“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,” Gomez 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.”