Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“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 unknown. 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 Pedralez 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 G

omez,” 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.”

16

BRYNHILD 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 allowed her to excel at her studies even when she seldom attended 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?”