“I don’t think we have to worry about the past; it’s the future I’m concerned about.”
“Hey, c’mon, Jack, it’s been half a century since this protocol was approved. Everyone involved must be long dead. Hit man and victim alike.”
“Maybe,” Rowland said. “Maybe not.” He tapped the words on the screen. “This reply has just been sent. It means the hit man is still alive, and so is his victim. At least for now.”
“What do you mean?”
Rowland reached for the phone, a grave expression carved into the usual cheery face.
“The director didn’t countermand the order, so it goes to the next step. The killing.” Rowland held his hand up to cut off Browning’s question. “Please put me through to the director,” he barked into the phone. “Yes, it’s urgent,” he said, his voice rising in a rare display of emotion. “Damned urgent!”
Chapter 22
The blaze had been extinguished and the firefighters were mopping up when Zavala re turned to Hanley’s office building. Zavala bluffed his way past the yellow police tape with officious flashes of his NUMA identification card. He waved the laminated card with his picture close to the arson investigator’s nose, then quickly tucked it back into his billfold. He didn’t want to explain why someone from a federal ocean science agency was at a San Diego disaster scene.
The investigator, whose name was Connors, said witnesses had told him about the hovering helicopter and described a strange flash of light before the explosion, but he hadn’t eliminated the possibility that the detonation was internal. Zavala couldn’t blame him. It’s not every day an armed helicopter at tacks an office building in San Diego.
“How is the injured woman?” Zavala asked.
“Okay last I heard,” Connors said. “A couple of guys dragged her out of her office before the fire got going.”
Zavala then thanked Connors and walked to the next block to catch a taxi. As he raised his hand to hail a cab, a plain black Ford sedan pulled up to the curb. Agent Miguel Gomez was be hind the wheel. The FBI man leaned across the seat and opened the door. Zavala got in.
Gomez gave Zavala his world-weary look. “Things sure have gotten busy since you and your partner arrived in town,” the agent said. “A few hours after you walk into my office the Farmer and his sleaze ball lawyer go up in smoke. Why don’t you stick around a few more days? The whole Mexican mafia and their pals will self-destruct, and I’ll be out of a job, which will suit me fine.”
Zavala chuckled. “Thanks again for watching our backs in Tijuana.”
“In return for risking an international incident by bringing a sniper team across the border, maybe you’ll tell me what in God’s name is going on.”
“I wish I knew,” Zavala said with a shrug. “What’s the story on Pedralez?”
“He was in his armored car going through Colonia Obrera, a cutthroat neighborhood west of Tijuana. He’s got bodyguards in SUVs in front and behind. The lead vehicle gets hit first. A second later Pedralez’s car explodes. It must have been slammed real hard because that thing was built like a tank. The driver of the third vehicle does a quick U-turn and gets the hell out.”
‘An antitank missile would have done the job.”
Gomez affixed Zavala with dark, probing eyes. “The Mexican police found the loader for a Swedish Gustav antitank missile in an alley.”
“The Swedes are attacking Mexican drug lords?”
“I wish. The hardware is available on the world arms market. They’re probably giving them away on the backs of cereal boxes. You can fire the thing from the shoulder. They tell me two guys can get off six rounds a minute. What do you know about this thing with Hanley?”
“Kurt and I had just left the building when we saw a green helicopter hovering outside Hanley’s office. We went back inside and heard the blast while we were in the elevator. Some wit nesses saw a flash of light. It could have been from a missile launcher.”
“How many missiles does it take to wipe out a shyster? Sounds like a lawyer joke.”
“I don’t see Hanley laughing.”
“Guy never did have a sense of humor. Talk about overkill. Someone really wanted him dead real bad to go through all that trouble.” He paused. “Why did you go back into the building?”
“Kurt thought the helicopter looked like one he had seen after the explosion in the Baja.”
“So you already talked with Hanley?”
Gomez might look sleepy, but he didn’t miss a trick, Zavala thought.
“We asked him about the tortilla plant. He said a Sacramento business broker contacted him for a client who wanted to get a cover operation going in Mexico. Hanley hooked his client up with Pedralez.”
“What was the broker’s name?”
“Jones. Save your dime. He’s dead.”
Gomez smirked. “Don’t tell me. His car blew up.”
“He drove off a cliff. It was supposedly an accident.”
A man in a dark blue suit came over and tapped on the car window. The agent nodded and turned back to Zavala. “They want me inside. Let’s keep in touch.” He switched to Spanish. “We Mexican-American chili peppers have to stick together.”
“Definitely,” Zavala said, opening the door to get out. “I’ll be heading back to Washington. Call me at NUMA headquarters if I can be of help.”
Zavala had been truthful with Gomez up to a point. He purposely hadn’t mentioned Hanley’s disclosure about the Mulholland Group. He doubted the FBI would blast its way through the front door warrant in hand, but he hadn’t wanted to complicate his investigation. On his return to the hotel he called Los Angeles directory assistance and tried the number he was given for the Mulholland Group. The pleasant-sounding receptionist who answered the phone gave him directions to the office. He asked the hotel concierge to arrange a rental car, and before long he was driving north to Los Angeles.
Later that morning he pulled off the Hollywood Freeway into a typical California maze of close-built residential blocks interspersed with commercial plazas. Zavala wasn’t sure what he expected, but after the explosion in Baja and the bizarre deaths of Hanley and Pedralez, he was surprised to find a well-marked office in a professional building sandwiched between a Staples office supply store and a Pizza Hut.
The lobby was open and airy. The cheery receptionist who greeted him was the same one who had given him directions on the phone. He didn’t have to exert his Latin charm. She readily answered questions about the company, showered Zavala with brochures, and said to call if he ever needed hydraulic engineering services. He went back out to his rental car and sat behind the wheel staring at the unassuming facade, wondering what to do next. His cell phone buzzed. Austin was calling from his office at NUMA headquarters.
“Any luck at your end?” Kurt said.
“I’m sitting outside the Mulholland Group as we speak,” Zavala said. He filled him in on his findings. Austin in turn told Joe about his visit to the Garber center, his conversation with Buzz Martin, and the revelations from Max.
“You’ve accomplished a hell of a lot more than I have,” Zavala said.
‘All blind alleys so far. I’m heading to upstate New York this afternoon to see if I can clear up the mystery of the flying wing pilot. While you’re in L.A. maybe you can poke around on Gogstad.”
They agreed to compare notes back in Washington the next day. Zavala hung up and called information for the Los Angeles Times. He got through to the newsroom, where he gave his name and asked for Randy Cohen in the business section.
Moments later a boyish voice came on the phone.
“Joe Zavala, what a nice surprise! How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How’s the best investigative reporter west of the Mississippi?”
“Doing what I can with the limited brain cells left from our tequila sunrise days. Are you still keeping NUMA afloat?”
“As a matter of fact I’m in town on NUMA business and wondered if you could give me a hand.”
“Always ready to do what I can for an old college pal.”
“I appreciate that, Randy. I need some information on a California-based company. Have you ever heard of
