Judging, weighing. For the first time, wary too.
But most of all, the spook was livid.
Good.
She was pushing it deliberately. Pushing him.
She was also fairly certain Riyad had no idea as to why, at least not yet. She wanted the spook as pissed as Palisade would've been when he'd heard that John had been labeled a potential traitor. That anger would let more of the truth Riyad was holding onto so damned tightly leak out with his ire.
"Well? Where's your evidence? I assume you have something against the major, most likely snatched up from a crime scene with yet another ungloved hand."
It worked.
The spook stepped closer, all but smoldering now. "What don't I have? Make that, who."
She kicked her own scarred brow upward. The one she'd earned back at Fort Campbell when she'd slammed through a glass slider alongside a suicidal soldier who'd murdered his wife and unborn child at the beginning of this twisted case. "Oh, do go on, Agent. Name names. Impress me with your deductive brilliance. If you can."
"Ertonç."
"The Turkish general?"
Riyad clipped a nod. "You remember him, don't you?"
Of course she did. The Ertonç case was how and when she and John had first met. Operating on a stateside interagency tip, she and a fellow CID agent had managed to save the life of General Ertonç's daughter in Hohenfels, Germany, with the critical assistance of one of her best friends, Mira Ellis—an NCIS agent she also very much admired and respected. Unlike the one in this stateroom.
The spook stepped even closer. "What do you really know about the general?"
It didn't matter what she knew about Ertonç, much less John's relationship with the man. What mattered was what Riyad believed John knew.
She held her silence. Waited for the spook to add more.
Given the mesmerizing tic that had taken up residence beneath the square of his lightly bearded jaw, he was chomping to add something.
That tic didn't disappoint. "General Ertonç is shady as shit. He has been for decades. And the major has been in the thick of some of the worst of that shit, right along with the guy."
Kabul.
The night John had invited her into his home for dinner, he'd freely admitted that Ertonç had had a reputation as an ass when the men had met years earlier in Afghanistan—not to mention Ertonç's rather tight relationship with a local Afghan warlord of shady repute.
So what?
"That's it? That's all you've got? Some Turkish general Garrison did a favor for almost a decade ago?" And another, sixteen months ago, in Germany. But since she didn't know if Riyad was cleared to be privy to that latest one, she left it off the list. "A favor, I might add, that the upper echelons of the Army not only knew about when Garrison was in Kabul, but had whole-heartedly approved—prior to the major bestowing it."
"And did the Army also approve of Garrison's relationship with Sergeant First Class LaCroix in advance of the sergeant plotting to blow up Ertonç's daughter, her husband, two children and half a city block in Vilseck, Germany?"
She shrugged. "If not, shame on the Army." Because while John had been juggling that latest sanctioned mission with regard to General Ertonç, he'd also been working his ass off to pull a valuable, hurting sergeant back into line for the Army.
While that intervention with LaCroix had ultimately turned out to be futile, no one else had even bothered to attempt it.
Arms still crossed, Riyad took another step toward her. He was inches away now, and even more pissed. "And the translator? Was Garrison working on behalf of the best interests of the Army when he vouched for Hachemi less than two weeks ago at a critical juncture in that cave case, after Hachemi and that bastard Durrani had hacked up those women? Was Garrison also working on behalf of the Army when he approved yet another mission with Hachemi to supposedly take down the doctor? A mission that saw Hachemi take the wheel of a van just before he ended up gassing a squad of Garrison's own soldiers and killing one of your fellow CID agents?"
"Yes, he was." And despite the loss of Art Valens' life and nearly her own, "Garrison got the job done too." And then some. "We were able to arrest Hachemi, save even more lives and prevent a political powder keg from exploding in the region."
One that would've obliterated the US military's reputation in Afghanistan, Pakistan and the entire world beyond.
Hell, it still might, if she couldn't push through Hachemi's death investigation in time to get her hide down to the ship's brig and pull the name of the real traitor out of Durrani before this spook got Admiral Kettering to change his mind about her and succeeded in having her removed from the Griffith.
As for John's relationship with Tamir Hachemi and General Ertonç, "Special Forces operate in the gray, Agent Riyad. Much like the SEALs in your own branch, as even you must be aware. SF seeks out, works with and—yes, befriends and maintains relationships with—some seriously crappy characters. Because that's part of their job. A job Major Garrison has proven that he excels at, despite the fact that he clearly doesn't know everything. Which, by the way, neither do you. So, unless—"
"What about McCord?"
"Mark McCord?" The captain of the SF team who had originally been framed for the murders in that cave.
"Yes. Yet another questionable association of the major's."
"How so?"
"McCord and Garrison are good friends. You may have found evidence that exonerated the captain, but the reason the frame worked as well as it did against him was because McCord was screwing a married local of Pakistani descent—in direct violation of US military policy. Both Admiral Kettering and the State Department are still dealing with the resulting hot potato, since the sole surviving baby from that cave massacre carries the captain's DNA."
"You're right about the DNA, but wrong about the rest. Garrison can't stand McCord."
Disbelief had that scarred brow scraping higher. "My source—"
"—is wrong. Granted, McCord saved Garrison's life. Twice. Both times, in combat. But that's it. There is no love lost between those men, and on either side. So if you think Garrison took out Hachemi this morning with deliberate intent, as some sort of premeditated payback for Hachemi killing the mother of McCord's child, think again. And dig a little deeper while you're at it. You'll be surprised to discover just how many soldiers who manage to work with someone in combat, stateside—or, heck, even on some warship at sea—are actually eager to see the backs of their so-called…partners."
He let the dig slide. But that brow and its owner were adamant about the rest. "McCord and Garrison are Special Forces. I don't think you understand how tight that bond is. And then there's what happened to you."
That was all true. It just didn't mean anything.
At least not what Riyad wanted it all to mean.
"Sorry to burst your bubble, but John Garrison wouldn't murder for me, any more than he would for McCord. Would he kill to defend me? You bet, and in a heartbeat. Believe it or not, Agent, he'd kill to defend you too. Even now. But murder? It's just not in the man's nature." She shook her head, seriously stumped. "As for the rest, you need to cycle back through your training course. Your logic sucks. You've offered two conflicting motives here: treason and loyalty. Not only is it impossible for both to be true, you don't have enough to support either one. 'Questionable associations', or not."
That last caused the man's brow and tic to react in tandem, giving her serious pause. There was something else. Something the spook was actively refusing to put on the table. What on earth was it?
Who was it?
Because the questionable association currently searing through Riyad's brain went to the crux of why the agent really believed John had been turned.
And then, it was gone.
But that righteous fury wasn't.
And this batch was directed solely at her. "As you've surmised, you're here aboard this vessel against my wishes—and my instincts. So prove me wrong, Agent Chase. Do your job an
d wrap up the investigation into Hachemi's death. And while you're at it, keep your mouth shut about this conversation. Especially around Major Garrison. And that order's not mine; it comes directly from Admiral Kettering. Understood?"
"Absolutely." Nor did she have a problem with it. John had enough to worry about at the moment. Hell, so did she. "What about you?"
That scarred brow inched back up. "What about me?"
"You plan on doing your job? Because you haven't been. Not effectively. Or was that the plan all along?"
The spook lurched all the way in. The toes of their boots were actually touching.
She stood her ground.
"What the fuck are you getting at, woman?"
She ignored the "woman", especially since it served to tell her just how pissed he was. "Where were you this morning when that interview went down?"
"With the captain."
"Why? You were about to leave the ship. Anything you had to say to the captain should've been long since said. So why did you leave the major alone?"
"I'm not his goddamned keeper."
"Normally, no. But aboard this ship, for these past eight days, you were. You had one job. You were supposed to keep an eye on Garrison—no matter what. Eight days. That's how long you two spent in that conference room together. Most likely, morning, noon and all hours of the night. You had to have known that Garrison wanted one last crack at Hachemi—without you there, breathing down his neck."
After all, the spook had been sitting right next to John during those interrogations, soaking up the frustration even John wouldn't have been able to contain. Not since he'd entered that cave and found those women. And not with everything that had happened to his men and their wives after. Not with what had happened to her.
"You told Brandt about your true suspicions regarding the major's loyalties—and you ordered the staff sergeant to keep me in the dark. You also forbade Brandt from telling me that he'd originally come aboard the Griffith with that diplomatic contingent. You warned Corporal Vetter off too, at least about the latter." Otherwise, the embassy assignments would've come out in Vetter's statement too. "But you didn't tell Chief Yrle about your suspicions regarding the major. A much more senior sailor who, for all intents and purposes, is the sheriff aboard this ship. Why?"
"I—"
"Don't bother punting another lie my way. I already know the truth. That charming dressing down you gave the chief outside this very stateroom this morning was an act to cover your ass after the fact. You didn't tell Yrle because you wanted that final one-on-one between Garrison and Hachemi to go down." She'd wager the SIG strapped to her thigh that if she pressed Brandt under oath, the Marine would admit that the real reason he hadn't been as quick on his feet when Hachemi had hit that wall, was because he'd been busy scribbling down notes for the spook.
The spook who suddenly looked as though he'd swallowed a bucketful of seawater churned up by this ship. "That doesn't excuse what Garrison did."
"You're right. It doesn't." But it did condemn the man standing in front of her, right along with him.
At least John had admitted his culpability.
As for this man? The spook could choke on his for all she cared.
Because she'd identified his game, and she wasn't playing it. Not with her open death investigation, and not with her coming showdown with Durrani.
"You go ahead and deny your own responsibility all you want, Agent Riyad. It might even help you sleep better at night. But it's a fantasy, and deep down you know it. You glued yourself to Major Garrison's ass for over a week. And in the process you hindered the results our entire country needs. Garrison was in the wrong this morning. But so were you. If you'd let the major do what he came here to do—what he was ordered to do—he wouldn't have had to go in there alone. Even Chief Yrle could see it. And, no, I haven't spoken to her either. At least not yet. But she must have known or she wouldn't have believed the major needed to try one last time without you there, much less assisted and run interference for him. Major Garrison has to live with what he did—but so do you. If you hadn't obstructed this case day in and day out from the moment Garrison came aboard, he might've gotten results. Tamir Hachemi would still be alive—and we'd have the names of that blasted traitor. The real one."
She reached out and snagged the voice recorder she hadn't bothered to turn off when Brandt left. Nor did she have any intention of turning it off now.
Not until the spook left.
"Now, Agent Riyad, you are right about one thing. It's time for me to do my job. I'm headed down to the brig to interview Dr. Durrani. You are not invited. Not even to stop in to let me know the ship is sinking. Furthermore, you will not speak to Durrani again until I am finished with him. Have I made myself clear?"
His final nod was clipped.
Curt.
"Excellent. While I'm in the brig with that bastard, make yourself useful for a change. Get an update on the medical examiner's flight to that carrier, as well as the autopsy. If they've managed to move up the time, pass the info to Chief Yrle. She can inform me."
Like it or not, she had one more job to accomplish before she departed the Griffith for good.
Unless a miracle occurred during that autopsy and exculpating evidence came to light, she was going to have to charge John with murder.
9
By the time she'd reached the brig, Nabil Durrani was already seated at a small rectangular table in the center of an otherwise bare holding cell.
Tucking the folder she'd prepared in Chief Yrle's office beneath her arm, Regan paused just outside the cell to study that dark, sleek profile and the deceptive bastard that came with it. Yet another pretty boy. One who risked pissing her off a helluva lot more than the one she'd recently sparred with in her stateroom.
Then again, Riyad might be a grade-A asshole who still had her fantasizing about emptying her SIG into his backside, but at least the spook didn't cause her skin to crawl.
Not like this one did.
The shalwar kameez Durrani had been wearing when they'd last met was gone. The black silk pants and tunic had been replaced by a set of the sturdy, dark blue coveralls she'd seen on several of the Griffith's sailors since her arrival. Durrani didn't appear fazed by the downgrade in attire or his spartan surroundings, much less the prospect of yet another grilling. If anything, the Afghan doc appeared excited, expectant even, as he watched Staff Sergeant Brandt use a set of steel cuffs to lock his wrists to the security bar, which ran parallel to the interrogation table, a few inches from its edge.
Durrani knew she was aboard the ship.
Had the Marine informed him?
Either way the element of surprise was gone.
She bit back her irritation and stepped over the bottom lip of metal at the base of the oval, watertight doorway as Brandt pocketed his cuff key.
Given everything Durrani had done, she'd have enjoyed shackling the bastard to the table herself.
No matter. Their coming chat wasn't about revenge. Hell, it wasn't even about those pregnant women who'd been slaughtered in that cave, much less the soldiers and wives who'd lost their lives to that demonic psychological warfare agent. Nor was it about her old mentor and fellow CID agent's death.
It was about the deaths she was here to prevent. The ones she suspected would put the doc's current toll of victims to shame if she couldn't discover the identity of that final, not pregnant woman in time to prevent the remainder of his plot from unfolding.
Regan focused on that need as she pushed everything else that had happened these past few weeks aside, including the events of this morning—and, yes, John too.
It was the only way she could do this.
She nodded to Brandt as he approached her. "I'll take it from here, Staff Sergeant. Go ahead and post yourself in the outer compartment with Corporal Vetter."
Instead of complying, Brandt stared at her.
For a moment, she thought the Marine was about to suggest that he remain inside the cell fo
r whatever reason he could think of. In light of what had happened in the ship's conference room that morning—and that Brandt had been unable to prevent those events—she forgave the silent insubordination. But she did insist.
"I'll be fine. We both will."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll leave the door open, in case you need me."
She wouldn't. But she took pity on the Marine's nerves and nodded.
The moment Brandt cleared the lip of metal, she crossed the compartment and rounded the short end of the table to face the remaining occupant square on.
"Good evening, Agent Chase. How kind of you to visit."
The smooth smile that curved those downright sensual lips was identical to the one the doc had offered her back in the bathroom of his terror safe house in Charikar two short weeks ago. Only here, now, the effect was marred somewhat by the fresh bump high on his nose, as well as the fading yellow and green bruise surrounding it—and, of course, the three-inch crescent-shaped scar that rode along the ridge of bone that formed the man's left cheek. The scar that still bore stitches due to complications.
A bump, bruise and scar that she'd put there.
She smiled back. "Hello, Doctor. How could I resist? That was quite an invitation you extended via my chain of command. I understand you have something to say to me?"
He ignored her question as he tipped his head toward the empty chair opposite his. "Please, do have a seat. I would stand to assist as manners dictate, but—" The cuffs clicked against the steel bar suspended above his lap, momentarily overtaking the steady thrum of shifting metal that surrounded them as he lifted his wrists in lieu of explanation. "However, if my wearing these helps to put you at ease, who am I to protest?"
"Really, Doctor. If I remember correctly, the last time we spoke, I was wearing a pair of those and you weren't. Though not for long."
That irritating smile was slightly less smooth as she sat.
Regan set the folder she'd brought with her on the table and leaned forward, intent on forcing that smile to falter altogether as she tapped his bump. "Oh, look, I broke your nose. And that cut—" She tsked softly as she shifted her finger to trail the tip along the row of tidy stitches someone had reapplied well after she'd left this man lying face down on the floor of that bathroom with one of her filthy socks crammed into his mouth. "I'll have to talk to the ship's doc about getting these removed. Though really, you're bound to have a nasty scar due to the infection and restitching you suffered anyway." She offered a decidedly unrepentant shrug. "Sorry."
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