Paul was working a few feet directly in front of Gamay. He had severed two lines and was about to work on the third. He had become overconfident and had released his safety grip on the framework when the blimp swerved. Not expecting the sudden maneuver, he lost his balance and tumbled off. Gamay yelled helplessly.
The gondola was jerked violently and nosed down. Gamay leaned over and saw Paul clutching the line immediately above the dangling raft, which twisted violently, snapping back and forth like a child’s swing in the wind. The blimp’s forward motion had slowed almost to a stop. She looked up at the envelope, which had become a formless blob, then back under the gondola. Paul was still hanging on. Trout didn’t want to be under the blimp when it came down. He cut the line and plunged feet-first into the water from a height of about fifty feet. As he came to the surface the raft hit the water with a great splash.
Gamay was operating on pure adrenaline. She unsnapped her harness, climbed out onto the side of the gondola, took a deep breath, and dove off. Despite the shakiness of the platform and the fact that it was plunging rapidly toward the water, Gamay did a classic swan dive that would have earned her a top score in an Olympic competition. She hit the water with arms outstretched, her body straight, went deep, then kicked her way quickly back to the shimmering surface. Just in time to see the airship come down directly on top of the raft.
The raft disappeared under the layered folds of the envelope along with any hope it could be used to float their way home. She was more concerned about Paul for the moment and was relieved beyond words when she heard his voice calling, although she still couldn’t see him.
Pulled under by the gondola, the envelope sank, taking the raft with it. She saw Paul’s head bobbing on the other side of the sinking airship. He waved, and they swam toward each other, meeting in the middle. They treaded water for a few moments, gazing with awe at the cascading streams. Then, taking advantage of the push from the water rippling out from the falls, they began to swim for the distant shore.
13
FBI SPECIAL AGENT Miguel Gomez leaned his beefy wrestler’s body back in his swivel chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and gazed in wonderment at the two men sitting on the other side of his desk.
“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 offending 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. He’s killed people for less.”
“Look, Agent Gomez, we haven’t cornered the market on foolhardiness,” Austin said. “We tried other avenues first. The Mexican police say the steam pipes caused the blast. Case closed. We thought the owner might have something to tell us, so we called the Department of Commerce. They did an uh-oh, said the plant was owned by Enrico, and suggested that we get in touch with Gomez in the San Diego field office. That’s you. Now we’d like to take the next step. Does he have an office in the U.S.?”
“He won’t cross the border. He knows we’ll grab him.”
“Then we’ll have to go to him.”
“This won’t be easy. Pedralez used to be a Mexican federal cop, and half the police are on his payroll. They protect him and turn over informants, competitors, or anyone else who might cause him trouble.”
Gomez unlocked a drawer in his desk. He pulled out two thick files and laid them on the desk blotter. “This is the file on Enrico’s dirty stuff, and the other has information on his legal operations. He has to launder that dirty money somewhere, so he’s set up or bought legitimate businesses on both sides of the Mexican-American border. The tortilla business is the leader. Tortillas have become worth millions of dollars since the U.S. market opened up and people on this side of the border started eating the things. A few companies control the business. Just look in your supermarket if you don’t believe me. Enrico used his government connections, sprinkled the bribes around to get a piece of the action.” He pushed the files across the desk. “I can’t let this go out of the office, but you’re welcome to read it.”
Austin thanked him and took the file into a small conference room. He and Zavala sat on opposite sides of a table. Austin gave Joe the file on the legal businesses, told him to shout if he saw anything interesting, and begin to skim through the other file. He wanted a measure of the man he might be dealing with. The more he read, the less he liked. He hadn’t thought so much evil could be poured into one skin. Enrico was responsible for hundreds of murders, and every one of the executions had its own grisly touch. He was glad when Zavala gave him the excuse to halt his reading.
“Got it!” Joe said. He rustled a couple of sheets of paper. “These are background and sur
veillance reports on the tortilla factory. He’s owned it a couple of years. The FBI went down to take a peek. Didn’t see anything suspicious. Sounds like they took the same tour we did, except for my little side trip. Report says it seems like a legitimate operation.”
“Nothing about the underwater facility?”
Zavala frowned. “Nope. Not a word.”
“I’m not surprised. The installation could have been floated in at night.”
“Plausible. How about your file? Did you learn anything?”
“Yeah, that he’s one nasty SOB. We still have to talk to him.”
“Gomez says it’s impossible. Got any ideas?”
“I might have.” He handed Zavala a piece of paper from his file. “This is a list of his hobbies. Wine, women, racehorses, gambling, the usual things. Something caught my eye.”
Zavala saw it right away. “He collects antique firearms. Sounds like someone else I know.”
Austin smiled. He was a serious collector of dueling pistols. The walls of the old Potomac boathouse where he made his home were covered with the exquisitely fashioned instruments of death. He kept the most valuable pieces in a vault and had one of the finest collections in the country.
“You remember the new pieces I bought for my collection the day before our race? They’re a fine pair, but they duplicate a brace I have. I was planning to use them in trade with another collector.”
“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 AK-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 middleclass neighborhood, stopping in front of an outdoor café. 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 dire
ction. 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, Mr. 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.”
“Señor 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.
“Ah, 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 carefully 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 information.”
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?”
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