The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Miller then reviewed the history of their effort to decode the coconuts and the problem of assembling the sixteen Arabic dialects. Verbich asked pointed questions during the discussion.

  "So, there you have it," said Miller after completing his presentation. "If you think you could shave a few days off our estimated two-week project, it would be welcomed."

  Verbich studied each of the three faces around the table. She produced an iPad and started tapping and swiping with quick movements, pausing briefly to gather her thoughts. Finally she raised her head. "With our involvement in Middle Eastern affairs soon after the Twin Towers incident, the CIA undertook extensive steps to understand the enemy. Despite these efforts, we still have much work to do in sociolinguistics.” She hesitated while searching her iPad screen. "About your requests, I'm afraid I can't shave two days off your work schedule." The three men looked devastated. "But with a waiver of confidentiality from Director Fitzgerald, I can access my database catalog and give you what you want in twenty-four hours."

  Surprise and relief broke out on the three faces. Ophelia Verbich enjoyed the reaction immensely.

  TRUE TO HER WORD, Doctor Verbich sent a messenger with an armed escort to the NSA building in McLean the next day with sixteen fully articulated dialects using the Arabic alphabet. In his small enclave of blinking lights, Ike Gunner backed-up this data and entered it into Big Mamma. He programmed her to decode the remainder of the six previously cracked messages using the new languages as a reference. In less than a minute the six messages lay stripped of their encryption.

  Rashid scanned the output, and then settled down to digest the full meaning of the material. Ike programmed Big Mamma to search for any subsequent incoming messages using the unique characteristics of this encryption. When finished, he turned to Rashid who was oblivious of his surroundings while scribbling notes on a Big Chief tablet.

  "Hey, Prof. This is a paperless society. Whatcha doin writing on a paper tablet?"

  Youris straightened his back and stretched his arms wide. "You're right, Ike. Old habits are hard to break.”

  "Well, are you finding anything?"

  "No smoking gun, to coin a phrase," Rashid said with a straight face. "But I get the feeling something bad is about to go down."

  "Could you be a little more specific?"

  "The first message is by someone who goes by the name The Sword, probably a code name. Reference is made to the recipient as his 'brother'. I assume that means the writer is a male accomplice. Apart from the frequent Islamic titles, words of praise and religious connotations, he tells of his arrival in America through El Paso, Texas. He describes how he got a local identity, and that his work is financed by the Hawala network–an underworld banking operation. Finally, he speaks of gathering information on places 'ripe for destruction'. His words, not mine. It all sounds ominous, but nothing specific."

  "Somethin' is cookin' on the stove and it's startin' to boil."

  "The second message is more enlightening. It commands the Sword to come to Rome. Gives a specific hotel location and a date; about two weeks ago. No travel information. The third message is the Sword updating Rome on his plans to relocate. A reference is made to a motor home, and his researching of a suitable target. Message four is from the recipient and hints at expected developments. It complements the Sword on his dedication and skill. But doesn't say anything meaningful."

  “Yea, but somethin is goin on, I bet."

  “Number five is the Sword calling for faster action. He sounds like he's ready, but is waiting for further orders. While still respectful, he’s a little pissed off, to coin yet another phase."

  Ike pulled his keyboard over. "We got number five about a week ago."

  Rashid nodded. "The last message, the sixth, sounds like actions are about to happen. It makes reference to assembling personnel, arranging transportation and asking for confirmation for the receipt of a shipment. Whatever that means."

  Ike checked his watch. "That message is dated a day ago."

  Rashid dropped number six on the top of other messages. “There will be more of these. Someone is directing the actions of an operative whose mission is not yet complete. Can you trace the origin and destination of these exchanges, Ike?"

  "We can identify the computer the message came from by its unique Internet Protocol address–the IP, but its geographic location I can know only in a general way."

  Puzzled, Rashid said, "I thought NSA could trace any email."

  "Mostly we can. Let's say you send me a message from your computer at home and I receive it on my home computer. We can know those locations because you and I bought access to the internet from an ISP, an Internet Service Provider like the telephone company, who has your name, address and phone number."

  "So what's the problem?"

  "The problem is we are dealin' with computer savvy dudes. They use portable devises and move all around using different public Wi-Fi connections.”

  With an edge of frustration in his voice, Rashid asked, "What about servers, don't they show a location?"

  "Servers, called Root Servers, are located worldwide. They all work on a demand and time basis.”

  "What's that mean?"

  "Let's say we send a digital message from here. There's a server in Washington DC, but if it's overloaded or a faster routing is available the message will be picked up by another server. It might be only two or three milliseconds faster, but the system is design to follow the fastest route. That route may go through Canada, England, or Australia. The same message sent a minute later may follow a different route depending on system conditions at that moment."

  "So servers can’t give us specific origin and destinations?"

  "You got it Prof.”

  Rashid tapped his Big Chief tablet. "So we're working blind at this point."

  “No. The messages contain place names: El Paso and Rome. My guess is the Sword is located in southwestern United States.”

  "And the facilitator is in Rome?"

  "Yep. Rome or at least southern Europe."

  Rashid felt a shadow of dread. He thought of a time years ago when he used his language skills to earn money to pay hospital and cancer treatment expenses for his wife Hessa. He was paid a hundred thousand dollars for one night of work in Italy. The money was good and the job simple enough. Whatever went down that night seemed trivial at the time. Some underworld types working out a deal. Was there a connection? A shudder passed through him.

  "Their conversation isn't finished, Ike. I think the next message, the seventh message, will tell us what we need to know." And, he thought, what I need to know, too.

  THIRTY-SIX

  ASHLEY SPENT A MISERABLE sleepless night thinking about what she should have told Walter Kent during their heated confrontation in his office yesterday. Now she sat on the edge of her bed feeling more tired than when she went to bed six hours earlier. Her feet lay on the cold hardwood floor of her one-bedroom apartment, toes crunched together as if trying to keep warm. Where are my slippers? Where are my goddamn slippers?

  She pushed herself upright still in a sleepy fog. Why am I pissed off at my slippers? They haven't done anything to me, at least not yet. The thought of her slippers, harboring ill will toward her feet, caused an uncontrollable laugh to break the silence.

  Her clunky old alarm clock started its irritating clang across the room as if it was another ordinary day. With cold feet, she scuffled across the floor, snapped it off, and then put on a bra and panties. Now what? A five mile morning run? I don't feel like a five-mile run. Shit!

  She found her slippers. They were like wool socks with a leather pad on the bottom. Squishy, but comfortable. She looked at her navy blue pantsuit flung over a chair in the corner. I won't be wearing that today or ever again. Double shit!

  There she stood half naked feeling a tightness building in her throat. She fought the need to cry. I don't want to cry. Damn it, I never cry.

  Ashley Kohen, the tough, determined fighter crie
d while standing nearly naked and alone in the middle of her bedroom. A loud sorrowful wailing echoed off the walls of her room while she stood head up and tight-fisted. A good cry. Like a snowdrift that melts after the storm has passed, her cry cleared away emotion she had stored up. It left her exhausted, but relieved.

  Breakfast consisted of a blended smoothie of frozen strawberries, yogurt, diet orange soda and a scoop of protein powder. Today she indulged herself with a toasted English muffin - no butter. She cleaned up after herself as she prepared her food. The tidiness of her apartment testified to her obsession with keeping everything in order. She paid attention to details.

  She knew details were like little flakes of gold. If you gather enough of them together you can make something of value that will endure, like catching a killer or stopping a terrorist. Ashley had many details on Case Number NM-1056 stashed away in notebooks, on scraps of paper and in her memory. She knew everything about the Bitty Smith Case. What she hadn't explored were the loose ends. That's where she would start.

  One loose end concerned the un-sub's visit to Smith Trading on the west side of Roswell. Since the un-sub, also known as Russell Smith, had a key to the building of a company that had his last name, it was reasonable to assume he owned Smith Trading Imports and Exports. She wondered why he established a company in New Mexico and what he planned to import or export.

  The second loose end that nagged her was the 1979 Ford pickup truck transferred to Russell Smith from someone named Allen Lee. Bitty Smith's profile didn't fit a guy who would own a pickup truck. His sister made no mention of his having one. She said he drove an old VW Bug. The DMV records showed the truck’s title transfer from Allen Lee to Russell Smith occurred after Bitty's murder, making Bitty's ownership impossible. That meant the new owner of the truck was the person who killed Russell Smith and took his identity, and his truck. That person, the killer, had gone by the name of Allen Lee. Could that be his real name?

  The 1979 truck had a Texas title registered to Mr. Lee with an El Paso address. She had copied the Bill of Sale on file in New Mexico. Someone in El Paso must know this Allen Lee and may be able to offer important information about the man Ashley now hunts.

  Dealing with these loose ends posed a big problem. Officially she had no credentials to support an investigation. No longer a Federal agent or a cop, she had no legitimate standing. She checked out procedures to become a private investigator in New Mexico. The state made her take a test and pass an in-depth background check that took months. She could legally carry a handgun in the state, but not conceal it on her person. To get a concealed carry permit took ninety days. She didn't have time for all that.

  As long as her actions were legal, no law prevented her from investigating on her own. She had access to public records, like any citizen, and could follow someone covertly, but she had no authority to compel anyone to answer her questions, to conduct a formal interview or to detain a person.

  That left her with only one choice–bluffing.

  Carrying out investigations within the framework of law enforcement required hard work. But working outside the mantle of law enforcement was much more difficult and dangerous. In her early days, before she joined the Chicago PD, she caused the arrest and conviction of two criminals. One a rapist and the other a would-be terrorist. Driven by her personal need to make a difference, she tracked down both felons using bluffing techniques, and then called in the police for the arrest. Illinois police officials honored her with a Citizen of the Year Award, which led to her being hired by police Chief Marvin Danforth. That old son of a bitch.

  Bluffing meant she had to walk a thin line between acting as a concerned citizen and not impersonating a police officer. She had done it before. Ashley would find the bastard who killed Bitty and abused Rita Durant. The man who told Rita he planned an unspecified horrendous act of terror.

  BEFORE GOING to Roswell, Ashley spent time planning a strategy. She gathered the tools of the bluffing trade, which included an assortment of disguises, fake ID's, a Ruger LCP .380 caliber handgun, and plenty of cash.

  She drove to Roswell, parked next to the airport terminal on the south side of town and rented a small car that could not be traced to her. Dressed in cheap loose fitting clothes, wearing a blond wig and a pair of nondescript eyeglasses, she programmed her GPS and drove to the Westside Plaza. She found the surveillance teams' description of the place accurate. The first store had a Rent Me sign in the window. The next advertised vacuum cleaner repairs and shared a wall with Smith Trading which shared a wall with Jake's Ice Cream Parlor. All the units were old, but clean.

  She parked in front of the ice cream store and went inside. Ashley lived most of her life on the east coast but had lived in New Mexico long enough to mimic the southwestern twang of the natives without sounding corny.

  A chubby man stood behind the counter wearing a white apron and cap that read Beam Me Up Scotty. Cheerfully he asked, "Hi, I'm Jake. What can I get for you little lady?"

  "Well now, let me see." She studied the menu posted on the wall overhead. "Everything looks pretty darn good." She noticed no other customers in the store. "I shouldn't,"–touching her padded skirt front–“but I'll have one of those banana splits." She pointed at the menu with a sheepish smile.

  "Comin' right up!"

  She sat at the counter and watched the construction of a calorie laden dessert through her plastic eye frames, "What's that place next door? I don't remember seeing it before."

  Jake sat the banana split on the counter in front of her with a napkin and spoon. "Some kind a Trading Post, I think. Hasn't been there long. About two weeks or so."

  "Sign says import and export. Maybe it's a front for drugs or something." She picked the cherry off the top of the ice cream.

  "I don't know about that, but it must be something important. A big old semi-truck dropped off a trailer just yesterday around back. Kind of blocks the alley."

  Ashley swallowed the cherry whole. She hadn't thought to drive the alley. "They must be doing a good business." She cleared her throat.

  Jake agreed. "Must be, but I never see anybody over there since it opened. They probably do everything with computers and cell phones." He noted the ice cream had started to puddle. "Everything alright, little lady? Can I get you something else?"

  "No. No, this is great, thanks." Ashley snipped off a piece of banana, and began to chew. A couple of teenagers dashed through the door behind her. Jake moved down the counter and took their order. When he returned, he found money and a generous tip next to the melted ice cream.

  Ashley left the store and turned left, walked the depth of the building and turned again onto an alley pockmarked with potholes and scattered trash. Parked next to the back door of Smith Trading she saw a weathered cargo shipping container mounted on a truck trailer. The vacant alley allowed her to inspect the container box unobserved. She estimated it to be about eighteen to twenty feet long and eight feet wide. Made of heavy corrugated metal, its double doors were latched down and secured with hardened steel locks. She made out the faded letters CMC painted on the side of the container. A metal plate riveted down low on the door read Container Management Corporation Sales and Rentals. The unit had a serial number printed high on the right side of the door. She memorized it. With a rock she tapped all four sides of the shipping container. It sounded full, not hollow. She continued down the alley and around the building. In her car she wrote down everything including the license plate number of the trailer.

  Ashley had a choice to make. Stakeout the shipping container and wait or take Dorothy Hogan up on her promise to help, which would free her to work on loose end number two. She remembered Dorothy's words. If you need anything. I mean anything, you let me know. Ashley fished her phone out and tapped in Dorothy's number.

  "Good morning. This is Special Agent in Charge Walter Kent's office, how may I help you?"

  "Dorothy, it's me."

  She lowered her voice. "Ashley, where are you?"


  "I'm in Roswell. Can you talk?"

  "It's okay. Kent is downstairs in the conference room. How are you holding up?"

  "I'm fine. Dorothy, you said to call you if I needed anything. I don't want to put you on the spot. So if you say no, I'll understand."

  "Tell me what you need, honey."

  Ashley let out a sigh of relief. "I need a trace on a shipping cargo container. Write this down. OWLU 202386. CMC Container Management Corporation. It's a smallish container parked behind Smith Trading in Roswell. It's on a semi-trailer with an Ohio license plate, number 779-542. Did you get that?"

  "Got it. Why is this important?"

  "Our guy has setup Smith Trading for a reason. I need to know where this shipment originated and what's in the container. I think it's important."

  "I'll ask Bill Johnson to get on it right away. I know he'll pitch in and help." Dorothy paused a moment. "Ashley, what are you doing in Roswell?'

  "I'm working the Russell Smith case."

  "Honey, you're working without a net. You need back up."

  I'm okay. I'll be careful. I'm going off-line the next couple of days. Got to go Dorothy. I'll check back with you. Thanks. I mean it."

  Ashley disconnected before Dorothy could tell her the good news.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  MAGNIFICENT PATCHES OF SCENERY, isolated between long stretches of flat sparsely vegetated deserts, made little or no impression on Ashley as she drove the 200 miles between Roswell and El Paso, Texas. She used the early morning drive to plan her meeting with the occupant at South Estrella Street. Without arousing suspicions, she wanted to learn about Allen Lee and the buyer of the old Ford pickup.

  Ashley had never been to El Paso. She knew it shared the border with Juarez, Mexico and had over half a million people. When she entered the outskirts of the city she found it looked like most large towns in the southwest with fast-food restaurants and big box stores.