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 His formerly bold blue eyes had turned several shades darker and had withdrawn into dull orbs of pain.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 seemed 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.