“The Farmer isn't just any businessman.”

“The Farmer? I was unaware he was into agriculture, too.”

Gomez couldn't hold back a toothy grin. “Guess you could call it agriculture. Did you hear about the big search for bodies buried at a couple of ranches just over the border?”

“Sure,” Austin said. “It was in all the papers. They found dozens of corpses, probably people killed by drug dealers.”

“I was one of the FBI field agents the Mexicans allowed to come in on that operation. The ranches were owned by Enrico, or, rather, in the names of guys who worked for Pedralez.”

Zavala, who was sitting in the other chair, said, “You're telling us the tortilla king is a drug dealer?”

Gomez leaned forward onto his desk and counted on his fingers. “Drugs, prostitution, extortion, kidnapping, Medicaid fraud, purse snatching, and making a public nuisance of himself. You name it. His organization is like any other conglomerate that doesn't put all its eggs in one basket. The bad boys are taking their cue from Wall Street. Diversification is the byword in the Mexican mafia these days.”

“Mafia,” Austin said. “That might present a little problem.”

“Nothing little about it,” the agent said. He was on a roll. “The Mexican mafia makes the Sicilians look like choir boys. The old Cosa Nostra would whack a guy, but it was hands off the family. The Russian mob will wipe out your wife and kids if you get out of line, but even with them, it's purely business. With the Mexicans, it's personal. Anyone who gets in their way is offending their machismo. Enrico doesn't just kill his enemies, he grinds them, their relatives, and their friends into powder.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Austin said, unfazed by the agent's monologue. “Now will you tell us how we go about seeing him?”

Gomez let out a whooping laugh. He had wondered about this pair since they walked into his office and flashed their NUMA identification. He only knew of the National Underwater & Marine Agency by name, that it was the undersea equivalent of NASA. Austin and Zavala didn't fit in with his preconceived notion of ocean scientists. The bronze-skinned man with the penetrating blue-green eyes and albino hair looked as if he could knock down walls with those battering-ram shoulders. His partner was soft-spoken, and a slight smile played around his lips, but with a mask and a sword he would have been a casting director's ideal choice to play Zorro.

“Okay, guys,” Gomez said, shaking his head in defeat. “Since it is still against the law to assist a suicide, I would feel better if you told me what's going down. Why is NUMA interested in a tortilla plant owned by a Mexican crook?”

“There was an underwater explosion in the cove behind the plant Pedralez owns in Baja California. We want to ask him if he knows anything. We're not the FBI. We're simply a scientific organization looking for a few answers.”