The thug turned around and laughed.

Austin breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes roved the low rooftops, and he smiled.

Zavala was passing on a message, not very subtle but effective. Sergeant York was the Kentucky sharpshooter who got the Medal of Honor for capturing German prisoners during World War I. “An amusing fellow, eh, Mr. Austin?” “Very amusing.”

“Good. Now I must go. Adios, Mr. Austin. Unfortunately we will not be meeting again.”

“Wait.”

The Mexican scowled at Austin as if he were a bit of lint on his shirt.

“I wouldn't move if I were you. You're in the sights of a sniper. One wrong move, and your head will explode like a ripe melon. Look up on that roof if you don't believe me, and that one over there.”

Pedralez swiveled his head like a praying mantis and scanned the low rooftops. Three snipers, placed at different locations, made no effort to hide. He sat down again.

“It seems you don't believe entirely in the forces of fate. What do you want?”

“I simply want to know who owns the Baja Tortilla factory.”

“I do, of course. It's quite profitable, really.”

“What about the underwater laboratory in the cove? What do you know about that?”

“I'm a busy man, Mr. Austin, so I will tell you the story, and then we will part. Two years ago somebody came to me. A lawyer from San Diego. He had a proposition. Someone wanted to build a factory. They would pay for its construction, and I would take all the profits. There were conditions. It had to be isolated, and it had to be on the water.”

“I want to know what was built in the water.”

“I don't know. A large ship came. There were guards. They brought something into the cove and deliberately sank it. Connections were made to the factory. People came and went. I asked no questions.”

“What do you know about the explosion?”

He shrugged. “Someone called afterward and said not to worry. They would make good on my loss. That's all I know. The police don't care.”

“This lawyer who handled the deal, what was his name?”

“Francis Xavier Hanley. Now I must go. I have told you all I can.”

“Yes, I know, you're a busy man.”

Pedralez waved his hand. The men got up from the tables and formed a corridor to the sidewalk on either side of him. The Mercedes appeared out of nowhere; the door opened with machinelike precision. The bodyguards piled into two Jeep Cherokees ahead of and behind the Mercedes.

“Mr. Pedralez,” Austin called out. “A deal's a deal. You forgot the pistols.”

Enrico answered with a mirthless smile. “Keep them,” he said, and added a few more words. He got into the back of the car, shut the door, and zoomed down the street. Austin was sweating, and it wasn't just from the heat. The junky cab pulled up in front of him and tooted the horn.