Austin consulted his list of dealers and called around. He made sure the dealers knew he was extremely interested in selling the pistols, even at a loss, and that he was leaving San Diego the next day. Austin believed the best cover stories are at least partially true. He said his boat sank and he needed cash to pay off his bills. Then he and Zavala went over possible eventualities and how best to respond to them.

An hour after he began putting feelers out, Austin received an excited call from a particularly vulpine dealer with a slightly shady reputation. His name was Latham.

“I have a potential client for your pistols,” Latham said with excitement. “He's very interested and would like to see them as soon as possible. Can you meet him in Tijuana today? It's not far.”

Austin curled his thumb and forefinger and silently mouthed a word. Bingo. “No problem. Where would he like us to get together?”

The dealer told him to park on the U.S. side of the border and walk across the pedestrian bridge. The pistol case would identify him. Austin said he'd be there in two hours and hung up. Then he filled Zavala in.

Zavala said, “What if he takes you somewhere we can't help you, like one of those ranches where he likes to plant people?”

“Then I'll keep the conversation on the pistols, and we'll go through with the transaction if he's interested. At the very least it will give me a chance to size him up.”

Austin immediately called Gomez. The FBI agent said he'd assembled a team in anticipation. They would watch Austin's back but couldn't get too close because Pedralez would make sure Austin was not followed. A few minutes later the NUMA men were on the way south again in the borrowed pickup. Zavala left Austin off on the American side and drove into Mexico. Austin waited twenty minutes, then walked across the bridge, the pistol case tucked under his arm. He'd hardly gotten off the bridge when a portly middle-aged man in a cheap suit approached him. “Meester Austeen?” he said. “Yes, that's my name.”

The man produced a federal police badge. “Police escort for you and your valuables,” he said with a grin. “Courtesy of the chief. Lotsa bad people in Tijuana.”

He led the way to a dark blue sedan and held the back door open. Austin got in first, making a quick sweep of the parking lot with his eyes. Zavala was nowhere to be seen. Austin would have been disappointed if Zavala were too conspicuous, but he would have felt better knowing that his back was being watched.

The car plunged into the Tijuana traffic, winding its way through a bewildering warren of slums. While the driver was leering at a young woman crossing the street, Austin checked the rear. The only vehicle behind them was a battered old yellow cab.

The police car stopped in front of a windowless cantina whose pockmarked stucco exterior of seasick green looked as if it had been used for target practice by an AK-47. The old cab went speeding by. Austin got out and stood next to a rusty Corona beer sign, wondering if he was expected to go inside the cantina and whether it would be a good idea. A gunmetal-gray Mercedes came around the corner and halted at the curb. A tough-looking young man wearing a chauffeur's cap got out and wordlessly held the door open. Austin got in, and they were off.