"And the unofficial version?"
"Long story," Dublowski said. "The short version of the long story is that Rowe was helping investigate some people — our people, CIA and SF — for drug smuggling out of Colombia in the late seventies and early eighties. The Noriega connection. Quite a few people who were involved in that whole mess had accidents or were killed. Too many for it to be a coincidence. Someone was covering their tracks and they did it well."
"Jesus," Parker whispered.
"Yeah. Of course it just might have been a hit by the communists. Who knows? I sure don't." A fenced compound came up on their left. "There's the obstacle course." Dublowski pointed out the window. "It runs under this road in a tunnel they got to crawl through. That at least hasn't changed much since I went through."
They drove around and reached the main gate for the camp. Two helicopters were parked across the street in an open field, a group of students clustered around them. Dublowski drove through the gate and parked.
"This way," he said, leading her toward one of the many metal-sided, one-story buildings that filled the camp. The sign on the door said it was the camp headquarters.
Dublowski walked straight through a small office area, ignoring the various people working there, and straight to a door marked camp sergeant major.
"Don't you know how to knock?" a voice bellowed.
Parker looked over Dublowski's shoulder. A small wiry man was sitting behind a very large desk. He jumped to his feet and came around the desk, walking with a limp. He began pumping Dublowski's hand as soon as he reached him. "Goddamn, Dan. Long time no see."
"Good to see you, Pete." Dublowski turned. "Pete Kilgore, this is Colonel Parker. She wears a blue suit when she's on official business."
Kilgore nodded. "Ma'am." He took in her civilian attire, and Dublowksi's comment and mood, and sat back down behind his desk. "What brings you out this way?"
"I need information on a student," Dublowski said.
"You could have got that from the Puzzle Palace," Kilgore said, referring to the Special Warfare Center and school headquarters at Bragg.
"I could have got paperwork from SWC," Dublowski said. "But someone might have wanted to know why I was asking, and I also want some firsthand feedback on this guy."
"So this really ain't official?"
"No," Dublowski said. "I need a favor."
"Well, I owe you a few," Kilgore granted. "But giving out info on students — man, you have no idea what it's like out here. We get guys actually bringing lawsuits against the school when we kick them out. Saying we weren't fair."
"I remember when an instructor could look at the way a guy tied a knot putting up his poncho hooch and tell him to pack his shit and walk the forty miles back to Bragg. And he wasn't booting him because of the knot, but because the instructor knew the guy wouldn't make it on a team. Now you got to have a whole freaking file and consult a guy a half dozen times and document it and all sorts of crud to even begin the process of separation."
"The person I'm interested in is a foreign student," Dublowski said. "Came through here about two years ago. You were out here then, right?"
"Yeah, been here almost five years now," Kilgore said. He reached down and thumped something under the desk. "Ever since they chopped the old hoofer off. I can still ruck with the students, though. Makes 'em feel pretty small, to have a one-legged old man walking out in front."
"This guy I want to know about was a Saudi," Dublowski said, cutting into Kilgore's ramble.
The smile left Kilgore's face. "A Saudi? Two years ago?"
"Name of Akil Matin." Parker spoke for the first time.
"I remember him," Kilgore said. "Son-of-a-bitch. He was a hard ass. Lots of foreign students, especially from certain countries, they just want to punch their ticket and go home, expending minimal effort in the meanwhile. Once they figure out we ain't gonna fail them, that is." Kilgore looked at Parker. "Long time ago we used to grade foreigners just like U.S. students. Flunk 'em out if they weren't up to snuff. Then we failed a couple of guys from a certain African country. When those guys got home — swack — their heads got chopped off for disgracing their country. State Department didn't think that made for too good diplomacy so the official, unofficial policy is to not fail the foreigners."
"But this Matin guy, he didn't need no help. That was one tough hombre." Kilgore shook his head. "Why do you want to know about him?"
"I think he might have killed my daughter," Dublowski said. "Or, if she isn't dead, he's holding her somewhere."
"Holy fuck," Kilgore exclaimed. "You're shitting me." One look at Dublowski's face, though, and he knew this wasn't a joke. "What can I do to help?"
"I'm going to go after Matin," Dublowski said. "One way or another, he and I are meeting. Anything you can tell me will help."
"Damn," Kilgore said. "Be careful. He dislocated a guy's elbow in the pits during hand-to-hand training. Got him in an elbow lock and pushed it. Everyone could hear it go. I'd have kicked the SOB out, but he was a foreign student. He's good with his hands. Good shot too. But mean. And he didn't play well with others, to put it nicely. Not a team man at all. A loner."
"Did you ever meet his brother, Jawhar Matin? Chopper pilot?" Parker asked.
"No."
"Any idea where his home is?" Dublowski asked. "Where he might hole up?"
"No, but we got another Saudi officer here right now," Kilgore said. "Want to talk to him? He might know something about this Matin fellow."
Dublowski had already turned for the door. "Yes."
They walked out of the headquarters building and followed Kilgore across the compound to the east side, where a sixty-foot wooden tower was set in a small clearing. A line of men waited to climb the stairs to the top, where instructors were hooking in students to ropes and sending them over the side to rappel down.
"Where's al Arif?" Kilgore asked one of the men wearing a green beret who was supervising the men holding the ropes at the bottom on belay.
"Over at the east LZ for STABO," the instructor answered.
"This way." Kilgore could move amazingly fast for a man with an artificial leg.
They walked along a narrow path through the pine trees. Parker could hear the sound of a helicopter coming closer. They came to a field where a group of students and a couple of instructors were clustered. Dublowski nudged her and pointed up. A Blackhawk helicopter was coming in from the west. Parker squinted, trying to see what was dangling on a rope fifty feet below the chopper.
She stopped as she realized there were four men, arms linked, at the end of the rope. The chopper came to a hover high overhead, then slowly descended, the men coming closer to the ground. They touched down and quickly unhooked from the rope. They ran clear as the chopper came in and landed.
Parker returned her attention to the ground. Dublowski was standing next to one of the Green Beret instructors, talking to him. Parker walked over.
"There's al Arif." Dublowski pointed at a man wearing lighter, sand-and-brown-patterned camouflage among the green-camouflaged Americans. He walked through the students and tapped the Saudi on the shoulder. "I'd like to speak to you."
"Yes?" al Arif looked from Dublowski to Parker and back.
"About Akil and Jawhar Matin."
There was a slight hesitation that Dublowski caught before the other man answered. "I do not know those names."
"Akil and Jawhar Matin — Hakim Yasin's bastards," Dublowski amplified.
"Oh, no," al Arif's head was on a string, jerking back and forth. He stepped back. "I will not talk about them."
Dublowski tapped him on the shoulder. "We're going for a ride together."
"What?" Parker asked, but Dublowski was already walking forward, pulling al Arif with him. He grabbed a small FM radio from one of the instructors, clipping it onto his belt, running the wires up inside his shirt and putting the headset on, the boom mike in front of his lips and the earpiece in.