Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“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.