Blue & Gold

by Clive Cussler

  “You gentlemen must like tortillas one hell of a lot to want to see Enrico Pedralez.”

  Austin said, “We’ll pass on the tortillas. We just want to ask Pedralez a few questions.”

  “Impossible,” the agent said flatly, shaking his head for emphasis. His eyes were as dark as raisins, and they had the sad and wary expression cops get when they have seen it all.

  “I don’t understand,” Austin said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “You make an appointment with his secretary. You go in and have a chat. Just like any businessman.”

  “The Farmer isn’t just any businessman.”

  “The Farmer? I was unaware he was into agriculture, too.”

  Gomez couldn’t hold back a toothy grin. “Guess you could call it agriculture. Did you hear about the big search for bodies buried at a couple of ranches just over the border?”

  “Sure,” Austin said. “It was in all the papers. They found dozens of corpses, probably people killed by drug dealers.”

  “I was one of the FBI field agents the Mexicans allowed to come in on that operation. The ranches were owned by Enrico, or, rather, in the names of guys who worked for Pedralez.”

  Zavala, who was sitting in the other chair, said, “You’re telling us the tortilla king is a drug dealer?”

  Gomez leaned forward onto his desk and counted on his fingers. “Drugs, prostitution, extortion, kidnapping, Medicaid fraud, purse snatching, and making a public nuisance of himself. You name it. His organization is like any other conglomerate that doesn’t put all its eggs in one basket. The bad boys are taking their cue from Wall Street. Diversification is the byword in the Mexican mafia these days.”

  “Mafia,” Austin said. “That might present a little problem.”

  “Nothing little about it,” the agent said. He was on a roll. “The Mexican mafia makes the Sicilians look like choir boys. The old Cosa Nostra would whack a guy, but it was hands off the family. The Russian mob will wipe out your wife and kids if you get out of line, but even with them, it’s purely business. With the Mexicans, it’s personal. Anyone who gets in their way is of fending their machismo. Enrico doesn’t just kill his enemies, he grinds them, their relatives, and their friends into powder.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Austin said, unfazed by the agent’s monologue. “Now will you tell us how we go about seeing him?”

  Gomez let out a whooping laugh. He had wondered about this pair since they walked into his office and flashed their NUMA identification. He only knew of the National Underwater & Marine Agency by name, that it was the undersea equivalent of NASA. Austin and Zavala didn’t fit in with his preconceived notion of ocean scientists. The bronze-skinned man with the penetrating blue-green eyes and albino hair looked as if he could knock down walls with those battering-ram shoulders. His partner was soft-spoken, and a slight smile played around his lips, but with a mask and a sword he would have been a casting director’s ideal choice to play Zorro.

  “Okay, guys,” Gomez said, shaking his head in defeat. “Since it is still against the law to assist a suicide, I would feel better if you told me what’s going down. Why is NUMA interested in a tortilla plant owned by a Mexican crook?”

  “There was an underwater explosion in the cove behind the plant Pedralez owns in Baja California. We want to ask him if he knows anything. We’re not the FBI. We’re simply a scientific organization looking for a few answers.”

  “Doesn’t matter. All feds are the enemy. Asking questions about his business would be considered an aggressive act.

  “I think I see where you’re going with this. How do you let Enrico know they’re available?”

  “Every dealer has a client list so buyers can be quickly matched up to acquisitions. You never know when an unusual collectible will come up, or how long a dealer may be able to keep the transaction exclusive. I’ll call a couple of dealers and tell them I have to unload the pistols in a hurry. I’ll make it sound as if I’m in desperate straits. A crook can never resist the chance to cheat someone.”

  “What if Enrico has pistols like these?”

  “They’re relatively rare. But if he does have copies, he might want them for the same reason I did, for future trades. The main thing is having the opportunity to talk to him. He’d still want to see them, hold them in his hands. It’s a collector thing.”

  “Say a dealer gets several anonymous queries. How do we know which is Enrico?”

  “We know he doesn’t come north of the border. If I am asked to go to Mexico to make the deal, we’ll know he’s it.”

  They returned the files to Gomez and told him of their plan.

  “Might work. Might not. It’s dangerous as hell. No guarantee he’s going to talk, even if you do get to meet him.”

  “We’ve considered that possibility.”

  Gomez nodded. “Look, I hate to have something happen to a nice fellow like you. I can’t protect you outright because the Mexicans are a little sensitive about gringo cops treading on their territory. I can make certain that if he does kill you his life won’t be worth a plugged peso.”

  “Thanks, Agent Gomez. My survivors will be reassured.”

  “Best I can do. I’ll line up a few assets. Let me know when this thing is happening.”

  They shook hands, and the NUMA men headed back to the hotel. Austin brought out the dark brown wood case from his duffel bag, opened the lid, and removed one of the pistols.

  “These are almost identical to a pair I have in my collection. They were made by a gunsmith named Boutet about the time of Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign. He incorporated the Sphinx and the Pyramids into the barrel. These were probably made for an Englishman.” He sighted at a floor lamp. “The butt is cut round instead of square like the continental type. But the rifling is multigrooved in the French style.” He replaced the pistol in its green baize. “I’d say this is irresistible bait for any collector.”

  Austin consulted his list of dealers and called around. He made sure the dealers knew he was extremely interested in selling the pistols, even at a loss, and that he was leaving San Diego the next day. Austin believed the best cover stories are at least partially true. He said his boat sank and he needed cash to pay off his bills. Then he and Zavala went over possible eventualities and how best to respond to them.

  An hour after he began putting feelers out, Austin received an excited call from a particularly vulpine dealer with a slightly shady reputation. His name was Latham.

  “I have a potential client for your pistols,” Latham said with excitement. “He’s very interested and would like to see them as soon as possible. Can you meet him in Tijuana today? It’s not far.”

  Austin curled his thumb and forefinger and silently mouthed a word. Bingo. “No problem. Where would he like us to get together?”

  The dealer told him to park on the U.S. side of the border and walk across the pedestrian bridge. The pistol case would identify him. Austin said he’d be there in two hours and hung up. Then he filled Zavala in.

  Zavala said, “What if he takes you somewhere we can’t help you, like one of those ranches where he likes to plant people?”

  “Then I’ll keep the conversation on the pistols, and we’ll go through with the transaction if he’s interested. At the very least it will give me a chance to size him up.”

  Austin immediately called Gomez. The FBI agent said he’d assembled a team in anticipation. They would watch Austin’s back but couldn’t get too close because Pedralez would make sure Austin was not followed. A few minutes later the NUMA men were on the way south again in the borrowed pickup.

  Zavala left Austin off on the American side and drove into Mexico. Austin waited twenty minutes, then walked across the bridge, the pistol case tucked under his arm. He’d hardly gotten off the bridge when a portly middle-aged man in a cheap suit approached him. “Meester Austeen?” he said. “Yes, that’s my name.”

  The man produced a federal police badge. “Police escort for you and your valuables,” he
said with a grin. “Courtesy of the chief. Lotsa bad people in Tijuana.”

  He led the way to a dark blue sedan and held the back door open. Austin got in first, making a quick sweep of the parking lot with his eyes. Zavala was nowhere to be seen. Austin would have been disappointed if Zavala were too conspicuous, but he would have felt better knowing that his back was being watched.

  The car plunged into the Tijuana traffic, winding its way through a bewildering warren of slums. While the driver was leering at a young woman crossing the street, Austin checked the rear. The only vehicle behind them was a battered old yellow cab.

  The police car stopped in front of a windowless cantina whose pockmarked stucco exterior of seasick green looked as if it had been used for target practice by an AIC-47. The old cab went speeding by. Austin got out and stood next to a rusty Corona beer sign, wondering if he was expected to go inside the cantina and whether it would be a good idea. A gunmetal-gray Mercedes came around the corner and halted at the curb. A tough-looking young man wearing a chauffeur’s cap got out and wordlessly held the door open. Austin got in, and they were off.

  The car left the slums and drove into a middle-class neighborhood, stopping in front of an outdoor cafe. Another young Mexican opened the door and escorted Austin to a table where a man was sitting by himself.

  The man extended his hand and smiled broadly. “Please sit down, Mr. Austin,” he said. “My name is Enrico Pedralez.”

  Austin wondered at the banality of evil, how even a monster could look so ordinary. Enrico was in his fifties, Austin guessed.

  He was casually dressed in tan cotton slacks and a white short sleeved shirt. He could have passed for any of the merchants who sold sombreros and blankets in the tourist shops. He had black hair and a mustache that looked dyed and wore a great deal of gold in the form of rings, wristlets, and a chain.

  A waiter delivered two tall glasses of cold fruit juice. Austin sipped his drink and glanced around. Eight swarthy men sat two at each table. The men were not talking to each other. They made a pretense of not looking at Austin, but out of the corner of his eye he caught quick glances in his direction. Mr. Pedralez might be a bit cocky about appearing in public, but he took no chances.

  “Thank you very much for coming to see me on such short notice, ML Austin. I hope it was no trouble.” He spoke English with a slight accent.

  “Not at all. I was pleased to be put in touch with a potential buyer so quickly. I’m leaving San Diego tomorrow.”

  “Senor Latham said you were involved in the boat race.”

  “I was one of the losers, unfortunately. My boat sank.”

  “A pity,” Pedralez said. He removed his sunglasses, his small greedy eyes moving to the pistol case. He rubbed his hands briskly together in anticipation. “May I see them?”

  “Of course.” Austin unsnapped the clasp on the box and opened the cover.

  ‘~h, truly magnificent,” Pedralez said with the eagerness of a true connoisseur. He took a pistol out and sighted it at one of the men at a nearby table. The man smiled nervously. Then the drug lord ran his finger over the oiled barrel. “Boutet. Made in the English style, for a wealthy lord, no doubt.”

  “That was my assessment as well.”

  “The workmanship is excellent, as I would expect.” He care fully placed the pistol back in its case and sighed theatrically. “Unfortunately I have a similar pair.”

  “Oh. Well.” Austin made a show of trying to hide his disappointment. As Austin went to close the case, Pedralez put his hand on his.

  “Perhaps we can still do business. I would like to present these as a gift to a close friend. Have you thought of a price?”

  “Yes,” Austin said casually. He looked around, hoping Gomez was serious about his backup, and said casually, “I need some in formation.”

  The Mexican’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand,” he said warily.

  “I’m in the market for some property myself. There’s a tortilla factory in the Baja. I understand that it might be available in a fire sale.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Pedralez said coldly. He snapped his fingers. The men lounging at the surrounding tables came to alert. “Who are you?”

  “I represent an organization far bigger than yours.”

  “You’re a policeman? FBI?”

  “No. I’m with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I’m an ocean scientist, and I’m investigating an explosion near your plant. In return for information I’d like to make these pistols a gift.”

  The avuncular smile had vanished, and Enrico’s lips were curled in a humorless and ferocious grin. “Do you take me for a fool? I own this restaurant. These men, the waiters, the cook, they all work for me. You could disappear without a trace. They would swear you were never here. What do I care for your pistolas?” he said with contempt. “I have dozens more.”

  Austin kept his gaze leveled on Enrico’s face. “Tell me, Mr. Pedralez, as a fellow collector, what is your fascination with these old weapons?”

  The Mexican seemed amused at the question. The heat went out of the fierce glitter in his eyes, but the temperature went down only a few degrees.

  “They represent power and the means of power. Yet at the same time they are as beautiful as a woman’s body.”

  “Well said.”

  “And you?”

  “Aside from their fine workmanship, they remind me that lives and fate can be altered by chance. A trigger squeezed pre maturely. A gun raised too quickly. A single shot missing a vital organ by an inch or two. They represent the luck of the draw in its most lethal terms.”

  The Mexican seemed intrigued by the answer. “You must consider yourself very lucky to place yourself in my hands, Mr. Austin.”

  “Not at all. I took the chance that you would be willing to chat.”

  “You made your gamble. I applaud your audacity. Unfortunately this is not your day. You lose,” he said coldly. “I don’t care who you are or who you represent. You have drawn the death card.” He snapped his fingers again, and the men rose from the tables and began to move in. Austin felt like a fox outfoxed by the hunters.

  With an ear-splitting roar of its unmuffled exhaust system, the battered yellow cab squealed to a stop in front of the restaurant. The car, an ancient Checker, was still bouncing on worn shock absorbers when the cab driver got out. Except for the soiled seer sucker sports jacket over a Hussong’s T-shirt, the driver behind the reflecting silver lenses looked suspiciously like Joe Zavala.

  Joe stood on the sidewalk and called out in heavily accented English. “Anybody here call a cab?”

  One of Enrico’s men went over and growled at Joe in Spanish.

  “I’m looking for an American,” Zavala said in English at the top of his voice, looking past the thug’s shoulder. “Sergeant Alvin York.”

  The man put his palm on Zavala’s chest to emphasize his point.

  “Okay, okay! Damned gringos.” He stalked back to his cab and lurched off, trailing a purple cloud of exhaust fumes.

  The thug turned around and laughed.

  Austin breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes roved the low rooftops, and he smiled.

  Zavala was passing on a message, not very subtle but effective. Sergeant York was the Kentucky sharpshooter who got the

  Medal of Honor for capturing German prisoners during World War I. “An amusing fellow, eh, Mr. Austin?” “Very amusing.”

  “Good. Now I must go. Adios, Mr. Austin. Unfortunately we will not be meeting again.”

  “Wait.”

  The Mexican scowled at Austin as if he were a bit of lint on his shirt.

  “I wouldn’t move if I were you. You’re in the sights of a sniper. One wrong move, and your head will explode like a ripe melon. Look up on that roof if you don’t believe me, and that one over there.”

  Pedralez swiveled his head like a praying mantis and scanned the low rooftops. Three snipers, placed at different locations, made no effort to hide. He sat down again.
>
  “It seems you don’t believe entirely in the forces of fate. What do you want?”

  “I simply want to know who owns the Baja Tortilla factory.”

  “I do, of course. It’s quite profitable, really.”

  “What about the underwater laboratory in the cove? What do you know about that?”

  “I’m a busy man, Mr. Austin, so I will tell you the story, and then we will part. Two years ago somebody came to me. A lawyer from San Diego. He had a proposition. Someone wanted to build a factory. They would pay for its construction, and I would take all the profits. There were conditions. It had to be isolated, and it had to be on the water.”

  “I want to know what was built in the water.”

  “I don’t know. A large ship came. There were guards. They brought something into the cove and deliberately sank it. Connections were made to the factory. People came and went. I asked no questions.”

  “What do you know about the explosion?”

  He shrugged. “Someone called afterward and said not to worry. They would make good on my loss. That’s all I know. The police don’t care.” “This lawyer who handled the deal, what was his name?”

  “Francis Xavier Hanley. Now I must go. I have told you all I can.”

  “Yes, I know, you’re a busy man.”

  Pedralez waved his hand. The men got up from the tables and formed a corridor to the sidewalk on either side of him. The Mercedes appeared out of nowhere; the door opened with machinelike precision. The bodyguards piled into two Jeep Cherokees ahead of and behind the Mercedes.

  “Mr. Pedralez,” Austin called out. “A deal’s a deal. You forgot the pistols.”

  Enrico answered with a mirthless smile. “Keep them,” he said, and added a few more words. He got into the back of the car, shut the door, and zoomed down the street. Austin was sweating, and it wasn’t just from the heat. The junky cab pulled up in front of him and tooted the horn.

  Austin slid in the passenger side and looked around in amazement. “Where’d you get this rig?”