Blue Gold

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 sca

"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. Co

"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?"

"Agent Gomez was nice enough to have it waiting for me. It's got a hot engine and all kinds of radio gear I used to let our friends know where you were. I'm going to hate to give it up. Did Mr. Pedralez say anything?"

Austin held up the pistol case. "Yeah, he told me the next time I came to Tijuana to be sure these things are loaded." 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 co

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 surveillance 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 pla

Chapter 14

The scene was so awe inspiring in its terrible beauty that Trout almost forgot the predicament he and Gamay were in. Paul sat on a rocky ledge about twenty feet above the lake, long legs dangling down, swiveling his head back and forth to take in the whole panoramic sweep. He had to strain his neck to see the tops of the falls. Multiple rainbows arced over the five cascades as the sun caught the droplets of water in the twisting vapor cloud that rose for hundreds of feet. The roar was like that of a hundred distant loco motives at full steam. Trout wasn't a religious man, but if anything was the Hand of God, he was looking at it.