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."