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  After crossing back from Tijuana, Austin had called Hanley’s office and asked for an appointment. He spread his story on as thick as peanut butter, saying he and his partner “had made a few mil” in the market and wanted a place to spend it. They got an immediate meeting. The predatory gleam in the lawyer’s pale green eyes suggested that the bait had done its job well. He looked from one man to the other. “I believe in getting right down to business,” he purred. “You said on the phone that you’re interested in foreign investment.”

  “We’re primarily interested in Mexico,” Zavala explained.

  The attorney wore an expensive sharkskin gray suit and had enough gold and diamonds on his fleshy hands to sink the Titanic. All the tailors in the world couldn’t hide the brawler’s body, and no amount of jewelry could have obscured the coarse ness ingrained in his every word and move. The NUMA men were dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and windbreakers. It was a studied casualness. In California, the only ones who look like millionaires are those who aren’t.

  Hanley took in Zavala’s Latin American looks. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said expansively. He smiled in an attempt to exert charm, but the V-shaped mouth in the fleshy face made him look like a fat vulture. “Did you have a specific area in mind?”

  “We like tortillas,” Austin said with a straight face.

  A look of incomprehension appeared on Hanley’s florid features. “Pardon me,” he said, not certain he had heard correctly.

  “You know, tortillas,” Austin said, making a circular motion with his finger. “We hear it’s a fast-growing business.”

  Recovering nicely, Hanley replied, “And so it is. A booming sector in the expanding food services area.”

  Austin had the feeling that the answer would have been the same had they told Hanley they were interested in making mud pies. He and Zavala had decided to use the direct approach that had worked so well in drawing a strong reaction from Pedralez.

  Zavala smiled and said, “We’ve been hearing about a tortilla plant in Baja California, outside Ensenada, that might be for sale real cheap.”

  Hanley’s watery eyes narrowed under the prominent brow ridge. “Where’d you hear that?” he growled.

  “Around.” The corners of Zavala’s lips turned up in a mysterious smile.

  “Sorry, gentlemen, I’m not familiar with any Baja tortilla plant.”

  Zavala turned to Austin. “He says he’s not familiar with that one.”

  Austin shrugged. “We’re surprised at your answer. Enrico Pedralez says you’re very familiar with the property. He gave us your name and said you arranged the deal for him.” Hanley’s defenses went on full alert at the mention of the Mexican mob boss. He was uncertain how accountable he had to be to these two strangers. He fast-forwarded through the categories of likely threats: police, IRS, state bureaucrats. These men didn’t fit into any pigeonhole. He decided to take the offensive.

  “May I see some identification from you gentlemen?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Austin said.

  “In that case, if you’re not out of my office in two seconds, I’ll throw you out myself.”

  Austin made no move to rise. “You could try,” he said with an icy coldness, “but I wouldn’t recommend it. I wouldn’t bother calling in your Mexican pals, either.”

  Seeing that intimidation wasn’t going to work, the lawyer reached for the phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  “Why don’t you call the bar association while you’re at it?” Austin said. “I’m sure they’d like to hear how one of their members set up a deal with a notorious Mexican mafioso. That framed license on your wall won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on.”

  The hand retreated, and Hanley stared across the desk. “Who are you gentlemen?” He practically spat out the last word.

  “A couple of people who want to know more about that plant in the Baja,” Austin said.

  Hanley was having a hard time trying to figure out this pair. With their athletic builds and sun-burnished faces they looked like a couple of beach bums, but he detected a hard edge under their genial image.

  “Even if you had credible authority I couldn’t help you,” he said. “All discussions on that matter are covered by lawyer-client privilege.”

  “That’s true,” Austin said agreeably. “It is also true that you could go to jail for making a dirty deal with a known criminal.”

  Hanley’s mouth widened in an insincere smile. “Okay, you win,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I can. But let’s compromise. Tell me why you are interested in this property. It would be the fair thing to do.”

  “True,” Austin said, “but this is an unfair world.” His coral green eyes bored into Hanley’s face. “I’ll put your mind at ease. Your slimy dealings are not our concern. Once you tell us who hired you for the Baja job, chances are you’ll never see us again.”

  Hanley nodded and plucked a cigar from a humidor without offering his guests one. He lit up and puffed smoke in their direction. “I was contacted about two years ago by a broker from Sacramento. He had heard about my, ah, connections, south of the border and thought I would be the perfect go-between for a highly lucrative deal with no risk and little work.”

  “An offer you couldn’t refuse.”

  “Of course. But I was cautious. Everyone in California has a get-rich scheme. He knew about my ties to Enrico. So I had to make sure this guy wasn’t working in an official capacity. I had a private detective check him out. He was legit.”

  Austin smiled faintly at the irony of a crooked lawyer worrying about honesty. “What did he hire you to do?”

  “The people he represented wanted to find land in the Baja. It had to be remote and on the coast. Then he wanted me to handle the paperwork and red tape involved in starting a business in Mexico.”

  “Baja Tortillas.”

  “Yes. He wanted a Mexican to hold the actual ownership for the plant. He said it would be easier that way. It would be a turnkey operation. He supplied the plant specifications and brought in a construction crew. His clients would require access to the plant after it was built, but they would not interfere in the operation. They said Enrico could keep half the profits, and the plant would be his free and clear after five years.”

  “Did you ever wonder why anyone would be so generous with what must have been a considerable investment?”

  “I am paid substantially because I don’t ask questions like that.”

  “Seems your friends wanted a cover operation,” Zavala said.

  “That certainly crossed my mind. The Japanese ran into all sorts of flak when they tried to build a salt-producing plant

  along the coast. A bunch of whale huggers made a big stink with the Mexican government. I assumed the man’s clients saw what had happened with the Japanese and didn’t want to go through the same headaches.” “Who was this broker?”

  “His name was Jones. Oh yes, that’s his real name,” Hanley added when he saw the skeptical glances. “He’s a matchmaker who specializes in buying and selling businesses.”

  “Who was he representing?”

  “He never told me.”

  Austin leaned forward onto Hanley’s desk. “Don’t jerk us around, Mr. Hanley. You’re a careful man. You would have had your private detective poke into this guy.”

  Hanley shrugged. “Why deny it? The clients tried to hide their identity behind a web of corporate paper.”

  “You said tried. Who are they?”

  “I only got as far as an outfit called the Mulholland Group. It’s a closed corporation with ties to companies involved in large-scale hydraulic projects.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s all I know.” Hanley checked his Cartier wrist watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a real client.”

  “We want the broker’s address and phone number.”

  “It won’t do you any good. He died a few weeks ago. His car went off a mountain road.”

&
nbsp; Austin had been gazing through the floor-to-ceiling window behind Hanley at a helicopter going back and forth across the harbor. It was moving closer with each pass. At the mention of unusual death, he brought his full attention back to Hanley.

  “We’d like whatever information you have on him anyway. And your whole file as well.”

  Hanley frowned. He thought he was through with this annoying pair. “I can’t give you the original. I’ll have it copied. It might take a couple of hours.”

  “That would be fine. We‘11 be back for it in two hours.”

  Hanley’s frown deepened. Then he smiled again, rose from his desk, and showed them to the door.

  Back in the elevator, Austin said, “We’ll call Hiram Yaeger. Hanley’s bound to censor the stuff he gives us, so we might want to conduct our own investigation into this Mulholland Group.” Hiram Yaeger was NUMA’s computer whiz. The tenth-floor computer complex he called Max was plugged into a vast data base of oceanic knowledge from every source in the world. Max routinely hacked into outside databases.

  They stepped out of the building lobby into the Southern California sun. As Zavala walked to the curb to hail a cab there was a loud whup-whup sound from directly overhead. A green helicopter hovered over the street, about a hundred feet from the glass face of the building. Like the other pedestrians they stared at the aircraft with curiosity. Then recognition flashed in Austin’s mind.

  He grabbed Zavala’s arm. “We’ve got to go back.”

  Zavala glanced at the helicopter and bolted for the revolving door behind Austin.

  They dashed into an open elevator and punched the button for the lawyer’s floor. Halfway up there was a dull thud, and the elevator’s sides rattled in the shaft. Austin hit the stop button for the floor below Hanley’s office. They ran past startled office workers and raced up the stairway to the next level.

  Acrid black smoke filled the stairwell. Austin felt the door to the law-office floor. Unable to detect heat that would indicate a fierce blaze on the other side, he opened the door a crack. More smoke poured out. They opened the door wide enough to pass through, got down on their hands and knees, and crawled through the choking fumes into the receptionist’s area. The sprinkler system had been set off, and they were drenched under a cooling spray. The receptionist lay on the rug next to her desk.

  “What about Hanley?” Joe shouted. Smoke was billowing from the office door.

  “Don’t bother. He’s gone.”

  They dragged the receptionist to the stairwell and got her

  limp body down to the floor below. She came around after a few minutes of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Soon firemen pounded onto the floor, and they turned her over to an EMT. They walked down rather than take an elevator where they would be stuck if the power went off. More firemen poured into the lobby. The police had arrived and were evacuating the building. They joined the crowd milling around outside, but seeing there was nothing they could do, they walked a couple of blocks and hailed a cab.

  The driver, a Senegalese from the looks of his ID card, glanced at their soot-covered faces. “You in there? Man, I just heard over the radio. Some kind of explosion.”

  Zavala looked out the back window at the confusion outside the building where police were stopping traffic and setting up a fire line.

  Zavala wiped the soot from his cheek. “How did you know that was going to happen?”

  “I didn’t. But I noticed the helicopter going back and forth across the harbor when we were talking to Hanley.”

  “I saw it, too, but didn’t pay much attention. I figured it was a traffic chopper.”

  “I had the same reaction at first. Then we saw it up close, and something clicked. The same chopper or one very much like it did a fly-by after the explosion at the tortilla plant.”

  “I remember. Dark green. It buzzed the cove, then flew off.” Zavala pondered the implication. “Whoever owned that chopper wanted Hanley dead in a bad way.”

  “Hanley ran with a pretty rough crowd.”

  “You think it was Enrico?”

  “It’s possible. He knew we would talk to Hanley. I was surprised he didn’t call Hanley to warn him we were coming.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Mr. Jones, the guy who brokered the deal,” Zavala said thoughtfully. “Maybe his mouth was shut for him as well.”

  “It would fit in with the Enrico theory until something better comes along,” Austin said.

  Something better did come along back at the hotel. While Austin went in to clean up and change, Zavala flipped to the TV news. The camera showed shots of smoke belching from the office and fire trucks outside. The fire department spokesman said a number of people were treated for smoke inhalation, but there was apparently only one death. The name would be released pending notice of next of kin. Cause of the explosion was un known. The report ended, and Zavala was about to turn the TV off when a familiar face appeared on the screen.

  “Kurt, you’ve got to see this,” he called.

  Austin emerged in time to hear the blow-dried announcer give his report.

  “This just in. Alleged Mexican mafia drug figure Enrico Pe dralez was killed today when his car exploded in Tijuana. Two men who may have been bodyguards also died in the explosion.”

  The announcer went on to read the Mexican’s law-breaking laundry list.

  “Looks like our green chopper people don’t like loose ends,” Austin observed.

  The phone rang, and Zavala picked it up. He listened for a moment, muttered “You’re welcome,” and replaced the phone in its cradle. “That was FBI Agent Miguel Gomez,” he said.

  “What did he want?”

  Zavala’s mouth puckered in a wry smile. “He just wanted to say thanks for making his job a little easier.”

  Chapter 16

  Brunhild Sigurd ran her far-flung empire from a turret office high above the sprawling Viking edifice she called Valhalla. The windowless room was built in an exact circle, the geometric form closest to perfection. The walls were stark white and unadorned by paintings or wall hangings. She sat in front of a flat-screen monitor and a telephone console of white plastic. It was all she needed to be in instant touch with her operations around the world. The temperature was kept at a cool thirty-eight degrees summer and winter. The few who had been allowed into this aerie compared it to being in a walk-in refrigerator, but it suited her fine.

  As a girl growing up on an isolated farm in Minnesota, she had come to love the cold and reveled in the purity to be found in subfreezing temperatures. She would ski alone for hours under the stars ignoring the icy chill that stung her cheeks. As she grew in height and strength she distanced herself even more from humanity, the “little people” as she called them, who saw her as a freak. At school in Europe, her natural brilliance al lowed her to excel at her studies even when she seldom at tended class. Those times when she couldn’t hide and had to suffer the stares of others only drove her ambition, fueled her smoldering resentment, and planted the seeds for her megalomania.

  She was talking on the speaker phone: “Thank you for your

  support of the Colorado River legislation, Senator Barnes. Your state stands to gain quite handsomely for your key vote, especially when your brother’s firm starts picking up contracts for the work we have planned. I hope you’ve taken advantage of the suggestions I’ve made.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have, thank you. I’ve had to avoid the conflict-of-interest thing, of course, but my brother and I are quite close, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do, Senator. Have you talked to the president?”

  “Just got off the phone with his chief of staff. The White House will veto any bill that seeks to overturn the privatization legislation we passed. The president is a firm believer that the private sector can always do a better job than government, whether it’s running prisons, social security, or pumping water.”

  “What sort of backing does the Kinkaid bill have?”

  “Only a scattering of votes
, nothing serious. Damned shame about Kinkaid having that accident. I always liked the man. But without him around to whip up the troops, an override is bound to fail.”

  “Excellent. How are the other privatization bills faring?”

  “They’ll do just fine. You’ll be seeing publicly run water facilities being privatized all over the country.”

  “So there are no problems?”

  “One maybe. The biggest pain in the butt is the editor of the daily paper in my state capital. He’s raising a ruckus, and I’m afraid he might bollix things up.”

  She asked the editor’s name and made a metal note of the senator’s answer. Her desktop was free of pen and paper. She committed everything to memory.

  “By the way, Senator Barnes, was the contribution to your reelection campaign sufficient?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it was very generous considering I’m running unopposed. Having a big war chest discourages the opposition.”

  A red light was blinking on the phone console.

  “We’ll speak again. Good-bye, Senator.”

  She pressed a button, and a door opened in the wall of the room. The Kradzik brothers, wearing their usual black leather, stepped inside.

  “Well?” she said.

  The thin lips widened in identical metallic smiles.

  “We have fired Mexican farmer …”

  “… and lawyer as you ordered.”

  “No complications?”

  They shook their heads.

  “The authorities will spend little time on the farmer’s case,” she said. “The lawyer had many enemies. Now to other matters. There have been some developments on the explosion at our Mexican operation.”

  She touched the screen, and two photos appeared. One of the photos, taken by a surveillance camera, showed Austin and Zavala in the reception area of the tortilla plant. The other picture was an enlarged shot of the two men standing on the deck of the Sea Robin off Ensenada. Brynhild’s eye went from the wide-shouldered man with the silver-white hair for a moment, then shifted to the handsome dark-haired man.