by Don Mann
“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.”
“I understand, ma’am. I heard.”
She was different from the series of emotionally needy women he had dated and tried, unsuccessfully, to save, including his first wife. Mrs. Clark was more like Holly—graceful, self-confident, strong, and smart. Unlike Holly, she was the girl in high school who dated the quarterback of the football team and wouldn’t have anything to do with wild, rough-mannered hooligans like him.
Now they were two mature human beings struggling to deal with a difficult situation.
In a small but clear voice she related the entire story of her kidnapping and what she had been through—her fears, impressions, descriptions of rooms, faces, the picture of La Santísima Muerte, the guards, the Jackal, her nightmares and dreams. She even talked about the problems she’d had as a young woman living in D.C.
Looking up at him with eyes pregnant with emotion, she said, “We live in a world of moral puzzles and strange connections. I don’t understand them all yet, but I’m determined to keep trying.”
He wasn’t sure he understood what she meant, but he answered politely, “Yes, ma’am.”
“But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
“Ma’am…”
She sighed. “Whatever responsibility I might have in what happened, as a senator’s wife, and as someone who has made mistakes myself, my daughter, Olivia, is innocent. She didn’t deserve this in any way, shape, or form.”
“Of course not.”
“She’s a good kid, pure-hearted…” Lisa covered her eyes.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Crocker asked gently.
“I’m not sure. I was drugged. The doctors found opiates and benzodiazepines, specifically diazepam, in my system. It was either two or three days ago. I don’t know.”
Crocker knew that benzodiazepines were the chief ingredients of the most effective sleeping pills, and diazepam was most commonly found in Valium. “Do you remember seeing your daughter in Tapachula?” he asked.
Mrs. Clark nodded. “That’s the last time, I believe. Very briefly when we got off the plane.”
“That must have been two days ago.”
“I think so. Yes.”
“You remember the plane you flew in on?”
“Vaguely. Very vaguely.”
“She was on it.”
“I believe so.”
“Was she present when you recorded your statement?” Crocker asked.
“No. I was waiting for her to appear, but she didn’t. I didn’t hear her there, either.”
“What about the Jackal?”
“I had the impression that he would be there, but he wasn’t.”
“Who was with you at the end?”
“Guards, a video camera operator, and a woman who did my hair and makeup.”
“How many guards?”
“The numbers and faces changed all the time. The first house we stayed in was bigger, newer, and more luxurious. Then about two days ago we were moved to the one in Tapachula.”
“So the Jackal wasn’t with you when you recorded your statement?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Crocker rubbed his bandaged chin as he tried to put the pieces together.
“Did you see him leave, or hear a jet take off?”
“Not that I remember,” she answered.
He nodded. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yes.” She fixed her blue eyes on his and lowered her voice. “I know all about what the Mexican authorities said about the body, and the dental forensics that are taking place now. But I’m her mother, and I know she’s still alive and is probably with the Jackal. I think she’s in terrible, terrible danger.”
He took her hand and held it as she wept, then handed her a Kleenex from the box on the table beside the bed. “If Olivia’s alive, we’ll find her.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but we will.”
Two Cuban doctors—one male and one female—sat across from Ivan Jouma and discussed the procedure step by step. They both wore white coats and serious expressions. The man clasped his hands together as he leaned forward and spoke in a deep voice. His beard and mustache were speckled with gray. The woman was younger, in her early forties maybe, with straight hair to her shoulders. They both wore old leather shoes.
As they related the possible complications, which included bleeding, infection, blockage of blood vessels, and leakage of bile, Jouma’s mind drifted back to his grandmother and something she had told him as a young boy as they sat in the backyard under a ceiba tree husking corn. “Big fish eat little fish. That’s the primary condition of nature. What separates us from savage, unruly animals is the concept of justice.”
He didn’t understand then, but he did now. Justice, he thought, is what I’ve demanded since I was a kid living on the streets. It hadn’t been offered to poor campesinos like himself by Mexican institutions, courts, or society. So he had fought to achieve it himself, in the only way he knew how, with the resources he’d been given.
Justice, he repeated in his head.
To his mind, his quest to achieve it put him in the company of Gandhi and Che Guevara. All three were liberators and purveyors of people’s rights. While Gandhi and Guevara had used the poor’s outrage at being exploited, his strategy was different. He fed an insatiable need of the oppressor. The spiritual emptiness of rich people in the United States and Europe resulted in their need for drugs, which provided him a means to accrue money and power, thus tilting the scales of justice to his side of the equation.
Though depleted physically due to his own excesses, he was pleased with himself. Once healed and stronger, he planned to take his cause a step further and tell the Mexican people that it was time to rise up against their inept, corrupt government, which protected the rich from the poor and made them vassals of the United States.
It was his reason for being.
The doctors had stopped talking and were staring at him.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Did you hear us, Señor Jouma?” the male doctor asked gently. “We asked if you have any questions about the procedure.”
He shook his head. “No, not now.”
“Then all you need to do is sign this consent form and we’ll start early tomorrow, at six a.m. We ask that you don’t eat anything after your dinner tonight.”
He took the pen the doctor offered and signed the document.
“The surgery will take approximately six hours,” the female doctor added. “Possibly longer. Afterward you will be taken to a recovery room, then to the ICU, where you’ll be connected to monitors that will display EKG tracing, blood pressure, breathing rate, oxygen level. You can expect to stay in the hospital for two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“During that time you will likely have a tube inserted through your throat so that your breathing can be assisted by a ventilator. Another thin plastic tube might have to be inserted through your nose into your stomach to remove air that you swallow.”
“When will it be removed?” The longer he was incapacitated, the more time rival drug traffickers and ambitious lieutenants had to take advantage.
“It will be removed when your bowels resume their normal function. You won’t be able to eat or drink until we remove that tube, and will be fed through an IV.”
“Then what happens?” he asked, calculating the timing of his return to Mexico.
“During this whole time, we will continue to monitor all your other body functions and immunosuppression medications. When we feel you are ready, you will be moved to a private room, where you will continue your progress.”
“When will I get back to normal?” In this dog-eat-dog world he had to anticipate every danger and challenge.
“Everyone responds differently, so it’s hard to pinpoint a specific time. But if there are no major complications, expect it to take twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks.” He thought he could handle that.