“Tom, this is Anders,” the CIA officer answered. “I need you and your friends to meet me out in front of Terminal Muelle Norte a-sap.”
“Some of us checked our bags.”
“Forget about your bags. I’ll have someone recover them for you.”
“Okay. We’ll be there in five mikes.”
He found Akil chatting up two blondes near the departure gate. Leaning close to him, he whispered, “We’re leaving.”
Akil put his arm around Crocker’s shoulder and winked at the girls. “This is my buddy Tom.”
“Hi, Tom.”
“Lisa and Tammy are surfers. They just got back from an island on the Caribbean side.”
“Isla Bocas del Toro,” the taller and blonder of the two girls said. “A real chill spot.”
“Why is surfing like sex?” Akil asked.
“Don’t know.”
“When it’s good, it’s really, really good. And when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Crocker said, smiling at the girls. “But you gotta excuse me, because I’ve got to borrow my friend for a minute.”
“No problem.”
Crocker pulled Akil ten feet closer to the departure desk and said, “Forget the chicks and the surfing and grab your gear.”
“Now?”
“Anders wants us to meet him out front. Something important has come up.”
Akil looked back at the two blondes and said, “This better be good.”
Outside the most modern of the three terminals, Crocker and his men found Anders standing beside a new black Chevy Suburban. They squeezed in. Before the female driver even pulled away from the curb, Anders started to speak.
“There’s been a change of plans,” he said. “Based on some of the medical data you seized from the house in Tapachula and phone intercepts from the NSA, we believe that Olivia Clark is with the Jackal in a nearby country, and about to become an unwitting organ donor.”
The information hit Crocker like a slap to the head.
“An organ donor?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” Akil grunted. “Is that why he kidnapped her in the first place?”
“We believe so. Yes.”
“So all that other people’s liberation stuff is bullshit?”
“That’s our current thinking. Seems like someone hacked into her doctor’s medical files two weeks ago, so we believe the whole thing was planned,” Anders explained.
“Sick.”
“Which organ?” asked Mancini.
“The liver.”
Akiclass="underline" “Makes sense.”
“Why?”
“He’s a fucking drug dealer. Isn’t he?”
“Where’s Olivia?” Crocker asked as the vehicle accelerated.
“NSA traced the plane’s flight path, then zeroed in on the cell phone of one of his doctors,” Anders explained from the passenger seat. “It seems the transplant is scheduled to start tomorrow morning, so we’ve got to move fast.”
“Okay. But where?”
“Havana, Cuba.”
Suárez let out a hoot of joy from the backseat.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah, holy shit,” Mancini echoed. “This is an interesting turn of events. I thought we were about to get court-martialed.”
“You guys are going to have to go in scrubbed clean,” Ander continued. “Completely black. No IDs, no phones, no documents or pictures or wallets, no jewelry, no names, nothing.”
“I always wanted to go to Havana. How are we gonna get in?” Akil asked.
Anders directed the female driver to cross the Bridge of the Americas to the west side of the Panama Canal and the former U.S. Army base Fort Kobbe, which was now under Panamanian control.
Turning back to Crocker in the middle seat, he said, “We’re going to use some assets we have here to drop you off the coast.”
“When?”
“As soon as we get you geared up and prepped.”
“How will we get out?” Crocker asked, thinking ahead.
“That’s more problematic. We’re working with some local assets we have in Cuba. It won’t be easy. We figure there’s about a twenty percent chance of success. Your call.”
Crocker took a moment to consider the grisly alternative. When he turned to check with them, all three men nodded.
“We’re in,” he said.
“Good.”
“Has this op been cleared by the White House?”
Anders grinned. “Officially, they know nothing about it. Nobody in the U.S. government knows anything about it. Unofficially, the president finds the organ-harvesting scheme reprehensible and wants us to do anything we can to save the girl.”
“Good.”
“But if anything goes wrong, he’s going to deny he’s ever heard of you or the mission.”
“Understood.”
“You can’t be captured. That can’t happen. If any or all of you are killed by the Cubans and they’re able to ID your bodies, we’ll say you went rogue. Won’t be too far from the truth, with the way you’ve been handling ops recently.”
Crocker nodded to indicate that he understood. “Where’s Captain Sutter? Does he know about this?”
“He just landed in Miami. I spoke to him a few minutes before I contacted you and filled him in. He’s okay with it, if you are.”
“You said Olivia Clark’s in Havana. Do you have a fixed location?”
“Yeah. The Cira García Clinic, which is a private hospital that caters to rich foreigners. It’s located on the west side of the city, not far from the coast, a couple blocks from the Almendares River. There’s a big park there where you can land. I’ll show you a map.”
They were passing over the canal now. Crocker had never been to Cuba, but he’d heard a lot about it over the years and had always been intrigued. The prospect of sneaking into Havana and rescuing a hostage right under Fidel and Raúl Castro’s noses appealed to the daredevil in him.
“How’s this gonna work?” he asked.
“We’re planning to drop you in the Straits of Florida and having you swim in, up the Almendares River,” answered Anders as the female driver turned off a road on the other side of the bridge and stopped at a gate guarded by Panamanian soldiers.
“According to the latest phone intercept, the transplant’s scheduled to start at 0600,” Anders continued. “So we’re thinking of launching at around 0200.”
A soldier checked the driver’s credentials, recorded the number of passengers and the license plate number, then waved to another soldier, who opened the security barrier.
“We’re gonna need a jump platform, fixed wing or rotor, parachutes, a Zodiac, Drägers, black skin suits, masks, fins, watertight bags, compasses, and weapons,” said Mancini.
“We’ll take care of all that now.”
Guapo descended the escalator to the baggage claim area at Reagan National Airport with his two compatriots and spotted a stout, no-necked man on the left holding up a sign with his name scrawled on it. He stopped in front of the man and said in English, “I’m Guapo. Who are you?”
“Lionel Mendoza,” the man said. “Nacho sent me.”
“A pleasure to meet you. You have a vehicle for us?”
“Yes, it’s parked outside. You need to pick up your luggage?”
“We don’t have luggage,” Guapo answered.
“Then I’ll show you where it is.”
They followed the man’s short legs into a parking structure and rode the elevator to Level 4. There he led them to a silver Toyota RAV4, reached into the pocket of his shirt, and handed Guapo the keys.
“Here.”
“Equipment?” Guapo asked.
“Three hush puppies”-Smith and Wesson M39s with detachable suppressors-“with ammo, incendiary grenades, gaffer’s tape, rope, ski masks, three prepaid cell phones. Programmed into each cell phone is a number. You need anything, or when you’re finished with the vehicle, call and we’ll pick it up. The SUV has a full tank of gas and is equipped with a Garmin GPS. Those were my instructions. Anything else?”
Guapo thought for a moment and said, “I think we’re okay.”
“Good.”
“You want us to drop you off somewhere?” Guapo asked.