Blue Gold

Chapter 6

The Mexican customs agent leaned from his window and checked out the two men in the white Ford pickup truck. They were wearing beat-up shorts and T-shirts, Foster Grant sunglasses, and baseball caps with bait shop logos on them.

"Purpose of your visit?" the agent asked the husky man be hind the wheel. The driver jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the fishing rods and tackle boxes in back. "Going fishing."

"Wish I could join you," the agent said with a smile, and waved them on into Tijuana.

As they pulled away, Zavala, who was sitting in the passenger seat, said, "What's with the Spies Like Us routine? All we had to do was flash our NUMA IDs."

Austin grinned. "This is more fun."

"We're lucky our clean-cut appearance doesn't fit the profile for terrorists or drug runners."

"I prefer to think that we're masters of disguise." Austin glanced at Zavala and shook his head. "By the way, I hope you brought along your American passport. I wouldn't want you to get stuck in Mexico."

"No problem. It wouldn't be the first time a Zavala sneaked across the border."

Zavala's parents had waded across the Rio Grande in the 1960s from Morales, Mexico, where they were born and raised.

His mother was seven months pregnant at the time. Her condition didn't stand in the way of her determination to start life with her newborn in El Norte. They made their way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where Zavala was born. His father's skills as a carpenter and woodcarver brought him steady work with the wealthy clients who built their fashionable homes there. The same influential people helped his father when he applied for a green card and later for citizenship.

The truck was on loan from the Red Ink's support team because rental cars couldn't be taken into Mexico. From their hotel they headed south from San Diego, passing through Chula Vista, the border town that is neither Mexican nor American but a blend of both countries. Once into Mexico they skirted the sprawling slums of Tijuana, then picked up MEX 1, the Carretera Transper linsula highway that runs the full length of Baja California. Past El Rosarita with its concentration of souvenir shops, motels, and taco stands, the commercial honky-tonk began to thin out. Before long the highway was flanked by agricultural fields and bare hills on the left and by the curving emerald bay known as Todos Los Santos. About an hour after leaving Tijuana they turned off at Ensenada.

Austin knew the resort and fishing city from the days he crewed in the Newport-Ensenada sailboat race. The unofficial finish was at Hussong's Cantina, a seedy old bar with sawdust covered floors. Before the new highway brought the tourists and their dollars, Baja California Norte was truly the frontier. In its heyday Hussong's was a haunt for the colorful local characters and rugged individuals, and the sailors, fishermen, and auto racers who knew Ensenada when it was the last outpost of civilization on the eight-hundred-mile-long Baja peninsula before La Paz. Hussong's was one of those legendary bars, like Foxy's in the Virgin Islands or Capt'n Tony's in Key West, where every body in the world had been. As they stepped inside Austin was heartened to see a few scruffy barflies who might remember the good old days when tequila flowed like a river and the police ran a shuttle service back and forth between the cantina and the local hoosegow.

They sat at a table and ordered huevos rancheros. "Ah, pure soul food," Zavala said, savoring a bite of scrambled eggs and salsa. Austin had been studying the sad expression on the moose head that had been over the bar for as long as he could recall. Still wondering how a moose got to Mexico, he turned his attention back to the map of the Baja that was spread out on the table in front of him next to the satellite photo showing water temperature.

"This is where we're going," he said, pointing to the map. "The temperature anomaly is in the vicinity of this cove."

Zavala finished his meal with a smile of pleasure and opened a Baedecker's guide to Mexico. "It says here that the ballena gris or gray whale arrives off the Baja from December to March to mate and give birth to its young. The whales weigh up to twenty-five tons and run between ten and forty-nine feet long. During mating, one male will keep the female in position while another male-" He winced. "Think I'll skip that part. The gray was almost exterminated by commercial whaling but was made a protected species in 1947." He paused in his reading. "Let me ask you something. I know you've got a lot of respect for any thing that swims in the sea, but I've never thought of you as a whale hugger. Why the big interest? Why not leave this up to the EPA or Fish and Wildlife?"

"Fair question. I could say I want to find out what started the chain of events that ended up with the sinking of Pop's boat. But there's another reason that I can't put my finger on." A thoughtful expression came into Austin's eyes. "It reminds me of some scary dives I've made. You know the kind. You're swimming along, everything seemingly fine, when the hair rises on the back of your neck, your gut goes ice-cold, and you've got a bad feeling you're not alone, that something is watching you. Something hung7y. "

"Sure," Zavala said contemplatively. "But it usually goes be yond that. I imagine that the biggest, baddest, hungriest shark in the ocean is behind me, and he's thinking how it's been a long time since he's had authentic Mexican food." He took another bite of his huevos. "But when I look around there's nothing there, or maybe there's a minnow the size of my finger who's been giving me the evil eye."

"The sea is wrapped in mystery," Austin said with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Is that a riddle?"

"In a way. It's a quote from Joseph Conrad. 'The sea never changes and its works, for all the talk of men, are wrapped in mystery.'" Austin tapped the map with his fingertip. "Whales die every day. We lose some to natural causes. Others get tangled in fishing nets and starve to death, or they get nailed by a ship, or we poison them with pollution because some people think it's okay to use the sea for a toxic waste dump." He paused. "But this doesn't fit any of those categories. Even with out interference from humans, nature is always out of kilter, constantly adjusting and readjusting. But it's not a cacophony. It's like the improvisation you see with a good jazz group, Ahmad Jamal doing a piano solo, going off on his own, catching up with his rhythm section later." He let out a deep laugh. "Hell, I'm not making sense."

"Don't forget I've seen your jazz collection, Kurt. You're saying there's a sour note here."

"More a universal dissonance." He thought about it some more. "I like your analogy better. I've got the feeling that there's a big bad-ass shark lurking just out of sight and it's hungry as hell."

Zavala pushed his empty plate away. "As they say back home, the best time to fish is when the fish are hungry."

"I happen to know you grew up in the desert, amigo," Austin said, rising. "But I agree with what you're saying. Let's go fishing."

From Ensenada they got back on the highway and headed south. As in Tijuana, the commercial sprawl thinned out and vanished and the highway went down to two lanes. They turned off the highway past Maneadero and followed back roads past agricultural fields, scattered farm houses, and old missions, eventually coming into rugged, lonely country with fog-shrouded rolling hills that dropped down to the sea. Zavala, who was navigating, checked the map. "We're almost there. Just around the corner," he said.

Austin didn't know what he was expecting. Even so he was surprised when they rounded the curve and he saw a neatly lettered sign in Spanish and English announcing they were at the home of the Baja Tortilla Company. He pulled over to the side of the road. The sign was at the beginning of a long, clay drive bordered with planted trees. They could see a large building at the end of the driveway.

Austin leaned on the steering wheel and pushed his Foster Grants up onto his forehead. "You're sure this is the right spot?"

Zavala handed the map over for Austin's examination. "This is the place," he said.

"Looks like we drove all this way for nothing."

"Maybe not," Zavala said. "The huevos rancheros were excel lent, and I've got a new Hussong's Cantina T-shirt."

Austin's eyes narrowed. "Coincidence makes me suspicious. The sign says 'Visitors Welcome.' As long as we're here, let's take them at their word."

He turned the truck off the highway and drove a few hundred yards to a neatly tended gravel parking lot marked with spaces for visitors. Several cars with California plates and a couple of tour buses were parked in front of the building, a corrugated aluminum structure with a portaled adobe facade and tiled roof in the Spanish style. The smell of baking corn wafted through the pickup's open windows.

"Diabolically clever disguise," Zavala said.

"I hardly expected to see a neon sign that said, 'Welcome from the guys who killed the whales.' "

"I wish we were toting our guns," Zavala said with mock gravity. "You never know when a wild tortilla will attack you. I once heard about someone being mauled by a burrito in No gales-"

"Save it for the drive back." Austin got out of the car and led the way to the ornately carved front door of dark wood.

They stepped into a whitewashed reception area. A smiling young Mexican woman greeted them from behind a desk. "Buenos dias," she said. "You are in luck. The tour of the tortilla factory is just starting. You're not with a group from a cruise boat?"

Austin suppressed a smile. "We're on our own. We were driving by and saw the sign."

She smiled again and asked them to join a group of senior citizens, mostly Americans and mostly from the Midwest from the sounds of their accents. The receptionist, who also acted as guide, ushered them into the bakery.

"Corn was life in Mexico, and tortillas have been the staple food in Mexico for centuries with both the Indians and the Spanish settlers." She led the way past where sacks of corn were being emptied into grinding machines. "For many years people made their tortillas at home. The corn was ground into meal, mixed with water to produce masa, then rolled, cut, pressed, and baked by hand. With the growth of demand in Mexico and especially in the United States, the tortilla industry has become more centralized. This has allowed us to modernize our production facilities providing for more efficient and sanitary operation."

Speaking in low tones as they trailed behind the others; Austin said, "If the market for Mexican flapjacks is in the U.S., why isn't this place closer to the border? Why make them down here and ship them up the highway?"

"Good question," Zavala said. "The tortilla business in Mexico is a tightly held monopoly run by guys with close government connections. It's a billion-dollar industry. Even if you did have a good reason to locate this far south, why build overlooking the ocean? Nice place for a luxury hotel, but an operation like this?"

The tour went past the dough mixers which fed into machines that produced hundreds of tortillas a minute, the thin flat pies coming out on conveyor belts, all tended by workers in laundry-white coats and plastic caps. The guide was ushering the group to the packaging and shipping department when Austin spied a door with words written in Spanish on it. "Employees only?" he asked Zavala. Joe nodded.

"I've learned all I want to know about burritos and enchiladas." Austin stepped aside and tried the door. It was unlocked. "I'm going to look around."

Eyeing Austin's imposing physique and blazing white hair, Zavala said, "With due respect for your talents as a snoop, you don't exactly blend in with the people working around here. I might be less conspicuous than a giant gringo stalking the hall ways."

Zavala had a good point. "Okay, snoop away. Be careful. I'll meet you at the end of the tour. If the guide asks, I'll say you had to go to the restroom."

Zavala winked and slipped through the door. He was confident he could charm his way out of practically any situation and had already prepared a story saying he'd become lost looking for the bano. He found himself in a long hallway with no windows or other openings except for a steel door at the far end. He walked the length of the hallway and put his ear against the door. Not hearing anything, he tried the knob. The door was locked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a modified Swiss Army knife that would have got him arrested in places where possession of burglar tools is illegal. The standard attachments such as scissors, nail file, and can opener had been replaced with picks for the most common locks. On the fourth try he heard the latch click open. Behind the door another corridor slanted down. Unlike the first, this passage had several doors. All were locked except one that opened into a locker room.

The lockers were secure, and he could have opened them with his picks if he had time. He glanced at his watch. The tour would wind up soon. On the opposite wall were shelves piled with neatly folded white coats. He found one that fit and slipped it on. In a supply cabinet he discovered a clipboard. He stepped out into the corridor and continued on to yet a third door. This, too, was locked, but he managed to open it after a few tries.

The door opened onto an elevated platform that overlooked a big room. The platform led to a series of walkways that crossed through a web of linking horizontal and vertical pipes. The low hum of machinery seemed to come from everywhere, and he couldn't trace its source. He descended a set of stairs. The pipes came out of the floor, then disappeared at right angles into the wall. Plumbing for the tortilla factory, he surmised. At one end of the room was another door. It was unlocked. When he cautiously opened it, a cool ocean breeze hit him in the face.

He gasped with surprise. He was standing on a small plat form perched high on the side of a cliff, facing out onto a lagoon about two hundred feet below him. It was a beautiful vista, and again he wondered why somebody hadn't built a hotel rather than a factory there. He assumed the factory was behind the edge of the cliff, but he couldn't see it from his angle. He looked down again. The water washed up against the jagged rocks along the shore in foamy ripples. The platform had a gate at one end that led to empty space with no steps going down or up. Odd. A few feet from the gate a metal rail ran down the side of the cliff and disappeared into the water.

He followed the rail down to the lagoon with his eye. A section of water appeared to be darker than that surrounding it. It might have been kelp and other seaweed washing against the rocks. As he watched, there was an intense bubbling at the base of the cliff, and a large, shiny, egg-shaped object suddenly appeared from the water and began its climb up the side of the cliff. Of course! The rail was for an elevator. The egg rose steadily up the track. It would be there within seconds. Zavala ducked back into the big room with the pipes, keeping the door open a crack.

The egg, made of a dark tinted glass or plastic that blended in with the side of the cliff, came to a stop at the platform. A door opened, and two men in white smocks stepped out. Zavala dashed for the stairs. Within seconds he was back at the store room. He tore his coat off, folded it as neatly as possible, and quickly walked along the corridors to the bakery. Nobody saw him step back into the area open to the public. He hurried along in the direction Austin and the tour group had taken. The guide saw him approach and gave him a quizzical and not altogether pleased look. "I was looking for the bano."

She blushed and said, "Oh, yes. I will show you." She clapped her hands for attention. "The tour is about over." She handed everyone a sample package of tortillas and conducted them back to the reception area. As the cars and tour buses left, Austin and Zavala compared notes.

"From the look on your face I'd guess your little exploration was successful."

"I found something. I just don't know what it is." Zavala laid out a quick summary of his findings.

"The fact that they hid something underwater indicates that they don't want anyone to know what they are doing," Austin said. "Let's take a walk."

They strolled around the side of the factory but only got a short distance toward the water before they encountered a high mesh fence topped with razor wire a few hundred feet short of where the cliff dropped off.

"So much for an ocean view," Zavala said.

"Let's see if we can get around to the other side of the cove."

The two men returned to the pickup and drove back onto the road. Several tracks led down to the sea, but the fence blocked each potential access. They were just about to give up when they saw a man with a fishing pole and a basket full of fish coming from a path that led toward the water. Zavala called him over and asked if they could get to the water. The man was wary at first, apparently thinking they had something to do with the tortilla place. When Zavala extracted a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, the man's face lit up, and he said yes, there was a fence, but there was a place to crawl under it.

He led them on a narrow path through the shoulder-high bushes, pointed to a section of chain-link fence, and left clutching his windfall. A section of fence was bent back from the ground and a hole scooped out underneath. Zavala easily slithered under to the other side, then held the fence for Austin. They followed the overgrown path until they came to the edge of a cliff. They were near the tip of the southernmost promontory enclosing the lagoon.

A trail that must have been worn by the feet of fishermen descended down the less steep side of the point. The NUMA men were more interested in the unimpeded view across the cove. From this angle the dark metal structure looked like a sinister re doubt out of a Conan movie. Austin scanned the building through his binoculars, then pointed them at the side of the cliff. Sunlight glinted off metal about where Zavala had described the elevator track. He let his eyes sweep out to the wide entrance of the lagoon where surf broke on the rocks, then back to the factory.

"Ingenious," Austin said with a chuckle. "If you stuck a big facility out here in the boonies, everyone, like our fisherman friend back there, would talk about it. But put it in plain sight, invite the public to come tramping in and out every day, and you've got an unbeatable cover for some kind of clandestine operation."

Zavala borrowed the binoculars and scanned the opposite cliff. "Why a waterproof elevator?"

"I don't have an answer," Austin said with a shake of his head. "I think we've seen all we're going to see."

Hoping to detect signs of activity around the building or cliff, they lingered a few more minutes, but the only movement they saw was the soaring sea birds. They headed away from the sea and minutes later were crawling under the fence. Zavala would have liked to ask the fisherman if he knew about the elevator or whether he had seen anything unusual in the lagoon, but the man had taken his money and run. They got back into the pickup and headed north.

Austin drove without talking. Zavala knew from past experience that his partner was chewing over a plan and when he had it fully formulated he would spill the details. Just beyond Ensenada, Austin said, "Is NUMA still running those field tests off San Diego?"

"As far as I know. I was planning to check in after the race to see how things were going."

Austin nodded. During the drive back they exchanged small talk, trading war stories about past adventures and youthful indiscretions in Mexico. The long line of traffic at the border crossing was moving at a snail's pace. They flashed their NUMA IDs to save time and were whisked through customs. Back in San Diego they headed toward the bay until they came to a sprawling municipal marina. They parked and made their way along a pier past dozens of sail- and power boats. At the end of a dock reserved for larger craft they found a stubby, wide-beamed vessel about eighty-five feet long. Painted in white on the greenish-blue hull were the letters "NUMA."

They stepped across the catwalk and asked one of the crew men puttering on the deck if the captain were aboard. He led the way to the bridge, where a slim, olive-skinned man was going over some charts. Jim Contos was considered one of the best skippers in the NUMA fleet. The son of a Tarpon Springs sponge fisher man, he had been on boats since he was able to walk.

"Kurt. Joe," Contos said with a wide grin. "What a nice surprise! I heard you were in the neighborhood, but I never suspected you'd honor the Sea Robin with a visit. What are you up to?" He glanced at Zavala. "Well, I always know what you've been up to."

Zavala's lips turned up in his typical slight smile. "Kurt and I were in the offshore boat race yesterday."

A dark cloud crossed his brow. "Hey, I heard about that thing with your boat. I'm really sorry about that."

"Thanks," Austin said. "Then you must know about the dead gray whales."

"I do-a very strange story. Any idea what killed them?"

"We might be able to find out with your help."

"Sure, anything I can do."

"We'd like to borrow the Sea Robin and the mini and do a little diving south of the border."

Contos laughed. "You weren't kidding about a big favor." He paused in thought, then shrugged. "Why not? We're just about through with our field tests here. If you can get an oral authorization to work in Mexican waters, it's fine with me."

Austin nodded and immediately called NUMA. After a few minutes of conversation he passed the cell phone to Contos. He listened, nodded, asked a few questions, then clicked off. "Looks like we're heading south. Gunn gave his okay." Rudi Gunn was NUMA director of operations in Washington. "Two days at the most. He wants you and Joe back so he can put you to work again. One thing, though. He says he won't have time to get clearance from the Mexican government on short notice."

"If anyone asks, we can say we were lost," Austin said with feigned innocence.

Contos gestured at the glittering array of lights and dials on the ship's console. "That might be a tough story to sell with all the electronics this vessel carries. The Sea Robin may be ugly, but she sure knows what's going on in the world. We'll let the State Department iron out any problems if we're boarded. When do you want to leave?"

"We'll pick up our gear and get back as soon as possible. The rest is up to you."

"I'll schedule a seven A.M. departure for tomorrow," he said, and turned away to give the crew its new orders.

As Austin was walking back to the car he asked Zavala what Contos meant when he said he knew what Joe had been up to.

"We dated the same woman a few times," Zavala said with a shrug.

"Is there any female in the District of Columbia you haven't dated?" – Zavala thought about it. "The first lady. As you know, I draw the line at married women."

"Relieved to hear that," Austin said, getting behind the wheel.

"But if she becomes divorced, well…."

They got into the car, and as Austin started the engine he said, "I think this would be a good time for you to tell me about the guy in Nogales who was mauled by a burrito."