“We’re hoping everyone can cooperate, given the gravity of the situation,” Sutter offered.
“And lack of time,” Anders added.
It was a nice idea, but in Crocker’s experience interagency ops rarely worked smoothly under any circumstances.
“What about gear and weapons?” he asked.
Anders turned to Sutter, who said, “You’re going in as civilian adventurers, so take anything you think is appropriate. But no weapons. Whatever you need will be provided by the FBI field office in Mexico.”
That was disappointing.
“Because of Clark’s prominence in the Senate, and the fact that his wife is a personal friend of the First Lady, and because we’re looking at a ticking clock, the White House will be wanting hourly updates,” added Anders. “In other words, they’re highly involved and want quick results. Which means no infighting or pussying around. If Mrs. Clark’s head comes back in a box, the president knows he’ll be facing major political problems.”
Crocker nodded. “Understood.”
“So follow whatever leads the joint FBI/DEA task force gives you, but move quickly. And don’t trust the Mexicans. Consider anything involving them a nonstarter. I don’t know what the FBI will tell you, but hear it from me: The whole damn country is corrupt from the president’s office on down.”
Crocker crossed his arms in front of him and said, “That’s screwed up.”
“The new Mexican president, Enrique Peña Nieto, is talking about scaling back the violence, and U.S. involvement,” Anders continued. “He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want us there but is making an exception in this case.”
“What Jim is saying is that the situation is a god-awful, hopeless mess, which is why we’re sending you,” Sutter added.
“Thanks,” Crocker said, anticipating the challenge.
Anders said, “You’re booked on an eight a.m. flight to Dallas-Fort Worth. From there it’s a short hop to Guadalajara.”
“Okay.”
“Obviously, we need quick results.”
“You’ll get ’em.”
Sutter warned, “Don’t start a war in the process.”
Crocker was up and halfway to the door. “We’ll try not to.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Chapter Seven
The past is never dead. It’s not even past.
– William Faulkner
Lisa awoke in the middle of the night, her stomach burning and her body damp with sweat. Reaching for the light switch, she saw the white bandages on her index finger and forearm and remembered the gray-haired man drawing blood.
The lamp cast a hideous shadow on the wall to her left, made by a young man slumped in the chair facing her bed with an automatic pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants.
Unlike on other occasions when Lisa had awakened from drug-induced sleep, this time she immediately understood her situation. Her alert mind darted from subject to subject, image to image. The white grip of the pistol, the slight mustache above the young man’s upper lip, her own throbbing finger, the gnawing feeling in her empty stomach, her husband and son, Olivia, the Jackal, Johnny Depp, the cage filled with jackals, the fact that there were no clocks anywhere so it was almost impossible to keep track of time.
She sat up and focused on the pistol, which leered at her like a challenge as a sliver of moon peeked through the window and a lone bird called plaintively outside.
Do I dare take the pistol, free Olivia, and try to escape? Or should I wait for someone to rescue us?
She knew that Clark would do everything in his power to secure their freedom. He might not be creative and exciting, but he was steadfast and reliable, and she needed him now.
As the guard snored gently, Lisa remembered something Henri Gaudier had told her many years ago: Cowardice is the only sin.
Am I being a coward now for not grabbing the pistol and taking action myself?
She wasn’t sure.
What if I screw up and get us both killed?
Sitting up in bed and chewing the inside of her mouth, Lisa started to argue with herself.
What constituted cowardice, and was it really a sin? Was it, as Henri had said, the only sin that mattered? Or the most important one? What about gluttony, lust, and pride, all of which she had been guilty of, too?
Hadn’t he meant: Don’t be afraid to acknowledge the truth. And when you find the truth, don’t shrink from taking appropriate action.
Part of her reasoned that the reality as far as her husband was concerned was that he couldn’t handle the truth about her past, which was why she hadn’t told him. So why was it wrong to hide things from him in the interest of preserving their marriage and keeping their family together?
A second, deeper part of her said no. The truth wasn’t something you could remodel or change according to the person you were talking to, or the circumstances.
She looked at the rumpled gray sheets, the guard with the pistol, the shadows on the wall, saw her own gaunt face reflected in the glass over the picture of La Santísima Muerte, and came to the conclusion that in some karmic way she had brought this current dilemma on herself.
In her mind’s eye she pictured the Jackal’s strange, scarred, rebuilt face, the fever in his eyes, the potent, almost violent energy he gave off, and its effect on her. And as she did, she recalled a September night more than twenty years ago.
But she didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not ever.
Trying to force her brain to change the subject, Lisa closed her eyes and recalled gentle summer days growing up with her parents and older brother in Virginia-making peach ice cream with her friend Samantha, swimming in Crystal Lake in the summer, and meeting her boyfriend, Adam, after baseball practice. The freckles on his upturned nose, his long legs as he glided across the green field, the way he played guitar and sang to her, then kissed her on the lips.
But even those sweet memories circled back to Henri and the hot, humid night in September she had tried all these years to forget. It was a Sunday, shortly after 9 p.m. The streets of Georgetown were quiet. They had eaten fresh crabs and oysters for dinner at an outdoor table covered with newspaper. She could taste the salty brininess and the German beer.
Afterward they drove in Henri’s white Mercedes to a two-story brick apartment building off MacArthur Boulevard, not far from Georgetown University. She was there to settle a debt she owed to a young drug dealer named Raj.
They parked in the lot behind the building. Henri, who was in a good mood, having won money in a recent backgammon tournament, offered to lend her the five thousand dollars she owed. She said, “No, that’s very generous, but I’ll handle this myself.” She went in alone.
The elevator smelled of dirty laundry. The apartment stank of rotten food and BO. Raj sat on the couch playing Nintendo with one hand and holding a cordless phone with the other. Between phone calls and through the thick brown hair that hung over one side of his dark-skinned face, they negotiated.
He said he would cut the amount owed to two thousand dollars if she agreed to clean his apartment one day a week for the next six months. When she turned that down, he offered to forgive the debt entirely in exchange for Lisa’s performing on him a certain lewd act that he would record with his camcorder.
She was outraged at first. But five thousand dollars was a lot of money. She agreed, with certain stipulations. She’d perform the act three times over the next week but wouldn’t let him record it.
Sex was sex, she told herself. It wasn’t love. She’d get it over with, clear the debt, learn never to get in that situation again, and move on.
But when gaunt, sweaty Raj lowered his pants and grabbed her, she pulled away and ran out the door. She jumped into the Mercedes, telling herself that she was a fool to get hooked on cocaine and an idiot to agree to Raj’s offer.