Hunt the Jackal (17 page)

“He did good work,” Crocker said as he bit into the burger, which tasted good but overcooked. “How was your flight?”

“I slept through it, so I guess it was fine,” Akil answered as Mancini checked Crocker’s medical chart.

“What’s it say?” Crocker asked.

“Severely diminished brain activity due to repeated and prolonged blows to the head,” Mancini answered, pretending to read from the chart. “Delusions, slight dementia, an asymmetrical mustache. Other than that, you’re fine.”

“Nice.”

“He never used that organ anyway,” joked Akil.

“Where are you gorillas staying?” Crocker asked, stuffing fries into his mouth and chewing.

“Something called the Balboa Palace, otherwise known as the Roach Motel. About a half-mile south along the bay,” Akil answered, sitting with his feet up on the frame of the bed.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable.”

“The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best, but they make the most of things,” Akil replied.

“Where did you come up with that?”

“It’s my life philosophy.”

“Any news about the younger hostage?” Crocker asked.

Akil looked at Mancini by the window, who shrugged back and answered, “Only that the senator is arriving soon and will be meeting with Jenson and Arno.”

“Who’s Arno?”

“John Arno’s the local station chief—we met him last night.”

Crocker looked confused.

“See, his brain was damaged,” Akil said. “By the way, the senator wants to know why you were showering with his wife.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re right. Sorry.”

The same nurse bustled in, saw Crocker sitting up in bed finishing off the burger, and snapped, “You no can eat.”

“Why not?”

“No food without doctor permission.”

Mancini grinned. “I don’t know if that qualifies as food.”

“Bery bad,” the nurse scolded.

“Turn him over and spank him,” Akil suggested.

“Maybe I do,” the nurse said, wagging her finger. “Maybe I spank you, too.”

Akil grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her onto his lap. “Only if I get to spank you first.”

She giggled and tried to slap him. Akil spun her over. Just as he raised his hand to spank her, Captain Sutter walked in.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Sir.”

Akil pushed the nurse off his lap and stood at attention as their CO turned to Crocker and said, “Seems like I’ve walked in on an episode of
The Three Stooges
.”

“These men are trying to amuse me, sir.”

“Are they succeeding?”

“Not really. No.”

“This episode is called ‘The Three Stooges Meet the Nurse from Hell,’” Akil announced. Whereupon the nurse slapped him in the face and stormed out.

I
van Jouma
sat in a wheelchair in a third-floor suite of the Clínica Central Cira García in the Miramar sector of Havana, Cuba, studying a photograph of himself when he was two years old, sitting on his mother’s lap, wearing new boots and a straw cowboy hat that matched his father’s. Of the three, he was the only one who seemed happy, lost in his boyhood world of dreams and imaginary friends. His father scowled at the camera from behind a thick black Pancho Villa mustache, his eyes burning with anger and defiance. His mother smiled wanly as though she was trying to put a good face on a life of struggle, disappointment, and little hope.

He’d hated his abusive father since he kicked him out of the house at age thirteen but remembered his mother fondly, even though she’d stood by passively when his father drank and burst into wild rages, destroying the little furniture they had and beating his son with a leather belt.

He would never forget how she helped him with little gifts of tortillas, oranges, and money when he was living on the streets and stealing. Both of them were dead now, memories of a past that he hoped to erase.

“La Santísima Muerte,” he said. “Look over my mother and tell her that her son is about to redeem himself with the help of a
gringa
.”

He’d been a hopeful, joyful kid. The more he learned about the world and its inequalities and crushing poverty, the more furious he became. And the more he thought of the beatings and humiliations he’d endured, the dirt he’d eaten when his stomach ached with hunger, the shit-filled animal pens he’d slept in when there was no place else to escape the cold, the more he wanted to scream out loud and blame the oppressors who had stolen the bounty that God had provided to everyone and claimed it as their own.

His musings were interrupted by three knocks on the door.

“Come in,” he barked in Spanish, stuffing the black-and-white photo back into his wallet.

Instead of a nurse or doctor, it was one of the young men who made up his inner circle of aides—Los Lobos, he called them—who entered and stood with his hands behind his back.

“Señor Jefe.”

“I can see from your face that you have bad news,” the Jackal said. “So tell me.”

“
Jefe
, the doctor said that maybe this isn’t the best time.”

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“To see if you need anything.”

Jouma gritted his teeth and looked out the window to the park across the street. “I don’t give a shit what the doctors say. Tell me what happened.”

The young man took a deep breath and started, “
Jefe
, there was a raid on Las Lagrimas last night.”

Jouma quickly cut him off. “When?”

“Around midnight. The house was burned down, eight guards were killed, and the American woman was taken.”

“Dead or alive?” Jouma asked, clenching his fists.

“The
gringa
? Dead, we think, but we don’t know for sure.”

“I want to know!”

“Yes,
Jefe
. The gas was timed to go off automatically.”

Jouma gazed down at his hands, which were small and delicate and had always been a source of embarrassment. The skin over them appeared mottled and gray. He didn’t care so much that the house had been destroyed or the woman taken.

“Names?” he asked grimly.

“Which names,
Jefe
?”

“The names of the men who died.”

“Alvarez, Tamayo, Elvis, Flaco, Ramirez, Molina, Danny, Sapo.”

It pained him, because he thought of the people who worked for him as part of his family. “Sapo, too?”

“Yes,
Jefe
.”

Sapo had always been one of his favorites. A short, barrel-chested man from Juárez with no neck and stubby legs, who worked tirelessly, never complained, and played the guitar and sang with the voice of an angel.

“Make sure all the funerals are paid for. First class. Flowers, good caskets, food. And take care of the families in the usual way.”

“Yes,
Jefe
.”

He’d learned the importance of building loyalty as a young recruit in the army and had always been generous to friends, family, the men and women who worked for him, supporters, and even communities of people in areas under his control. He called it “spreading the wealth.” He’d paid for college tuitions, weddings, houses, medical procedures, clinics, schools, homes, farms, cars, motorcycles, horses, birthday parties, and even local beauty pageants.

“Who?”

“Jefe?”
the aide asked.

“Who betrayed me?” His arms and head started to shake with anger.

“We don’t know for sure, but the rumor is that Luis Vargas was paid off by the
gringos
.”

“Who the fuck is Luis Vargas?”

“He’s a sergeant with the Federales, who comes from Mazatlán.”

The Jackal couldn’t remember hearing his name before. “If he wanted money, why didn’t he come to me?”

“I don’t know,
Jefe
.”

“Find out. Ask him!”

The aide looked confused. “Yes.”

“Where is he now?” Jouma asked.

“No one has seen him, or his wife, or their two sons since the raid.”

“Which means the Americans probably gave him a new identity and are hiding him somewhere.”

“Yes,
Jefe
.”

“Tell Nacho I want him to launch an investigation and do anything he has to do. We have to find this
hijo de puta
and make an example.”

Nacho Gutierrez was his chief of security—a man of legendary brutality who recruited, trained, and managed a group of professional hit men (known as
sicarios
) who operated throughout Mexico, Guatemala, and El Salvador and into the United States. They were sociopaths recruited from the universities, police academies, and army.

“Yes,
Jefe.
I’ll inform Nacho immediately.”

He glanced at the photo again and the indignity and outrage burning in his father’s dark eyes. When he was a boy he earned a dollar fifty a day picking lettuce, chilies, watermelons, and tomatoes in New Mexico and Arizona. Now he had so much money, he couldn’t count it.

“Who executed the raid?” he asked.

“Gringos.”

“¿Gringos militares?”

“They weren’t wearing uniforms,
Jefe
. So we don’t know for sure.”

“Did they use helicopters?”

“No helicopters.”

“How many men?”

“Five or six. Maybe more.”

He clenched his jaw. “Are these the same
gringos
who attacked the house in Puerto del Hiero?”

The young man shrugged. “Maybe,
Jefe
. We don’t know.”

“Tell Nacho I want his best
sicarios
on this case. His top men. First, they need to find the identities of these
gringos
. Second, I want them to kill their wives and children. Third, they have to burn down their houses. Finally, I want the
gringos
brought to me so I can watch them being skinned alive.”

Captain Sutter wasn’t in a playful mood, which became apparent when he sat in a chair alongside the bed and demanded a full accounting of what had happened in Tapachula.

“The whole thing?” Crocker asked, finishing off the soda and wiping his mouth on a thin paper napkin.

“From conception to completion.”

He, Mancini, and Akil took turns relating the entire operation—the shootout, the recovery of Mrs. Clark, the burning of the house, the arrival of the firefighters and Federales, and their escape.

Sutter frowned at the end, got up, and walked to the window. “Excellent work rescuing Mrs. Clark,” he said somberly.

“Thanks.”

“But you left out the most important part,” Sutter said. “Who authorized the raid?”

“I did,” Crocker answered from the bed, sitting up and adjusting the pillows so his back was more comfortable.

“You alone?” asked Sutter, the veins in his long neck sticking up.

“Jenson was on the phone to someone in Washington waiting for the go-ahead, but the deadline was approaching,” Crocker explained. “It was about fifteen minutes away. So it was a judgment call on my part. I knew that none of us would be able to live with ourselves if we did nothing and let those two women die.”

“I was afraid of that,” groaned Sutter, kicking a chair in the corner.

“Why, sir?” Akil asked. “The mission was a partial success.”

“Why? Because you deployed without White House approval, goddammit. And they’re demanding heads.”

“Tell ’em to chill,” Akil groaned. “A woman’s life was saved.”

“That stupid attitude is not going to help you.”

“Sir—” Crocker jumped in but was immediately cut off.

“It wasn’t your decision to make!”

“But—”

Sutter’s face had turned bright red. “The president was in communication with President Peña Nieto,” he explained. “I understand there was some uncertainty about the location of the woman, because intel was sketchy and everything happened quickly. But once the site in Tapachula was confirmed, the Mexican president assured him that his military was in position to execute the raid.”

“But they didn’t, sir,” said Crocker.

“How the fuck do you know that?”

Crocker had never heard Sutter curse this much.

“Because we got to the ranch several minutes before the deadline and the Mexican military was nowhere in sight.”

“Had they been there, would you guys have stood down?” asked Sutter.

“Maybe, depending on circumstances.”

“Wrong answer!”

“The truth is, they didn’t act, sir,” explained Mancini. “Not in time.”

“If we hadn’t found Mrs. Clark when we did, she’d be dead,” Akil said. “That’s a fact.”

“Gentlemen,” started Sutter, trying to contain his emotion. “I’m on your side. I’ll defend you all the way. But you and I work for the government, led by our commander in chief. What you’re telling me is that you launched a major operation on foreign soil without his approval, and without the go-ahead of the leader of that country. Which means we’ve got a major problem on our hands and need to figure out how the hell we’re going to manage it without losing our jobs.”

“Fuck ’em all,” Akil groaned in disgust.

Mancini: “Akil, don’t talk like an idiot.”

Crocker cleared his throat. “With all due respect, sir, the problem all of us,including the White House, should be focused on is the location of the Clark’s daughter.”

Sutter shook his head. “That’s not a problem anymore.”

“Why not?” Akil asked aggressively.

“Olivia Clark is dead.”

They all turned silent and looked at one another.

“How do you know?” Crocker asked.

“According to reports out of Tapachula, her remains were found in the burned wreckage of the house. The Mexican pathologists are checking her dental records now.”

For a second Crocker thought he wasn’t hearing right. “The found her remains in the main house?” he asked.

The CO nodded. “They found her. Where exactly, I don’t know.”

“Sir, we searched the house, and thoroughly,” Akil explained.

“The grounds, too,” Mancini added.

“Apparently you didn’t search it thoroughly enough.”

“I strongly doubt that, sir,” declared Crocker.

“It doesn’t matter, Crocker. The Mexicans claim she’s dead.”

He dressed in the black pants and polo Mancini had purchased for him and took the sad news with him down the hall. Outside the room ahead, he saw Senator Clark standing with his wide back to him, talking to a shorter, thinner man.

When the senator turned to greet him, Crocker was taken aback by the change in his appearance since the last time he’d seen him on TV. His formerly bold blue eyes had turned several shades darker and had withdrawn into dull orbs of pain. The skin around them hung loose and pale, lending his face a hollowed-out, skull-like grimness that reminded Crocker of the last photographs of Abraham Lincoln.

“I want to thank you, Crocker,” the senator said, taking his hand and pulling him into a hug.

Though awkward, the gesture was heartfelt, reminding Crocker of the senator’s loss and the unimaginable pain he must be experiencing. Crocker said, “I wish I could have done more.”

“Me, too.”

There were tears in the senator’s eyes. Crocker wanted to say that he and his men weren’t finished and wouldn’t be until the Jackal was dead, but Senator Clark already had his big hand on Crocker’s back and was guiding him into the room.

Clark leaned close to him and whispered, “My wife has asked to talk to you alone.”

“Of course.”

It was a large corner room. The yellow curtains were pulled shut. A respirator stood on the opposite side of the bed.

Lisa Clark sat up in bed, her hair pulled back and the overhead light shining off her forehead, cheekbones, and lips. Her eyes looked tired and were rimmed with red. A tube in her left wrist fed her a glucose solution through an IV.

Even without makeup and under the stark fluorescent light, she looked poised and beautiful.

“It’s good to see you again, Chief Warrant Officer Crocker,” she said, smiling weakly.

“Call me Tom. Please.”

She offered him a pale, bony hand, which he held for a second. “I want to thank you and your team from the bottom of my heart for your courage and determination. What you did last night was incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“I pray you’re all in good health.”

“Yes, ma’am, we are.”

“No major injuries?”

“A few scrapes and bruises.”

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee, water, a Coke? I’ll ring the nurse.”

“No thanks.” He eased his stiff, sore body into the aluminum chair beside her bed.

“The doctor told me that if you had arrived two minutes later, I would be dead now, or in a coma, or blind.”

Crocker pushed his short, thinning hair back and said, “I wish we’d gotten there sooner.”

She bit her lip and looked down at the bed like a hurt little girl, which only added to the sense of intimacy between them. Her voice trembling, she said, “I thank God I’m still alive. But…but I’m also…distressed.”