Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“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 mental 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.

“Do you know who these men are?”

The brothers shrugged.

“That’s Kurt Austin, head of NUMA’s Special Assignments Team, and José Zavala, a member of the team.”

“When can we . . . ”

“. . . eliminate them?”

The temperature in the cool room seemed to drop another twenty degrees.

“If they were responsible for the destruction of the Baja facility, they will pay with their lives,” Brynhild said. “But not now. There’s a minor problem to be taken care of.” She gave them the name of the newspaper editor and said, “That’s all. You can go.”

The brothers hastened from the room like a pair of dogs sent to fetch a bone, and Brynhild was alone again. She sat there brooding about the Baja facility. All that work wasted. Even worse, the supply of the catalyst was destroyed in the blast. She stared with hate-filled eyes at the faces of the two men on the computer monitor.

“Little people,” she snarled.