When he checked into the St. Regis Hotel that Friday evening, there was an innocent-looking package waiting for him containing a passport and resident visa for Argentina, which would enable him to start a new life in Buenos Aires as Juan Mendoza. He frowned when he looked at the passport; the photograph made him look twenty years older than he was—gray hair, a wrinkled forehead, shadows under his eyes. Also in the package were a debit card and checkbook drawing on a Citibank account that had been opened up for him in Buenos Aires. Taped to the passport was a typed note with a telephone number to call on Saturday afternoon at 3:00 p.m.
Then he called Maria Elena. She still seemed distraught over the death of her uncle, whose funeral she had attended only days before. She apologized for having become hysterical when they last spoke on the telephone. She seemed surprised to hear that he was in Mexico City. Normally, he gave her advance warning, but he explained that for business reasons, he was staying at the St. Regis Hotel. She was relieved. Her apartment was in a mess because she had been too despondent to clean it up, and she would not let him see it.
Undeterred, he responded smoothly, “I have a proposition that you may find irresistible. Have dinner with me in my hotel suite. We will have room service, including the best champagne and wine. We need to talk about our future.”
“Our future?” She wondered where this was leading. “But this is so sudden! I need time to get ready. Give me two hours.”
“Good. I will meet you in the lobby when you arrive. Chilled champagne will be waiting.”
It was a whirlwind romance. Within hours, he had proposed marriage, and she had accepted. He cautioned her that there was one condition, and she could still change her mind: she would have to leave Mexico.
“But why? Are the police about to arrest you?”
“No, my love, quite the opposite. I have had a falling out with one of the leaders of Los Zetas over the seizure of the cathedral in Morelia and the murder of your uncle. My life is in danger. I will have to leave Mexico incognito under a false identity. Will you come with me?”
“How could you not have a falling out with beasts like them? But where will we go?”
“I have some friends who will help me. They do not know yet about our plans to marry. I will surprise them tomorrow. You too will need to assume a false identity so that no one in Los Zetas will be able to find us. Promise me you will tell no one.”
“I promise.”
They were married on Saturday at twelve noon at a civil registry office in Mexico City, followed by a lunch for two served in their bridal suite at the St. Regis. Shortly before 3:00 p.m., Maria Elena excused herself. She had to return to her apartment to collect things that she would need for the trip.
“Be careful,” he whispered as they embraced. “You never know who might be watching.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
When Alvarez called the number that had been inserted into his new passport, a familiar voice answered, “Shafer here. Who is this?”
Alvarez answered without hesitation, “Juan Mendoza.”
“Ah, Juan. Colonel Reyes told me to expect your call. Can we meet?”
“I am at my hotel now. Where should I go?”
“We have an office on the twenty-first floor of the Torre Mayor building, not far from the St. Regis. When you get off the elevator, you will see a plaque by the door for the architectural firm of Albertson & Associates. Ring the doorbell. Someone will admit you.”
Alvarez left the St. Regis by an indirect route through the adjacent Torre Libertad before exiting onto the Paseo de la Reforma and making his way to the Torre Mayor. Several times he stopped to make sure he was not being followed. He knew that Los Zetas often used young children to spy on their targets. Then he walked past the Torre Mayor and doubled back, entering through a side door. The elevator banks were cordoned off, as was to be expected on a weekend, but it made him nervous because he would have to introduce himself to a security guard.
“Your name, please?” asked the guard at the reception desk. “I will also need some identification.”
Alvarez took a deep breath. “Juan Mendoza.” He pulled out his new passport, which, fortunately, he had remembered to take with him.
The security guard smiled as he looked at the passport photograph. “You apparently have discovered the fountain of youth since this photograph was taken. You look much younger.”
Alvarez grinned. “It is amazing what a vacation and rest can do for one’s appearance.”
“Whom are you seeing this afternoon?”
“Albertson & Associates, an architectural firm.”
“I will call them to let them know you are here.”
The security guard dialed a number and waited for a response. When someone finally answered, he said, “There is someone here to see you—a Mr. Mendoza.” There was a pause. Then he handed the passport back to Alvarez. “You are expected. Take the elevator to the twenty-first floor.”
It was Alvarez’s first experience with using an assumed name, and it was one to which he would adapt quickly. For much of his life, he had practiced deception successfully, serving several masters simultaneously. Escaping to Argentina under a false identity would not be a radically new step for him.
When he rang the doorbell on the twenty-first floor, Shafer opened the door almost immediately and ushered him into the office suite. Several smaller offices were darkened and unoccupied. Only the large corner office, which had breathtaking views of the Paseo de la Reforma and the Angel of Independence monument, was being used. The two men who were already seated in the office rose to greet him.
Shafer spoke in English. “Miguel Rodriguez you have already met. Allow me to introduce my colleague from the DEA in New York, Jim Connors.” Then he sat down behind the desk and motioned Alvarez to take a seat.
Shafer did not waste time. “Colonel Reyes requested that we help you to start up a new life in another country because your life is in danger. We owe him a number of favors, and you as well. I hope you like our selection of Argentina as your new home.”
Alvarez nodded appreciatively. “I have visited Argentina on business. Buenos Aires is a very elegant city. I am delighted.”
“Good. I apologize for the photograph in your new passport. It does make you look older, but in time, your appearance may begin to resemble the photograph. In the short term, you may need to use a little makeup and a wig to disguise your appearance. We have a number of experts who can help you in that regard. To complete the disguise, we would like you to travel as an invalid confined to a wheelchair. How does that sound?”
“I am open to your suggestions,” replied Alvarez.
“Good. Now for the logistics. Jim and I thought initially that the easiest way to get you into the United States would be to fly you in a private jet to Ciudad Juárez on the Texas-Mexican border and then drive you across, but Miguel Rodriguez does not think that is a good idea.”
“It is too risky,” said Rodriguez emphatically. “Ciudad Juárez has become the murder capital of Mexico during a turf battle between drug cartels. It is probably a city which Diego Alvarez has visited. He might be recognized by someone, even if he is disguised.”
“The better plan,” continued Shafer, “is to fly you in one of Captain Segundo’s military transport aircraft to a base in Baja California. From there, you will be flown across the border in a US Navy helicopter to a base near San Diego. At that point, my colleague, Jim Connors, will take charge.”
Connors picked up where Shafer had left off. “Once you are in the United States, you will be taken to a safe house, where we will provide you with details on the life of the man whose identity you are about to assume. It will help you in answering questions at customs and passport control and, once you are settled in Argentina, from local officials as well. Our makeup specialists are pretty good, but a beard would be helpful. Don’t shave for the next
week or two.”
“Any questions, suggestions?” asked Shafer. “We would like to move you out of here tomorrow if possible. For your safety, we need to act quickly. Once you are reported missing, your friends at Los Zetas will be scouring Mexico looking for you.”
“I have only one problem. You have made no plans for my wife.”
“Your wife? I thought you were single.”
“I got married this morning to Maria Elena Cardozo. She will be accompanying me.”
“That will complicate matters,” Connors rebuked him, “and it increases your risk.”
“I apologize, but I will not leave without her. She must have special papers too.”
Connors grimaced and looked at Rodriguez. “Can we do it?”
Rodriguez nodded.
“How long would it take?”
“Two days. It would delay their departure until Tuesday.”
Shafer shrugged. “It’s your decision, Diego. My only suggestion is lay low for the next few days. Extend your reservation at the hotel through Tuesday night, although you will be departing in the afternoon. We will figure out a way to smuggle you and your wife out of the hotel without anyone noticing.”
When Alvarez returned to the hotel by the same indirect route that he had taken to get to the Torre Mayor, he found that Maria Elena had not yet returned. He waited nervously as time passed. When he called her apartment, no one answered. Three hours later, he heard a sound at the door. When he opened the door, she flung herself into his arms.
“You are safe! I was so worried! When I left my apartment and hailed a taxi to take me to the hotel, you will not believe whom I met! It was Lobo. He had been waiting outside the building. The most evil-looking man I have ever seen!”
“What did he say?”
“He asked where you were. He said that he had heard you were in Mexico City this weekend and wondered if you were staying with me. I said that was news to me. When he noticed my suitcase, I said that I planned to spend the weekend with a girlfriend in one of the northern suburbs of Mexico City. I don’t think he believed me. He stood there and waited so that he could overhear the instructions to the taxi driver. Don’t worry! I did not say the St. Regis Hotel. I instructed the driver to take me to the Buenavista train station.”
“Good. Did he follow you?”
“I do not know. But to make sure, I took the Metro north, switched a couple of times, and doubled back to Buenavista Station. From there, I took a taxi here. That is why it took me so long to get back!”
“Good girl! I am so sorry to put you through all of this!”
“It was nothing, Diego. I love you!” She paused to catch her breath. “What did you learn from your friends?”
“We will be leaving Tuesday for the United States aboard a military aircraft, compliments of the Mexican Navy. You will be given a new passport and papers—”
“The Mexican Navy? Diego, who are you?”
“Now is not the time for explanations!”
She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Okay. And where to after that?”
“Argentina.”
She screamed with delight. “I have always wanted to see Buenos Aires.”
Two weeks later, at Los Angeles International Airport, passengers were milling in front of a gate waiting to board an American Airlines flight to Buenos Aires. “First-class passengers, parents with small children, and those needing assistance will be given priority in boarding,” boomed the public address system.
“Make way! Make way!” shouted an airline attendant, pushing a passenger in a wheelchair toward the gate. The passenger was an old man, his gray head bent low so that his beard touched his chest. Walking slowly behind the attendant, supporting herself with a cane, was an elderly woman. A filmy scarf partly covered her gray hair and face, and sunglasses shielded her eyes against the bright light. They both disappeared down the gangway leading to the aircraft.
Although Diego Alvarez was forced to flee Mexico, he exacted his final revenge on the murderers of Maria Elena’s uncle. Using information he provided, the Mexican Navy tracked down and killed Heriberto Lazcano in a shootout. Bringing Omar Morales to justice took longer, but he was eventually captured and imprisoned.
As for “El Chapo” Guzman, the head of the Sinaloa Cartel, he too was arrested. He managed to escape his luxury accommodations via a tunnel, which his accomplices had dug underneath the prison walls—only to be recaptured again after a brief period of freedom. His lieutenant, Zambada, remains at large.
Chapter Forty-Nine
On the flight home from Mexico City, Bob Bigelow came to the unshakable conclusion that now was the time to make a complete break with his past life. He would never return to Ottoman Trading Company. Any firm that would blithely send him off on a mission to negotiate with murderous Mexican drug cartels to obtain the release of a hostage could not be trusted. Murat had assured him that all he needed to do was drop off a briefcase filled with cash to rescue Ozmen. There would be no personal risk to him. The Mexicans were a charming, delightful people, Murat had said.
Like hell they were!
The fury welled up inside him. His jaws clenched, and his face reddened; a vein prominently distended on his forehead, giving the impression of a man about to suffer a stroke.
“Are you feeling well, sir?” asked a stewardess who was looking anxiously at him. His discolored eye and the cut in his lower lip had already attracted her attention when he first boarded the flight.
“Not at all,” he said sarcastically. “I am having murderous thoughts!” He visualized Murat hanging from a lamppost.
“Oh dear!” She seemed alarmed. “You are not intending to do anything violent, I hope?”
“You have nothing to fear. I will control my anger and channel it constructively before I gird myself for my next battle. My last dragon put up a hell of a fight!” he said, pointing to his cuts and bruises and giving her a crooked grin.
“That’s a relief.” She smiled at him.
The other passengers, who were looking nervously at him, began to relax.
“And how do you propose to do that this time?” she asked pertly.
“If you had an air ticket and could fly anywhere in the world, where would you go?”
“I vacationed in Tahiti last year. It was wonderful! The beaches, spectacular sunsets, the feeling of being far away from everything!”
“Could you imagine living there for the rest of your life?”
“It could get boring after a while. You could try Italy—glorious cathedrals, art museums, delicious food and wine!”
“I would like that, but Italy has one problem. It is much too close to Turkey!” Bob was beginning to calm down.
“You must know Mexico. Any interest in returning?”
“Not in a long time.”
“You have me stumped. But I have an idea. There is a travel magazine in the pouch on the seat in front of you. At the back of the magazine is a world map showing all the routes that Delta flies. That could be a start.” She smiled and turned to walk down the aisle.
He did not want the conversation to end. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Vancouver.”
“Vancouver must be a nice place. Washington state or British Columbia?”
“North of the border, if you please. You know—beautiful coastal views, fishing, hockey, Mounties in red tunics.”
“I get the picture. So why are you a stewardess if Vancouver is so great?”
“Just trying to see a little of the world before I settle down. Delta has a direct flight every morning from Kennedy to Vancouver, by the way.”
“I will check it out, I promise. If you give me your telephone number, you can be my guide,” he said hopefully.
“I will think about it.” She was laughing and shaking her head as she walked away.
&
nbsp; When he exited the airplane at Kennedy, she slipped a piece of paper into his hand and winked at him. It had her telephone number and name written on it. Becky Moran. He liked the sound of her name and her appearance too—red hair, green eyes, freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose, and an infectious smile.
True to his decision, Bob never worked again at Ottoman Trading Company. He sent an email to Murat that he would be collecting disability pay for a few weeks because he was suffering psychological trauma after his ordeal in Mexico City. When Murat tried to call him, he refused to pick up the receiver because he did not want to engage in conversation with a man he loathed.
It occurred to him that his absence from work could make Connor and Shafer’s job of tracking Murat’s activities more difficult, but he did not give a damn.
Early October can be very pleasant in New York—warm Indian summer days followed by cool, crisp nights, the leaves on the trees starting to turn color. For a few days, he took long walks in Central Park with Jack, who was in dog heaven chasing every squirrel he saw. Bob even attended a few Broadway shows, but he soon tired of his relaxed regimen.
On impulse, he called Andrea Williams and invited her to have lunch with him. To his surprise, she agreed. He had expected her to be aloof, but she was curious about his experience as the hostage of a Mexican drug cartel and his rescue by the Mexican marines, which had been reported in the New York Times. She even gave him a hug before they sat down at a table at an outdoor café near Lincoln Center.
“My god, Bob! What have you been getting into? I really felt for you when I read the Times article about your experiences. Perhaps we should make it an episode in my program, West Side Follies.”
“It might not be funny enough for your program, believe me. Thanks to your friend Murat, I played with fire and nearly got myself killed.” He sketched a few details of his captivity with as much humor as he could muster.
Accidental Encounters Page 19