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 out stretched, 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.
Chapter 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 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 amp; 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."