"Doesn't matter. All feds are the enemy. Asking questions about his business would be considered an aggressive act.

“Look, Agent Gomez, we haven't cornered the market on foolhardiness,” Austin said. “We tried other avenues first. The Mexican police say the steam pipes caused the blast. Case closed. We thought the owner might have something to tell us, so we called the Department of Commerce. They did an uh-oh, said the plant was owned by Enrico, and suggested that we get in touch with Gomez in the San Diego field office. That's you. Now we'd like to take the next step. Does he have an office in the U.S.?”

“He won't cross the border. He knows we'll grab him.”

“Then we'll have to go to him.”

“This won't be easy. Pedralez used to be a Mexican federal cop, and half the police are on his payroll. They protect him and turn over informants, competitors, or anyone else who might cause him trouble.”

Gomez unlocked a drawer in his desk. He pulled out two thick files and laid them on the desk blotter. “This is the file on Enrico's dirty stuff, and the other has information on his legal operations. He has to launder that dirty money somewhere, so he's set up or bought legitimate businesses on both sides of the Mexican-American border. The tortilla business is the leader. Tortillas have become worth millions of dollars since the U.S. market opened up and people on this side of the border started eating the things. A few companies control the business. Just look in your supermarket if you don't believe me. Enrico used his government connections, sprinkled the bribes around to get a piece of the action.” He pushed the files across the desk. “I can't let this go out of the office, but you're welcome to read it.”

Austin thanked him and took the file into a small conference room. He and Zavala sat on opposite sides of a table. Austin gave Joe the file on the legal businesses, told him to shout if he saw anything interesting, and begin to skim through the other file. He wanted a measure of the man he might be dealing with. The more he read, the less he liked. He hadn't thought so much evil could be poured into one skin. Enrico was responsible for hundreds of murders, and every one of the executions had its own grisly touch. He was glad when Zavala gave him the excuse to halt his reading.

“Got it!” Joe said. He rustled a couple of sheets of paper. “These are background and surveillance reports on the tortilla factory. He's owned it a couple of years. The FBI went down to take a peek. Didn't see anything suspicious. Sounds like they took the same tour we did, except for my little side trip. Report says it seems like a legitimate operation.”

“Nothing about the underwater facility?”

Zavala frowned. “Nope. Not a word.”

“I'm not surprised. The installation could have been floated in at night.”