by Bob Mayer
"Who is he?" Lorsen's voice was patient.
Marcy was still looking at the pictures. "Hey, these other girls look like Mary. Except this one." She held up Terri Dublowski's picture. "That's like weird, isn't it?"
"Have you seen her?" Thorpe tapped Terri's picture.
Marcy shook her head. "No."
"Who is the Jewel Man?" Lorsen asked once more.
"I don't know," Marcy said. "Wears rings on every finger. Lots of jewels." She giggled. "Guess that's why he's called that. He's not too big. Speaks with a weird accent. Dark-skinned like an eye-talian or Greek or something. Got weird eyes. Blue. Like really strange. Always looking around."
"Where can we find him?" Thorpe asked.
"He just shows up," Crew said. "Don't hang out nowhere I know of. Like she said, he's bad."
"Sometimes he got another guy with him," Marcy volunteered. "Big guy. He's, like, even scarier."
"A second man?" Thorpe asked.
"When's the last time you saw either of them?" Lorsen asked.
"The small guy," Marcy said, "a couple of weeks ago. At a rave."
"A rave?" Thorpe asked.
"A party," Lorsen explained. "The location changes all the time. Techno music."
Marcy nodded. "Yeah. Haven't seen him since then."
"Could this Jewel Man and his friend be soldiers from post?" Thorpe asked.
"Maybe," Cutter shrugged. "Their hair is short. They act like soldiers, but I don't know. There's something different about them. The way they speak. And they got drugs and money."
Lorsen pulled some cards out, handing one to Crew and one to Marcy. "You see either of those guys—the Jewel Man or his buddy—you give me a call right away. I'll make it worth your time." He nudged Thorpe. "Let's go."
They retraced their steps to the small alley. Just before they entered the larger alley, Lorsen put his hand out, stopping Thorpe.
"Let me ask you something."
"Yes?" Thorpe waited.
"These kids you're looking for. You know they're probably dead?"
Thorpe nodded.
Lorsen ran a hand through his thinning white hair. "Those kids we just talked to . . ."
"Yeah?"
"They're alive. It might not be much of a life, but it's all they have. It isn't up to you or me to judge them. You were ready to pull your gun on them, weren't you?"
Thorpe didn't answer.
"They've had that all their life—people threatening them."
"What was in the bag?" Thorpe asked.
"Needles. I got a buddy at the post hospital who gets them for me. Crew—you saw the way he was shaking? He's got AIDS. A lot of the other ones do too. Heroin is real big now. That place is not exactly the cleanest and they tend to share needles. And sex."
Lorsen jabbed a finger in Thorpe's chest. "It isn't up to you or me to get them killed. So if you catch up with this Jewel Man, you better make sure you make a clean sweep of things. Because he might come back here asking questions and I don't think he'll be as nice as we were. Do I make myself clear?"
Thorpe looked down the narrow alley, taking in the garbage, the used needles and condoms. "Yeah, I hear you."
"No," Lorsen said, "you only hear half of what I'm saying." He pulled the pictures out of his pocket. "You know one of these girls. The others are strangers. Would you be here if you didn't know one of them? Would you give a shit about these girls you don't know?"
To that, Thorpe didn't have an answer.
***
The sergeant major had checked the post's reverse directory and learned that the number Takamura had called was in the G-l section in SOCOM's headquarters building. Parker and Dublowski were both on the access roster for SOCOM headquarters, so while most of Fort Bragg was out doing physical training they entered the building, flashing their ID cards at the security guards. There was no one in the G-l section and they split up, checking the phone lines until they found Takamura's desk.
"This is it," Parker said, sitting down in front of the computer that took up most of the space on top of the desk. She noted the little pewter Star Trek figure on the desk next to the monitor. She turned the computer on and they both waited as it booted up. Getting the main screen, she accessed the fax/E-mail program.
"Here it is." She pointed at the screen. "Incoming E-mail early this morning. Same time as the call from Takamura's cell phone."
"What is it?" Dublowski demanded.
"It's not that easy," Parker said. She typed in several commands, each one ending in a beep and accessed denied. "I can't get into it without Takamura's password."
"It's a goddamn army computer," Dublowski growled. "It can't be that hard to beat."
"Well, it's harder than I can handle." Parker sat back in the chair and checked her watch. "And this place is going to start filling up with people in half an hour."
"I know someone who can get in there," Dublowski said.
"Can you get him here in the next twenty minutes?"
"No," Dublowski said, "but I can bring this to him." He knelt down and pulled the CPU for the computer out from under the desk. He pulled out his Leatherman and cut the lines in the back and tucked it under one arm. "Let's go."
***
"How long before you can deliver what you promised?" The Russian was flawless, the accent strange.
The colonel eyed the stack of bills piled on the table in front of him. "I did not expect you back so soon."
"I do not care what you expected." The man pointed at the money, jeweled rings flashing. "This is what you asked for."
"It will take some time. I was not prepared."
"Why not?"
The colonel laughed. "There are so many pretenders in the world. Men pretending to be something they're not."
"I am for real."
"I know that now."
"The only reason I am here," the Jewel Man said, "is because your German contact was legitimate."
"I heard you tested the product," the colonel said. "I assume it was to your satisfaction?"
"It worked," the Jewel Man allowed.
"Of course it worked," the colonel said. "It was used in Afghanistan. The test wasn't necessary."
"It was for me."
"What do you plan to do with the material?"
"That is not your concern."
"It could be."
"Just get me the material."
"Many people have spies watching many places," the colonel said. "It could be dangerous. It was dangerous to set up the German meeting. And expensive. You could have just come here in the first place."
"That would have been foolish," the Jewel Man said. "What's done is done. Just get the material."
"It will cost more than we agreed on."
The Jewel Man sighed. "You have been paid."
"Transfer another two million in American dollars to my account."
"I will pay," the Jewel Man said, "but do not ask for more. How large will the package be?"
"Not very large. A little bit goes a long way. For what you said you wanted, about six briefcases."
"How long will it take you to get that amount of material?"
"It will take me at least two days."
The Jewel Man looked out the grimy window of the hotel. He shook his head. "Two days in this pigsty?"
"I could perhaps arrange some company for you?" the colonel was stuffing the bills into a black sack. "Chernovsty is not such a bad place. I have been stationed at worse. Especially when I was in the Soviet army."
"I am sure you have seen worse," the man said. "I will survive without your company. You may go now."
Anger flashed in the Ukrainian colonel's eyes, but the weight of the black sack in his hand forestalled his words. He turned on the worn heel of his boots and left the room.
Alone, the Jewel Man pulled a chair to the window and stared out at the street. He pulled the titanium case out of his pocket and began flicking it through his fingers as he thought.
Chapter Seventeen
>
The Delta Force Ranch sprawled over a large part of the Fort Bragg Reservation. It was surrounded by a wire-topped link fence with a patrol road on the inside. The compound contained not only the buildings housing the various elements of the force, but numerous training areas, including several live-fire ranges, a live-fire building, along with the fuselage of a Boeing 707 and a full-sized train for the troopers to practice their skills on.
Delta Force had earned its name from its official designation of Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta: Traditional Special Forces groups consisted of an Alpha Detachment (A-team), Bravo Detachment (B-Team, or company headquarters) and Charlie Detachment (C-Team, or battalion headquarters). When Colonel Charlie Beckwith formed a new unit in 1977 specifically designed to fight terrorism, he called it the SFOD-D, or Delta Force.
Beckwith had spent a tour of duty with British SAS, Special Air Service, and upon his return to the United States, realized his own army had no unit quite like the SAS, even though one was needed. Contrary to the common image of Special Forces, Green Berets were not specifically trained to be commandos or counterterrorist specialists, but rather were primarily designed to be teachers—force multipliers who could train other country's peoples to fight for themselves, whether it be in the guerrilla mode or counterguerrilla as they had in Vietnam.
Colonel Parker knew all about the history of Special Forces and the formation and mission of Delta Force from her time in air force Special Operations, which had often worked with their army counterparts. Her ID card and top-secret clearance, along with Sergeant Major Dublowski's presence, got her through the gate to the Ranch.
Inside the fence she picked up the different atmosphere immediately. The men walking around looked different from the norm—it was something she had noted before when around Special Operators. They carried themselves with more confidence, but they weren't cocky. They were men who had volunteered for a dangerous assignment, gone through the training that had weeded out the wannabes and left only those capable of doing a hard job and doing it well.
Dublowski drove up to a low sand-colored building with a red tile roof. He carried the hard drive they had taken from Takamura's office with him as they walked to the door and entered.
"We got a specialist for just about everything," Dublowski explained as they went down a long corridor. "Locksmiths, weapons, surveillance, aircraft, vehicles, you name it. Our computer guy is supposed to be real good." He kicked his foot against a door and pushed into the room beyond.
"Hey, Simpkins!" Dublowski called out.
A mountain of a man looked up from a table where he was peering through a large magnifying glass. His shaved scalp reflected the powerful light he had angled just in front of him. White teeth shone as his ebony face split in a wide smile.
"Dublowski, my man. How they hanging?" Simpkins spotted Parker and the rank on her collar and he straightened slightly, nodding toward her. "Ma'am."
"Colonel Parker, meet Chief Warrant Officer Simpkins, our local computer nerd."
"Chief." Parker's hand disappeared inside Simpkin's massive paw. "You don't look like any nerd I've ever seen."
"Most of the guys here think if you can add two plus two, you're a math genius," Simpkins said. He picked up what he had been working on. A small black box, about four inches long by two inches wide and an inch high. On each corner, tiny metal spikes poked out "Cute, heh? This is Freddie One." Simpkins put the box down on the table, then he went to a computer at another table.
Dublowski held up the CPU and started to say something, but Simpkins hushed him with a large finger. "Watch this."
He entered something into the keyboard. The box began "walking" on the metal spikes, each one rotating slightly forward, planting, then pulling the box forward. "Look here." Simpkins pointed at the screen.
An image of the tabletop Freddie was on was displayed— from Freddie's low-level point of view.
"I can also get audio," Simpkins said. "Range about a half a mile."
"It's not moving very fast," Dublowski noted.
Simpkins laughed. "You rather that goes into a hostage situation to take a look or you poke your head in?"
"Won't the terrorists see it and stomp it?" Dublowski asked.
"Not if it's nighttime. Or we send Freddie in an air duct. Or we keep him under cover. Freddie can even carry a very small payload."
" 'Small' being the operative," Dublowski said.
"I'm working on one a little bigger, Freddie Two." Simpkins sounded hurt.
"Okay, okay." Dublowski tapped the side of the CPU.
Simpkins reluctantly turned from the computer screen. "What you got there?"
"We need to get something out of this," Dublowski said.
Simpkins grabbed the unit and walked across the room. With one arm he cleared a spot on a table. He looked at the back of the CPU, then across at Dublowski, holding up the severed cables. "You're supposed to unscrew these."
"I was in a hurry."
"This has a government ID below the serial number," Simpkins said as he began removing the connections. "Am I going to get in trouble for working on this?"
"Not if no one finds out," Dublowski said.
Simpkins laughed as he tossed the cut cables into the trash and began connecting new ones. He plugged the CPU in and turned it on, pulling a seventeen-inch monitor close and laying a keyboard across his large thighs.
The screen came alive as the CPU booted. "Whose is this?" Simpkins asked as he typed in a few commands.
"A guy who works in SOCOM G-l," Dublowski said.
"He's done some modifications." Simpkins put his chin in his hand as he stared at the screen for several moments, then he began typing. "Anything in particular I'm looking for?"
"An E-mail was sent to this machine last night about two in the morning," Parker said. "It was transmitted from a laptop via a cell phone to the modem. We need to know what that E-mail was."
After a few moments, Simpkins sat back in the chair. "I can find the message. But I can't open it. It was sent to a locked file. I need the code word to open that file."
"Can't you break in?" Dublowski asked. "I thought that was what you were here for."
"I can break in," Simpkins said, "but whoever devised the lock booby-trapped it. You're lucky you brought this to me. Someone of inferior intelligence and expertise would have tried cracking the lock and the file would have been wiped clean."
"Well, with your superior intelligence, is there a way you can get us in?"
"Get me the code word and I'll get you in," Simpkins said. "I don't suppose you can ask whoever set this up what the password is?"
"He's dead," Dublowski said.
"That rules that out." Simpkins drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, staring at the jumble of code on the screen.
"Takamura had to have known we would try to get this information," Parker said. "There has to be a way in."
"Takamura?" Simpkins asked.
"The man who sent the message and whose computer this is," Parker said.
"He was army?" Simpkins said. When Parker nodded, he spun on his chair and shoved himself away from the desk toward another computer. He quickly went to work. "I'm accessing his personnel records."
"Won't you get in trouble for that?" Parker asked. "I was told you could get traced back. We don't want anyone to know what we're doing."
Simpkins jabbed a thumb at Dublowski. "Contrary to what my friend there thinks, I am pretty good with a computer. Not only that, but here in the Ranch we have the highest access available on the Department of Defense system. We can also access State Department, NSA, CIA, just about everybody. There's some places they don't want us peeking at, but overall we have pretty good access. No questions asked."
He tapped the screen. "Here we go. James Takamura. He's still alive according to this record."
"He was killed in a car crash early this morning," Dublowski said.
"Right after he sent an E-mail to this computer via a cell pho
ne from his laptop?" Simpkins didn't wait for the answer. He scooted back over to Takamura's CPU. "Read me his date of birth."
Parker sat down and read out the data.
"Not it," Simpkins said. "Mother's maiden name."
Parker read that and Simpkins entered it in the password block.
"Nope." Together they went through every piece of information that Simpkins could think might be used as a password. While he was doing that, Dublowski made coffee and stood by the pot until it was full. Then he poured mugs for everyone. Finally Simpkins had exhausted all possibilities.
The warrant officer leaned back in his chair. Then he cocked his head, looking at the stickers on the side of the computer. "This guy one of those Star Trek nuts?"
"I don't know," Parker said. "I guess so from those. He had a little figure of the Enterprise on his desk."
Simpkins began chuckling, a low rumble from deep inside his chest. "I don't believe it." He typed in a word. The screen changed. "I'm in!"
"What was the password?" Parker asked.
" 'Computer,' " Simpkins said.
"What?" Dublowski asked.
"He used the word 'computer' as his password. In Star Trek, when they want to access the computer, they just call out, 'Computer,' " Simpkins explained. "It's so obvious no one would think of it unless they watched Star Trek."
"Sort of the purloined letter technique," Parker said.
"What's that?" Dublowski asked.
"Hiding a stolen letter in a mailbox," Parker explained as she looked over Simpkins's shoulder.
"This is the E-mail," Simpkins said. "It's a file this guy Takamura lifted from personnel records, but the personnel code is funny. Not active. Not family members. I've seen this before." He paused in his typing. "Oh, yeah. Foreign students."
"What?" Dublowski and Parker said at the same time.
Simpkins tapped the screen. "These are foreign student files. You know. Guys from other countries who come here to go through the Q-Course or the School of the Americas at Benning. Any kind of training. We even get some guys here once in a while. We have an exchange program with the Brits—send one of our guys over to go through their selection course every year and then serve a year with an SAS troop and they send one of their guys over.