Clive Cussler - Blue Gold

Zavala had been truthful with Gomez up to a point. He purposely hadn't mentioned Hanley's disclosure about the Mulholland Group. He doubted the FBI would blast its way through the front door warrant in hand, but he hadn't wanted to complicate his investigation. On his return to the hotel he called Los Angeles directory assistance and tried the number he was given for the Mulholland Group. The pleasant-sounding receptionist who answered the phone gave him directions to the office. He asked the hotel concierge to arrange a rental car, and before long he was driving north to Los Angeles.

Later that morning he pulled off the Hollywood Freeway into a typical California maze of close-built residential blocks interspersed with commercial plazas. Zavala wasn't sure what he expected, but after the explosion in Baja and the bizarre deaths of Hanley and Pedralez, he was surprised to find a well-marked office in a professional building sandwiched between a Staples office supply store and a Pizza Hut.

The lobby was open and airy. The cheery receptionist who greeted him was the same one who had given him directions on the phone. He didn't have to exert his Latin charm. She readily answered questions about the company, showered Zavala with brochures, and said to call if he ever needed hydraulic engineering services. He went back out to his rental car and sat behind the wheel staring at the unassuming facade, wondering what to do next. His cell phone buzzed. Austin was calling from his office at NUMA headquarters.

"Any luck at your end?" Kurt said.

"I'm sitting outside the Mulholland Group as we speak," Zavala said. He filled him in on his findings. Austin in turn told Joe about his visit to the Garber center, his conversation with Buzz Martin, and the revelations from Max.

"You've accomplished a hell of a lot more than I have," Zavala said.

'All blind alleys so far. I'm heading to upstate New York this afternoon to see if I can clear up the mystery of the flying wing pilot. While you're in L.A. maybe you can poke around on Gogstad."

They agreed to compare notes back in Washington the next day. Zavala hung up and called information for the Los Angeles Times. He got through to the newsroom, where he gave his name and asked for Randy Cohen in the business section.

Moments later a boyish voice came on the phone.

"Joe Zavala, what a nice surprise! How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. How's the best investigative reporter west of the Mississippi?"

"Doing what I can with the limited brain cells left from our tequila sunrise days. Are you still keeping NUMA afloat?"

"As a matter of fact I'm in town on NUMA business and wondered if you could give me a hand."

"Always ready to do what I can for an old college pal."

"I appreciate that, Randy. I need some information on a California-based company. Have you ever heard of the Gogstad Corporation?"

The other end of the line went silent. Then Cohen said, "You did say Gogstad?'

"That's right." Joe spelled the name so there would be no mistake. "Does it ring a bell?"

"Call me back at this number," Cohen said, and abruptly clicked off. Zavala did as he was told. Cohen answered. "Sorry to cut you off. We're talking on my cell phone. Where are you?"

Zavala described his location. Cohen was familiar with the neighborhood and gave him directions to a nearby coffee bar. Zavala was sipping on his second espresso when Cohen walked in. The reporter saw Zavala sitting at the counter and gave him a big grin. He strode over and pumped his hand.

"God, you look great, Joe. Haven't changed a bit."

"Neither have you." Zavala was telling the truth. The re porter looked much the same as when they had worked together on their college newspaper. Cohen had put a few pounds on his lean frame, and his black beard was tinged with flecks of gray, but he still walked like a giant crane, and the blue eyes blinking from behind horn-rimmed glasses were as intense as ever.

Cohen ordered a double latte and herded Joe to a table re moved from the others. He took a sip, pronounced the coffee a ten, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, "So tell me, old friend, what's NUMA's interest in Gogstad?"

"You probably heard about the pod of gray whales that was found dead off San Diego." Cohen nodded. "We've tracked the possible cause of death to an operation on the Baja peninsula. There was a link to the Mulholland Group. Gogstad is the parent company."

Cohen's eyes narrowed. "What kind of operation?"

"Don't laugh. It's a tortilla plant."

"I don't laugh at anything having to do with this outfit."

"Then you know it."

"Intimately. That's why I was stunned when you called. I've been on an investigative team digging into Gogstad for almost a year. We're going to call the story series 'The Water Pirates.' "

"I thought piracy went out with Captain Kidd."

"This is bigger than Kidd could ever have imagined."

"What turned you on to the story?"

"Dumb luck. We were looking into corporate mergers, the quiet ones that don't always make the headlines but have just as much impact on the average citizen. We started crisscrossing the same faint trail. It was like a hunter coming across snow-blown tracks in the woods again and again."

"The tracks were Gogstad's."

Cohen nodded. "It took us months to pin it down, and we still only have a partial picture. Gogstad is enormous! With holdings in the hundreds of billions, it may be the biggest world wide conglomerate in history."

"I'll admit I don't read the Wall Street Journal every day, but I'm surprised I never heard of this outfit if it's as big as you say."

"Don't feel bad. They've spent millions to keep their dealings a secret. They use back-room deals, straw and dummy corporations, every trick in the book. Thank God for computers! We fed the stuff through a Geographic Information System. The GIS connects the info in the database to points on a map. The cops use the same system to keep tabs on gang connections. We've got some great graphs that show Gogstad's holdings around the world."

"Who's behind this super-corp?"

"We're pretty sure the reins of power are held by one person. Her name is Brynhild Sigurd."

Zavala had a deserved reputation as a ladies' man, so his ears perked up at the mention of a woman. "Tell me about Ms. Sigurd."

"There isn't much I can tell. She's never made the Fortune magazine list of most powerful women, although she deserves to be at the top. We do know she was born in the U.S. of Scandinavian parents, that she went to school in Europe and

later started an engineering company called the Mulholland Group." "I was just there. I should have asked to see the lady."

"It wouldn't do you any good. She's still listed as company president, but nobody sees her."

"I'm not clear on the company name. The office isn't on Mulholland Drive."

Cohen smiled indulgently. "Have you ever heard of the Owens Valley scandal?"

"It had to do with the Los Angeles water system, I believe."

"That's right. It's hard to believe today, but L.A. was just a small desert town back in the 1920s. The city needed water to grow. The nearest major source of fresh water was sleepy little Owens Valley two hundred miles to the north. L.A. quietly sent guys to the valley to buy out the water rights to the river. By the time the valley people figured out what was going on it was too late to do anything. Their water was on its way to Los Angeles."

"What happened to the Owens Valley?"

"Drained dry." He chuckled evilly. "Most of the water the taxpayers paid for went to the San Fernando Valley, not the city. A bunch of local businessmen bought land cheap there. Prices skyrocketed when water came in and made the speculators mil lions. The man who engineered the coup was William Mulholland."