Hunt the Jackal

by Don Mann

  “Yes, I have.”

  “You know Ritchie always looked up to Clark as a leader and mentor, which he was, sir. In terms of the teams, he’s one of us. So I’ve been thinking—”

  Sutter held up his hand and said, “You can stop right there.”

  “Why?”

  “I know what you’re gonna ask.”

  “Sir.”

  Sutter leaned forward over his desk. “I know and respect Clark as least as well as you do, Crocker. And Ritchie was one of the finest, bravest men I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I appreciate your coming here and volunteering,” Sutter continued. “But

  as you know, I take orders just like you do. And the answer I got, and the one I’m now passing on to you, is no.”

  “Sir, I haven’t even told you what I’m volunteering for.”

  “You want to rescue the hostages and punish the kidnappers.” Sutter slapped his hands together. “So do I, Crocker. So do I. But it’s not as simple as us wanting to do something. Is it?”

  Crocker objected. “Sir, Clark’s one of us. We can’t sit here with our fingers up our butts while—”

  Sutter’s face started to turn red. “When did I ever give you the impression that I’m a cold-hearted commander who doesn’t give a shit about the men under him? Didn’t I let you remain in Tripoli after your wife went missing? Haven’t I defended you and your men countless times when you did things without prior authorization or pissed somebody off?”

  “You have, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m trying to clean up more of your shit now with the fucking Israelis.”

  “You’re the best, most supportive CO we’ve ever had, sir. All the men feel that way.” Crocker meant it.

  This time Sutter waved his hand in front of his face and looked embarrassed. “I appreciate that, Crocker. I’m not some teenage girl fishing for compliments about her looks. The point is that I did take the Clark request higher up command. And you know what they told me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The FBI and DEA are handling it and don’t want our help.”

  Crocker cleared his throat into his fist. “Do they know where the hostages are being held?”

  “Somewhere in Mexico. That’s all I’ve been told.”

  Crocker had worked with the FBI and DEA before and knew their training, skill levels, and expertise. Finding and taking out kidnappers and terrorists in a foreign country wasn’t among those.

  He said, “No disrespect to the FBI, but they aren’t going to move as fast and hit as hard as we are.”

  Sutter leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “I know that, Crocker. But there are political considerations. For one thing, the Mexicans recently elected a new president, and he doesn’t want us kicking up a fuss in his backyard.”

  Crocker had read about Enrique Peña Nieto and knew that he was a young, baby-faced guy from the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI). He also knew that he’d had three children with his wife, who died in 2007 of an epileptic seizure, and a fourth child, a daughter, with a mistress two years before his wife’s death.

  “So what’s he doing about the situation?”

  Sutter shook his head. “All I know is, he doesn’t want American military personnel operating in his country.”

  “But under the circumstances—”

  Sutter cut him off. “Those are the circumstances. If they change, I’ll let you know.”

  Crocker grabbed his jacket off his lap, stood, and said, “I appreciate that, Captain.”

  Sutter stood, too. “I don’t mean to be short with you, Crocker,” he said. “I’m sure you can tell that I’m frustrated, too.”

  “We’re in the big boys’ club, sir.”

  It was Crocker’s way of saying Message received, no hard feelings, move on. But it wasn’t completely honest, because he knew he had no intention of letting it go.

  Every nerve in Lisa Clark’s body tingled as she sat at the long table covered with a white linen tablecloth, ivory-and-gold Lenox china, cut-crystal stemware, and large silver candelabras filled with burning candles. A half dozen male and female servers dressed in white waited with their hands behind their backs. One stepped forward and refilled Liza’s long-stemmed glass with ice water.

  “Wine, Señora?” he asked.

  “Not now, thank you,” she answered, her back straight and her chin held high.

  Looking over the water glass as she drank, she noticed that the big table was set for three and the room had two doors. One set of doors, to her left behind the head of the table, stood between large windows covered with white gauze curtains; the second door was behind her.

  The significance of the three settings didn’t register, even though she was trying to be hyperalert to every tick of the clock in the corner, every movement and expression of the servers, every scent from the kitchen, every change in her own mood.

  She immediately regretted drinking the water, because a strange feeling of detachment came over her, as though she was perceiving the world from inside a cotton-lined box.

  She looked around again slowly in a last effort to take everything in before whatever they had given her had its full effect—the rich texture of the air, the subtle light, the glowing, eager faces of the servers, the sepia-colored walls.

  A strange stillness pervaded everything, except for the candles that flickered gently.

  She waited, counting her breaths, silently praying for sympathy and deliverance. Then, without warning, a current of excitement stirred the languid air, and she turned to the French doors seconds before they opened. Three very large men entered. One wore a Pancho Villa–type mustache. They all had dark, shiny hair and brought with them the musky smell of outdoors. The three were dressed in white guayabera-style shirts over black pants and cowboy boots, and looked like they meant business.

  Behind them limped a shorter man with a cane, dressed entirely in white linen. He was thin with muscular legs and long straight hair that fell to his shoulders and hid his face. An aura of power and menace hung around him.

  One of the bodyguards pulled back the high-backed chair at the head of the table and helped the man into his seat. He placed the carved ivory cane on the back of the chair with a long, dark, sinewy hand, then turned to face Lisa.

  She held back a gasp. On first impression, she felt as if she was looking at Johnny Depp’s older brother. He had the same straight dark hair, high cheekbones, thin nose, and square chin. As in some recent photos of Depp she’d seen, he also favored aviator sunglasses with blue lenses.

  But as she studied him more closely, she realized that the resemblance ended there. Whereas the actor’s skin was uniformly smooth, this man’s skin was rough, twisted, and scarred, especially along the right side of his face, but oddly regular along his forehead and under his eyes.

  Botox, Lisa concluded. And extensive plastic surgery, maybe the result of an injury.

  When he removed the sunglasses, she saw that it was his eyes that really distinguished him. They were wide-set, mesmerizing, and fierce.

  They seemed to pull her in like magnets and communicate some intangible dark knowledge. And in that moment, she sensed that there was something wrong with him physically. She found evidence in the yellowish tinge of his scleras and the unhealthy grayish pallor of his long lips.

  It reminded of a story Clark had told some dinner guests about Abraham Lincoln. When Lincoln was advised to include a certain man in his cabinet and refused, he was asked why he would not accept the man. The president answered, “I don’t like his face.” To which the man’s advocate responded, “But the poor man isn’t responsible for his face.”

  “Every man over forty is responsible for his face,” countered Lincoln.

  The face of the man at the head of the table spoke volumes—of big appetites, struggles, paranoid fears, self-hate, vendettas, and monumental ambition.

  Turning to Lisa, he said, “Welcome,
” in a deep, confident voice with a slight accent.

  She couldn’t say “Thank you.” Her heartbeat quickened. Sweat appeared on her palms and coated the insides of her thighs.

  The man she assumed was the Jackal frowned, then whispered something to the men who stood guard behind him. Two of them walked to door behind her and exited.

  He smiled at something the third man said, revealing white, even teeth that looked as though they had been capped. He wore a silver crucifix, along with other amulets and bracelets, and a white linen shirt unbuttoned to his muscular chest, which had a dark tattoo on it. She made out the outline of a skull.

  Despite his fine clothes and the care he had taken to reshape his face and control his surroundings, there was something coarse and rough about him. She intuited that he’d come from a hardscrabble background and had ruthlessly clawed his way to the top of whatever organization or gang was under his command.

  The click of high heels registered in her head, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the two bodyguards reentering. Instead of turning to look at whoever the high heels belonged to, she focused instead on the intense, admiring, and almost ravenous expression on the face of the man at the head of the table as his eyes followed the person behind her.

  “Are you the Jackal?” Lisa asked, trying to hide her fear behind a cold formality.

  “Yes, but you can call me Ivan.”

  “Ivan what?”

  “Just Ivan.”

  She had a speech prepared in her head. In it she offered to cooperate as long as he continued to treat her with respect.

  The click of high heels continued to the seat across the table. Through her unfocused eyes she caught a glimpse of the suit, which was identical to the one she was wearing. But Lisa felt far away, and receding. She thought that if she tried to say something, she’d have to shout to be heard.

  It was hard to see the face beyond the glow of candles. As the woman bent to sit, Lisa registered that she was young and wore her blond hair pulled back like her own.

  Unexpectedly and for an instant her perceptions sharpened, and she recognized her daughter. Lisa blinked and looked again to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating, then gasped as though she’d been punched hard in the chest. “Olivia!”

  “Mother. You’re here?”

  “Yes.” Her hands reached for her heart. Despite the admirable restraint her daughter was showing, the complex and powerful emotions she felt were impossible to hold back.

  Lisa started to tremble and angry tears poured from her eyes. She rose unsteadily to her feet and shouted, “No! No! I won’t accept this! It’s wrong. So very wrong. Please, stop!”

  Crocker looked down at the crab cakes on his plate, then up at his father. As the old man ate, he talked about goings-on at the local VFW he commanded. Funds were tight, and the chapter was divided between those who wanted to spend money on chapter activities like meetings and dinners and those who wanted to focus on helping disabled vets. His father led the latter camp and complained about the self-centeredness of some members. Takers, he called them.

  He mentioned that Senator Clark’s wife had served as the hostess of the chapter’s fund-raising picnic at Harpers Ferry two years ago.

  “Great gal,” he said. “Cares about vets. Her father served with the Special Forces in Vietnam.”

  “Yes.” Crocker had met her once at the SEAL Team One reunion that she attended with her husband in Coronado. He remembered a friendly woman with the face and build of a model.

  “It’s awful about her being kidnapped. I hope she makes out okay,” his father said.

  “Me, too.”

  Crocker’s immediate concern was Carla and the fact that she hadn’t come. This was the second time she had wiggled out of an invitation to meet.

  When he brought her up, his father defended her, saying she was a busy, hardworking woman with a son to take care of and little support from the army, which had denied her benefits despite the fact that she was a Gulf War vet suffering from PTSD.

  Crocker’s father was the kindest, most honest man he’d ever met. So it pained him to ask, “Dad, is it true you’ve been helping Carla out financially?”

  His father ran a hand through his gray hair and groaned, “I don’t know why that’s anyone else’s business.”

  Crocker had learned to confront problems quickly and head-on even if it meant pissing people off. “Because Karen and I care about you and don’t want anyone taking advantage.” Karen was his younger sister—a ball-buster and CPA, with an alcoholic husband and three kids.

  “Let’s change the subject,” his dad said, reaching for the iced tea.

  “How much is she into you for?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “How much?”

  “Around thirty.”

  “Thirty thousand?”

  His dad nodded. He wore a checked cotton shirt open at the collar and a pair of the same black pants he’d used when he sold insurance.

  Crocker looked at his dad and considered that thirty grand was roughly half his savings and a hell of a lot of money to a seventy-eight-year-old man living on Social Security.

  “Shit, Dad,” he said. “She planning to pay you back?”

  “Sure.” His father nodded, but even in that gesture there was more than a hint of doubt, which made Crocker feel sad.

  “The older you get, the lonelier you become,” his dad said. Crocker noticed that he still had on the thick gold wedding band he’d worn since he was married to Crocker’s mother fifty-five years ago in a little Protestant church in South Boston. “A woman, even if it’s only to listen, brings a kind of tenderness that a male friend can’t.”

  Crocker couldn’t argue with that.

  His dad explained that Carla was using the last ten thousand he’d given her to enter a private rehab facility where she would kick the dependence she’d developed to prescription drugs like Vicodin, and cover her bills while she took time off from work. Once she got clean, he was confident that she’d pull her life together and find a better-paying job.

  “When does she start the rehab?” Crocker asked.

  “She started already, Monday morning. That’s why she couldn’t join us tonight.”

  Chapter Six

  Sanity is madness put to good use.

  —George Santayana

  The food looked and smelled fantastic—grilled lamb and fish, black beans, rice, fried plantains, asparagus, fresh tomatoes, a heart of palm salad, mango mousse—but Lisa refused to eat. She wanted to be as focused as possible, strong, and ready. A dull ache throbbed from the pit of her stomach and a sick numbness filled her head.

  All she could do was sit stiffly, watch, and marvel at the poise of her daughter, who picked at her food and acted like nothing was wrong.

  Lisa wanted to whisper some words of encouragement, tell Olivia how proud she was, or how much she loved her. But her daughter was completely focused on the man at the head of the table, nodding and listening intently.

  He’d been speaking nonstop for the last forty minutes. It was part sermon, part political diatribe, part history lesson delivered with table-pounding, arm-waving, snarling passion. The general theme: the exploitation of Latin America.

  He started with a description of the Aztec, Incan, and Mayan civilizations, and explained how everything had changed with the arrival of the Europeans, who killed hundreds of thousands of Indians, forced the survivors to work as slaves in silver and gold mines, and spread infectious diseases like chicken pox that decimated entire tribes.

  He talked about the aggressive paternal energy that came from Europe and how it had joined forces with the Church to form a lethal, compassionless river of fire that burned through indigenous cultures that had worshipped and respected Mother Earth. And how this pattern of exploitation had extended for hundreds of years and still continued.

  The dynamic had always been about filling the huge appetites of the aggressive Europeans. Their unending greed and lust for blood
and money had taken many forms—plundering natural resources; demanding cheap labor to toil in their mines, on their farms, and in their factories and assembly plants; consuming vast quantities of oil to run their cars and heat their homes; and procuring beautiful young women and narcotics to quiet the unease in their souls.

  He explained that people from Europe and the United States were spiritually empty and, therefore, compelled to surround themselves with riches and symbols of power. When material things didn’t fill the spiritual void, they turned to drugs to try to escape their existential reality.

  “But you people can’t be honest,” he said with fire in his eyes. “We dutifully fill your demand for drugs like marijuana, cocaine, and heroin, and you turn around and blame the problem on us. We give you our people to clean up your shit, pick your crops, and work in your kitchens, but you refuse to give them citizenship and self-respect. Instead, you hunt us down like dogs when we try to cross the border and throw us in jail.”

  Lisa’s lower back ached and she felt exhausted and dizzy. The Jackal continued to pile on the guilt with the zeal of a latter-day Che Guevara.

  He seemed to be gathering speed and intensity, shifting from one topic to another—the sex trade, the selling of stolen babies, the indiscriminate spraying of crops, the rising incidence of cancer in Central America and Mexico, the dwindling monarch butterfly migration to Michoacán, Mexico.

  And the more he spoke, the more keenly her daughter seemed to listen. Olivia leaned toward him, taking it all in, even nodding sometimes as though she agreed.

  What the Jackal had said so far left Lisa with more questions than answers. Was he a drug cartel leader or a revolutionary? Was he explaining why he was going to have to kill them, or trying to win them over?

  His speech, the situation, even her daughter’s composure left her feeling naked and vulnerable. When she couldn’t take any more, when she thought she was going to faint and fall from her chair, she said, “Please, stop.”