as rocket-propelled grenades slammed into unit 6. He heard an explosion and saw flames leaping into the sky behind him, then he collapsed to the ground in a hail of bullets. During the cover of night, the marines had taken up positions behind unit 5.
Guerra heard the explosion and the thud of the bullets on his phone. He swore a string of profanities as he leaped toward the open french doors, gun raised, hoping to catch the police inside by surprise. But he had forgotten about the sniper on the rooftop. He crashed into the french doors as a bullet slammed into his back.
Chapter Forty-Six
Dave and Bob had passed the second night of their captivity miserably, listening to Ozmen’s snores on the sole bunk bed as they crouched uncomfortably against the wall. Groggy from lack of sleep, they still ached from the blows they had received while being questioned by Guerra the day before. This was not how they had expected to die—in some squalid, run-down motel in Mexico, the random victims of a murderous drug gang.
Until now, Dave had not thought much about death. His mind had been focused on ensuring the success of his career as a partner at a prominent New York law firm. To the extent that he had ever thought about death, he had expected to die in old age, like his father, in a hospital in an affluent Connecticut suburb of New York, surrounded by family and friends. Not in the prime of his life, in this stinking rathole. It was bizarre how an accidental encounter with his prodigal brother in a restaurant in Mexico City had sucked him into this death trap. What had he done to deserve this end? It was senseless. Perhaps if he had attended church more faithfully, this would not have happened.
Bob had retraced the missteps of his life several times before the heavy darkness in the room began to yield to the early morning light entering the dirty skylight in the ceiling. Then he realized that something unusual was happening as he noted the halt of traffic on the nearby highway and the clatter of helicopters hovering over the motel.
“Dave!” he whispered loudly, cupping his ear and pointing in the direction of the highway. His whisper was suddenly punctuated by gunfire, the breaking of window glass, and a terrific explosion, which blew a gaping hole in the wall separating the two rooms. Through the murk of swirling dust and teargas, he could see the guard who went by the name of Diaz approaching, his gun held ready. His mission was to kill the hostages. Of that Bob was certain. Diving over the debris that had fallen onto the floor, he snatched the blanket from the cot of an astonished Ozmen and hurled it in the direction of the guard.
Dave, who had been knocked to the ground by the force of the explosion, picked himself up and threw his body weight into the startled guard before he had a chance to shoot Bob. They wrestled for the gun, which skittered across the floor toward Ozmen. Diaz, a former wrestler, deftly pinned Dave to the floor. Bob lunged into the melee, grabbing the guard by the neck of his shirt as he tried to pull him off Dave.
Ozmen picked up the gun, his teeth clenched in anger, and aimed it at the writhing bodies. Bob was on top. That bastard Bigelow, he thought, his finger tightening on the trigger. Then he lowered the gun. Revenge would have to wait. The battle had shifted decisively.
Through the gaping hole, a number of anxious marines peered at them through the rubble and smoke, guns held ready. One of them advanced, asking in English, “Which one of you is Demir Ozmen?”
Ozmen—who only the day before had secretly cast his lot with his captors—handed them the gun. “This is the gun the terrorist wanted to use to execute us. But we managed to overpower him. I am Demir Ozmen, a Turkish national. I demand to be put in contact with the Turkish embassy immediately.”
“That we will do as soon as we can,” said the marine. Then he turned to the other two hostages, who by now had also risen from the floor, shaking the dust from their clothes and dabbing at their streaming eyes. “And you are?”
“We are the Bigelow brothers,” Dave answered. “Bob and Dave. Arrest this man,” he said, pointing to Diaz. “He is one of the kidnappers.”
As Diaz was led away, the marine explained, “We tried to subdue your guard with teargas, but he threw a hand grenade at us as we battered down the door. Did you suffer any injuries?”
“No, we are fine,” Dave assured him, “just a few cuts and bruises.” He gingerly felt a lump on his head where Diaz had hit him.
For Dave, their rescue had been providential, coming only hours before their execution. But Bob had a more earthly explanation. “Saved by the Mexican marines and my Mama Bear app!” he chortled.
Dave looked at his brother quizzically. “Mama Bear app? What are you muttering about?”
Bob grinned. “My phone had tracking software on it. That is how the police were able to find out where we were being held by the kidnappers.”
Dave’s mouth sagged open in amazement. “You mean my chasing after you to return the phone was not a complete fiasco after all?”
For the moment, Bob was inclined to be charitable. “After your initial miscues, brother, you saved the day!”
But Ozmen was less forgiving. He glared balefully at the Bigelow brothers. They should not celebrate too soon. He still had some scores to settle with them.
A Second Chance
Chapter Forty-Seven
For Diego Alvarez, the Turkish affair—as he hereafter referred to it—ended successfully. Although he had played an important role in defusing the hostage crisis in Morelia and in the rescue of Demir Ozmen and the Bigelow brothers in Mexico City, he was never lionized by the press, nor did he want to be. Anonymity was the key to his plan to begin a new life, far away from Veracruz Sugar, Los Zetas, and the Mexican military. Celebrity would make his escape impossible and his execution by Los Zetas a certainty.
The important thing was that Reyes, the commander of the Mexican military in Veracruz; Shafer of the FBI; and Rodriguez of the DEA knew what he had done. Moreover, Captain Segundo of the Mexican marines had been very pleased with the telephone numbers and records of calls discovered on the mobile phones of Pedro Guerra and his men. They provided a trail that could lead them to the leaders of the Sinaloa Cartel: Zambada and Guzman.
Alvarez did not hear from Reyes after his appeal, but this did not surprise him. Frequent communications between them would only arous
e suspicion. Then a plain vanilla envelope from a travel agency arrived at his office. It contained an open round-trip air ticket to Mexico City on a commercial flight. He had not ordered or purchased the ticket, so he knew it was the signal from Reyes.
His secretary, who had opened the envelope, seemed surprised. “You did not tell me that you were going to Mexico City on business.”
“It is a personal matter.” When she arched her eyebrows to show that she did not find his explanation sufficient, he added mysteriously, “An affair of the heart.”
She had never pried into his personal life. Being discreet was a prerequisite for her job and the reason why Alvarez had kept her on his payroll for years. Nonetheless, she was dumbfounded because she had assumed that he was a confirmed bachelor who preferred living alone.
“You are engaged?” she asked curiously.
“Let us say that I am considering it,” Alvarez said smilingly. “If I do not return next week, you can assume that I am on my honeymoon. Thank you, Margherita.”
The message was clear. Ask no further questions.
A day later, he received a hotel brochure for the St. Regis Hotel on the Paseo de la Reforma in Mexico City from the same travel agency that had sent him the air ticket. It was the hotel where Reyes expected him to stay. He called the hotel directly, using his mobile phone, to reserve the bridal suite. He could never be certain that someone—his secretary, a business colleague, someone working for Los Zetas—was not eavesdropping on his calls whenever he used the office telephone. His personal phone was safer.
Reserving the bridal suite was consistent with what he had told his secretary, and it was also part of his escape plan. He had given some thought to what it would be like to live as a Mexican exile in some foreign country. He needed a companion, and no one was better suited to fit this role than Maria Elena, with whom he stayed whenever he came to Mexico City. She knew about his double life as a businessman and a facilitator for Los Zetas. What he had never told her was that he also had a third life—as a police informer. Could he count on her loyalty?
Accidental Encounters Page 18