by Don Mann
Without warning, Jenson reared his right fist back and smacked Alvarez in the mouth so hard that his head slammed against the passenger-side window.
“I really don’t like you,” Jenson said, grabbing him by the neck and getting ready to smack him again as Claudia shielded her son’s eyes. “You’ve got five minutes to find out where the Jackal is and where he’s holding the Clark women before I tell these men to take you to the top of the building and push you off.”
“I thought I told you—”
“Five minutes!” Jenson shouted.
Alvarez started scrolling through programmed numbers on his Sony Ericsson and making calls. He nodded and stammered as Jenson measured time on his watch.
“Four minutes, forty-five seconds!” Jenson shouted.
“Okay. Okay,” Alvarez said, holding up his hand and listening, bloody slobber oozing out the corner of his mouth.
“Five!”
“Okay. Okay. I got it!” Alvarez exclaimed as he pointed to the phone.
In a quaking voice, he informed them that the Clark women were being held on a ranch near Tapachula. But his source couldn’t confirm that the Jackal was with them.
“Where’s the fucking Jackal?” Jenson shouted so loud that Crocker’s eardrums hurt.
“No one knows for sure. He’s probably with the women.”
“Forget the Jackal,” Crocker interjected. “Where’s Tapachula?”
“In the southern state of Chiapas, near the Guatemalan border,” Jenson answered.
“Get us there! Now!”
Chapter Thirteen
If Jesus was a Jew, how come he has a Mexican first name?
—Billy Connolly
Lisa Clark checked her hair and makeup in the oval mirror, telling herself that the ordeal would soon be over and she’d be reunited with her husband, son, and daughter. Excitement coursed through her body and lit her skin and eyes from within.
That glow had been missing for days. Seeing it now, her confidence grew. But she also had doubts, fears, and questions that she struggled to hold back.
“What do you think, Señora?” the young woman with the brush in one hand and a can of hair spray in the other asked.
“Are you going to do my daughter’s hair, too?”
“Oh, yes.” The woman nodded. “The señorita, she bery beautiful. She bery nice girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Jou should be bery proud.”
“I am.”
Lisa stood, buttoned the white blouse, and then stepped into the blue skirt and zipped it up on the side. As before, the clothes fit perfectly. Waiting for her on the bed were a jacket and a string of pearls. Black high heels rested on the floor.
She’d been through this routine hundreds of times before, preparing herself to face the public. The fact that she was going to look good pleased her.
Lisa wiped a smudge of lipstick from her front teeth, smiled into the mirror, then turned to the armed man standing near the door. “I’m ready if the jefe is,” she announced.
“Him not yet, Señora. But he will come soon.”
It took nearly an hour to squeeze through rush-hour Guadalajara traffic and reach the airport. Crocker and the three remaining members of Black Cell waited in a small room for the CIA Gulfstream IV to arrive, while Jenson paced and ranted into his cell phone, “Where’s the fucking aircraft?…Make goddamn sure there’s someone to meet us at the airport.…Alert our people there.…I want the exact location of the ranch.…We’re going to need weapons and equipment.”
Crocker was more interested in what the female CIA officer who was with them was trying to do: confirm the information that had been given to them by Alvarez.
Forty minutes later, when the aircraft taxied to the tarmac in front of them, she still hadn’t been successful.
“It’s the best we’ve got,” Jenson said, glancing at his watch.
As soon as Crocker hit the seat, he fell asleep and dreamt he was watching Holly kneel on a white tile floor and wash a baby boy in a bathtub. The baby’s skin glowed, lighting the room pink. When he burped, gray smoke poured out of his mouth and he started to cry.
Holly looked back at Crocker.
He picked the baby up and held him to his chest, but the smoke kept coming.
“Holly?” he asked. “Holly, what’s going on?”
She didn’t answer and he couldn’t find her through the gathering smoke.
“Holly…”
Two hours later, when the wheels hit the tarmac, he awoke, feeling anxious about Holly and not immediately understanding why.
The reason became apparent the moment he glanced at the new Suunto watch Holly had given him recently after the last one had been destroyed in Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil. This was the Core Lava Red model with all the bells and whistles, including altimeter, barometer, and a compass with weather information. It looked cool as hell, too.
It showed 2108 hours on the 15th.
Yesterday had been Holly’s forty-second birthday and he’d forgotten to call. This wasn’t the first time he’d failed to reach her on a wedding anniversary or birthday. A voice in his head reminded him of all the long absences, hardships, and funerals she’d had to endure because of him. It told him he didn’t deserve her.
Maybe the voice was right.
Outside the oval window, low buildings, lights, and semitropical foliage passed. The landscape looked flat and wild.
He heard Max Jenson growl something from behind him and remembered that the CIA station chief had accompanied them. Crocker picked out some of the words Jenson was growling into his cell phone, including “Mexican government” and “permissions.”
The plane came to a stop in front of a low military-style building guarded by armed men in camouflage uniforms with black balaclavas over their faces. The door opened and they passed through the florid air and entered an air-conditioned room. Jenson behind him shouted into a cell phone, “Over my dead body we’re letting them do this. You understand me? No goddamn way!”
If Jenson was saying he wasn’t going to allow the Mexican government to get involved, Crocker couldn’t agree more, not after what had happened in Guadalajara.
A tense young bearded CIA officer named Becker greeted them and pointed to a tray of sandwiches, bottles of water, and cans of soda that sat on a cabinet along the wall. “You probably want to refuel now, because we’re going to have to move fast.”
“What the fuck are we waiting for?” Jenson growled.
“The recon team should be arriving soon with photos of the ranch and other surveillance.”
“Should be?”
“Will be, sir.”
“Tell ’em to fucking hurry!” Jenson shouted with his hand over the phone. “We’ve got the lives of two American women on the line. We screw this up and we’ll all be fired.”
The tension, unsettled sleep, and guilt about missing Holly’s birthday had drained Crocker’s appetite. So he popped a can of Pepsi and looked out the windows of the temporary structure to the masked men standing guard outside.
Becker sidled up to him and said, “I might be able to find you a yogurt or some energy bars, if you don’t want a sandwich.”
“I’m fine. Who are they?” he asked, pointing to the men outside.
“Mexican soldiers from the GAFE. Army special forces.”
“Can we trust them?”
Becker shrugged. “Can you trust anyone connected to this government? I’ve got body armor and all kinds of ordnance in the next room, when you’re ready.”
“Mancini’s the guy you want to talk to about that,” Crocker said, pointing to Mancini, who was wolfing down a roast beef sandwich. Crocker’s three men sat in folding chairs in a corner of the room eating quietly.
Crocker knew what they were doing—preparing themselves mentally for the mission ahead. He needed to find the time to do that, too.
First he walked over to Mancini and told him about Becker and the ordnance. As the two men exited, Becker
looked back at Crocker and said, “Your CO requested that you call him.”
“Now?”
“As soon as you can. I set up a secure phone in the office across the hall.”
He didn’t like it—the confusion, the uncertainty, the fact that they were still relying on Mexican officials.
The office was barely large enough to accommodate a metal desk and chair. Sutter picked up in his office on the second ring, even though it was an hour ahead, 2214 in Virginia Beach.
“Sir, it’s Crocker,” he said. “Mancini, Akil, Suárez, and I are currently in southern Mexico getting ready to launch a rescue mission.”
“Another one?” Sutter asked.
“It will be our second, sir. We’re with the station chief now.”
“Whatever you do, you’d better execute it soon.”
“We’re waiting for an intel update,” said Crocker.
“I hope it’s more accurate this time.”
“So do I. Someone on the inside warned them back in Guadalajara.”
“All I can say is, I can’t think of anyone better prepared and more capable of rescuing the hostages.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Before I sign off, I got a piece of good news. Davis returned this afternoon and he’s on his way to recovery.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. Please give him my best.”
“I will. I know he misses you guys.”
“We miss him, too.”
“I just wanted to make sure that you’re still alive and not rotting away in some Mexican prison.”
“We came close.”
“Keep doing what you’re there to do. We’ll get you home.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing. I got a call from the Fairfax County sheriff’s department. They want to talk to you about some break-in. You know anything about that?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” Crocker lied. “But I’ll call them when I return.”
Two guards escorted Lisa down a hallway, into a long room with several doors leading into hallways and other rooms. It featured a tile floor, a large metal candelabra on the ceiling, and high-backed wood-and-leather chairs along the walls. At the end hung a black flag with a red, white, and green map of Mexico in the middle, and a big “Z.”
“Where’s my daughter?” Lisa asked.
The guards led her over to a high-backed chair in front of the flag and indicated that she should sit.
Before she did, she asked, “Is the jefe coming?”
Instead of answering, they stepped away and stood to either side of her with their arms crossed.
Facing her about ten feet away was a man with a beard and long hair. He leaned over a video camera on a tripod and adjusted the lens. Black cords snaked from the camera to some kind of electronic receiver at the opposite wall.
About a foot in front of the camera and to either side stood two large professional studio umbrella lamps.
“Hello,” Lisa called. “Do you know if the jefe is coming?”
The photographer looked up and smiled at her with a mouthful of large uneven teeth. His face reminded her of the skinny actor from the movie Y Tu Mamá También, whose name she couldn’t remember.
“El Chacal? No, Mrs. Clark,” the man answered. “I’m just the camera operator. My name is Nelson. I’m checking to make sure all the cables are properly connected. I should be ready for you in a minute.”
His casual manner, the camera, and the strange flag all started to unnerve her. It wasn’t what she had expected. Her pulse quickened and her mouth turned dry.
“The jefe wants me to make a statement,” she said, trying to get a handle on what was going on.
“Yes, he does, Señora. Yes.”
“But you don’t expect him to be here.”
“No, I don’t. No,” Nelson answered, shaking his head.
“What about my daughter?”
“I know nothing about her.”
“Do you know if she’s here, in this house?”
Nelson shrugged.
“So I should assume she won’t be here when I make my statement.”
“I guess not, Señora. I don’t know.”
“Did El Chacal tell you what he wants me to say?” Lisa asked.
“No. To tell you the truth, I’ve never met him. But I would think he wants you to be honest. You know, speak from the heart,” Nelson said, slapping his chest. “Maybe talk about what this experience has meant to you, how you’ve been treated, what you’ve learned.”
“Okay,” Lisa said, trying to clear her throat. “I was expecting something else.”
“Like maybe a script, Señora?” Nelson asked, smiling. “Or a speech? No, we don’t have a script. This is more like reality TV, you know, improvisation. Why don’t you sit and I’ll adjust the light.”
She did, and almost immediately Nelson switched on the two large lamps. “If these are in your eyes, please tell me.”
“They are,” Lisa replied, shielding her face with her hands as the confidence drained out of her. It was replaced by a queasy panic.
She asked herself, What if this is some kind of test, and if I don’t say the right things, Olivia and I won’t be released?
A Mexican American CIA agent and another Mexican man wearing a black mask stood on one side of the table with Becker and CIA station chief Max Jenson behind them. The members of Black Cell faced them. The two Kawasaki KLR 650 dirt bikes that the men had ridden in on were visible through the window past Becker’s shoulder.
Jenson stepped forward, leaned his long body on the table, and rubbed his eyes. In the middle of the table sat an olive-green backpack. He pointed at it, then spoke.
“We’re running out of time, but I want to explain a couple things quickly. This man to my right is Gomez. He works for us. I don’t know the identity of the individual on my left, so Gomez will fill us in.”
Gomez jutted out his round chin and scratched under it. He stood about five ten and was built like a wrestler. His face was covered with several days’ growth of beard and he had a haunted look in his eyes. “This man doesn’t have a name or a face,” he announced in a gruff, nasal voice, “because he’s both an important asset and a member of the Mexican government security service.”
“Who is he hiding from, us or them?” Jenson asked.
“Them,” the masked man answered in accented English.
“Good answer.”
Crocker wasn’t sure he trusted any of them, and Jenson seemed to sense that. He looked at Crocker with an expression that asked: Do you want to go on with this, or not?
Crocker nodded.
“Okay,” Jenson said. “Show us quickly what you found.”
The masked man opened the backpack and turned it over. Two dozen photos, maps, and diagrams spilled onto the table. He selected one that showed a strange, German-looking red clapboard house photographed through the bars of a gate.
“This is Las Lagrimas,” Gomez stated as the masked man handed the photo to Crocker. “Lagrimas means ‘tears’ in Spanish.”
“Is that significant?” Jenson grunted.
“Not really. No.”
“Then let’s stick to what these men need to know in order to carry out their mission.”
“Okay.”
“Las Lagrimas is one of six ranches, nine estates, and five apartments owned by Z-Thirteen throughout the country,” Gomez stated.
“What’s Z-Thirteen?” Crocker asked.
“That’s the Zeta designation for El Chacal.”
Jenson groaned, “Let’s not waste time.”
“Las Lagrimas is a cattle and sheep ranch formerly owned by an American rancher named Stanley Klausner, who died mysteriously in ninety-four as a result of what some say was his involvement in the Contra War in Nicaragua. Klausner was born in Germany, which explains the design of the house.”
“Cut to the fucking chase,” Jenson warned.
“The setup is pretty straightforward,” Gome
z continued. “A main house, concrete airstrip and hangar, pool and cabanas, stables, and several equipment sheds on approximately five hundred acres. In Klausner’s day, it was an active ranch. All that remain are a few head of cattle, a couple horses, and some avocado and lemon trees. The Jackal uses it as a vacation house.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Jenson asked.
“He’s rarely there and when he is, he rides horses, hangs at the pool with young babes, and generally chills.”
“Move on.”
Gomez separated a satellite surveillance photo from the documents on the table and pointed to the main house.
“The two-story ranch house was built in a German style with a portico that runs all around it. It’s about four thousand square feet, with formal dining room, living room, library, and kitchen downstairs, and four bedrooms, or three bedrooms and a study, and two bathrooms on the second floor.”
Jenson glanced at his watch and grunted, “Hurry up.”
“The whole ranch is enclosed by an eight-foot-high security fence topped with barbed wire and cameras. The front gate is guarded by armed men twenty-four/seven. And we found another interesting thing.”
Gomez located another satellite photo of the ranch. “This one was taken about 1600 today. In an earlier photo, taken at 0940, there was a Learjet on the runway. In the later picture the aircraft is gone.”
“Meaning?”
“Unsure.”
“Are the Clark women still there?” Crocker asked.
Gomez turned to the masked man, who nodded.
“We believe so. Yes.”
“What about the Jackal?”
The masked man nodded again.
“You’ve personally seen him and the women?” Crocker asked.
“No, but he knows someone who has,” Gomez answered.
“And they’re alive?”
“We believe so. Yes.”
It wasn’t a whole lot to go on, but under the circumstances, it would have to do.
“What’s this?” Crocker asked, pointing to a river that snaked behind the ranch.
“That’s the Coatan River,” Gomez answered. “About a half million Central Americans pass over it a year on their way to the States.”
