Backblast

by Candace Irving

  "No." From the certainty in that frown, the spook had already considered that possibility as well, remote though it also was. The man might have the beginnings of a decent investigator, after all.

  Though, at the moment, she'd prefer positive momentum in their case rather than in Riyad's professional skills. All they had perpetrator-wise were the Marine guards and the Super Stallion's crew—and a painfully narrow, three-hour window.

  Hell, even she didn't qualify.

  While General Palisade had informed her that Durrani and Hachemi were at the other end of her journey, her movements failed the clock test. Even if she'd brought the strychnine to the ship, based on the information Tarrington had relayed regarding the average, two-hour poison-onset window, Hachemi had ingested the compound long before she'd stepped off that chopper. That same two-hour onset window also excluded the CH-53E's pilot and crew.

  And, according to Riyad, there'd been no other physical contact between the ship and the rest of the world. Unless the spook had missed something.

  "What about mail? How do sailors get care packages while they're at sea?" Because according to Chief Yrle, the underway replenishment from that morning had included—

  "Yes, the Griffith receives letters and packages, along with its fuel. But this morning's mail call was the only one the ship's had since I've been aboard."

  And it had occurred after the translator's death.

  Shit. They needed answers and now. A viable suspect. Before—

  "What?"

  Her deepening frustration must've shown. It definitely permeated her sigh. "At the moment how that poison got aboard is less important than who brought it…and does he or she have more?"

  Confusion marred the man's pretty-boy brow.

  "Durrani. Think about it, Agent Riyad. There's an excellent chance that whoever poisoned the translator is now targeting the doc." Despite Hachemi's initial dangling of a potential traitor's name, the doc was far more critical to their terror investigation than Hachemi had ever been. Because Durrani had two names in his possession.

  And, now, she was seeking a third.

  The unidentified woman from that cave, an unnamed traitor…and Tamir Hachemi's killer. At least two of those names were connected.

  Why not all three?

  If so, uncovering one of the names might well lead to both of the others.

  The non-mother in the cave. She'd start with that unidentified Pakistani woman and move out from there.

  Regan tipped her head toward the microTLC at Riyad's boots. "We need to get that to the Griffith and get the bait testing out of the way, so I can move on to the dregs of the coffee Hachemi tossed at Major Garrison in that conference room this morning. As soon as the dregs come up clean, we can have Garrison released from custody."

  The scowl returned.

  She ignored it. She didn't have time for the spook's bizarre suspicions regarding John. Not if she hoped to negotiate the name of that final victim from the doc before it was too late. Because there was an outstanding chance that whoever had murdered Hachemi was already hard at work, putting the final touches on his plans for Durrani.

  The clock was ticking, and in more ways than one.

  The spook's scowl intensified. "No."

  "Damn it, I need him." At the moment that need was also not only profound, but utterly professional—whether Riyad believed it or not. "Back in Charikar, Dr. Durrani was obsessed with Major Garrison and Staff Sergeant Tulle's immunity to that blasted psycho-toxin he shot into us. The doc wanted answers. So much so, I was able to use that obsession of his to buy time to free myself so I could take him down. With Garrison at my side, I can abuse that obsession again. Distract Durrani with it. And just maybe, I'll be able to get the name of the final victim from the cave—and, from there, the identity of the traitor as well as the name of Hachemi's killer."

  Riyad shook his head. "Garrison stays in his quarters."

  Unlike the scowl, that she couldn't ignore. "Are you telling me you honestly still believe the major did it? You were in that autopsy with me, while Tarrington logged his findings. You saw the initial tox results on the microTLC's screen."

  Riyad didn't respond. He didn't need to. His answer was in that filthy scowl, just as it had been earlier in the OR.

  Good Lord. Had the man slept through his entire investigator's course? "You do realize that you've managed to ascribe two separate modi operandi to the major in as many hours? Not only do they conflict, they suggest two distinct levels of intent on the part of our suspect."

  "So?"

  So, it didn't make sense. "If Garrison had poisoned Hachemi—and is thus guilty of first-degree, cool-and-calculated premeditated murder—why on earth would the major then opt for a second-degree, spur-of-the-moment utterly emotional killing by deliberately bashing the translator's face into that bulkhead less than two hours later?"

  "Because the major was leaving the ship. Perhaps Garrison wanted it done by the time he disembarked so there would be no remaining risk to him should Hachemi survive the poison and give him up."

  Jesus, the spook was stubborn. And with instincts so far off base it wasn't funny.

  Not only were poison and bludgeoning a hundred eighty degrees out from each other, the timing was off—completely. "I told you this morning that Garrison was in the hospital with me in the ICU when he got that call from General Palisade. The major's flight to the UAE went wheels up twenty-five minutes later. He didn't even have a clean uniform on him. Garrison's XO had to head to the man's apartment, grab his "go" bag and bring it to the major's departing flight. You can contact Fort Campbell and check with Captain Ingle. How the hell was Garrison supposed to have obtained the strychnine in time to bring it aboard the ship?"

  "You've already suggested the answer." Riyad reached down to retrieve the microTLC. "If the diplomats or crew of that Super Stallion could engineer the delivery of the poison to the terminal in Al Dhafra, why not Garrison? I've read the man's record. Garrison is resourceful and smart—and he's Special Forces. As such, he's proven himself more than adept at functioning under extreme conditions."

  Riyad was right. John was an exceptionally proficient, quick thinker whose efforts produced results above and beyond his peers.

  As for the man standing in front of her? The one gripping the handle of that case as though he was ready to fight her for it?

  Sam Riyad was a bona fide idiot if he'd managed to miss the rest of what was in John's record.

  She'd read John's file too after she'd been tasked with investigating his houseguest in Germany—all of it. John's enlisted and officer evaluations, the writeup for his Silver Star, as well as the Bronze Star with V device for valor, that he'd been awarded, not to mention the other countless medals and commendations that proved his character was above reproach.

  But there was no point in wasting her time trying to convince the spook.

  She'd simply run the test on residue from the cup of coffee Hachemi had partially consumed that morning, and then tossed at John in anger shortly before his death. The tox results would support her view of John's character, not Riyad's.

  She held out her hand and waited for the spook to hand over the microTLC.

  He simply stared. Make that, glared.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake. I'm not planning on 'accidentally' tossing it out the back of the chopper while we're skimming the ocean." Though the verdict was still out on whether or not she intended to do the same with the spook.

  And, Lord, was she tempted.

  He finally extended his hand, relinquishing the case with a shrug. "I know you don't see it, but you will. There's no one else. The timing might be tight, but Garrison is the only one who knew Hachemi was on the ship before he ever came aboard."

  The spook was wrong about that, too.

  "Sorry, Agent Riyad, but there is someone else."

  Someone her so-called partner had chosen to leave off his suspect list. Someone even she'd left out of her tally, at least her verbal one. Someone
who was bound to have had at least as much warning regarding his own shipboard destination as John had been given before he'd left Fort Campbell. Someone who'd also known Hachemi was aboard that vessel, zealously guarding a traitor's name on the tip of his tongue. Someone who'd spent even longer aboard the Griffith than John, trying to get that name out of the recalcitrant translator.

  Someone who, by the spook's own admission, had also had even more downtime in that terminal in Al Dhafra before he'd boarded the Super Stallion.

  She doubted Riyad had even realized it.

  She shook her head in disgust and turned, only to stop short as the spook grabbed her upper arm.

  She jerked her arm from his grip as she spun around. "Touch me again and I will knock your ass out the back of that bird on our way to the Griffith."

  And it wouldn't be an accident.

  He stared down at her. "Who?"

  "Just to be clear, Agent Riyad. Are you asking me—the 'nauseatingly feted' CID agent assigned to this case—if I have any inkling as to who else had the requisite means and opportunity to kill Tamir Hachemi?"

  The glare turned Arctic. "Yes."

  "You."

  12

  The return flight to the Griffith was taking twice as long as the initial leg to the carrier, and it had nothing to do with the readout on Regan's watch.

  It had to do with that glare. Riyad's glare.

  The Arctic frost that he'd blown her way inside the USS Ronald Reagan's patient ward had long since seared off. Fury simmered in its place, somehow spiking along with each rattle and rumble of the haze-gray helicopter that surrounded them.

  It was ironic. She'd be the first to admit that she'd had issues with John when they'd met, due to the man's innate arrogance. But John had nothing on the overinflated ego squatting across the belly of this bird. The ego who'd spent the better part of their current chopper hop openly watching. Assessing.

  Her…and the rugged plastic case tucked up against her boots.

  She swore the spook actually believed her capable of plotting to render the microTLC inside useless. But that was crazy.

  Wasn't it?

  She caught the crew chief's wave. The Marine acknowledged her nod with one of his own before crossing his forearms to signal the chopper's imminent landing.

  Three raised fingers followed.

  Three minutes to the Griffith's flight deck.

  Three minutes to waving goodbye to the asshole who was still scowling at her. Screw the man's co-investigator status. Chief Yrle could witness the tests on the rat bait that the woman had been ordered to collect up via the ship-to-ship call Riyad had instigated. And then, she and Yrle would move on to the dregs of that coffee.

  She hadn't been exaggerating in the aircraft carrier's patient ward. If she hoped to pull off her coming showdown with Durrani, she needed the distraction John's added presence would provide. Especially since John would be conscious during this meeting. Something neither John nor Staff Sergeant Tulle had been back in Charikar.

  The change in status just might prick the Afghan doc's own colossal ego deeply enough for her to get a name out of the bastard.

  She was willing to start with any one of the three they were now after.

  Unfortunately, it was nearing midnight. She suspected that Durrani had turned in hours ago, along with the bulk of the crew, after the ship had passed the word for taps. Even if Durrani was a night owl, there was no way she'd risk starting up an interrogation session at this hour. Doing so would send a dangerous message.

  One of desperation.

  The fact that she was desperate was immaterial. Until morning, patience reigned…however grudgingly executed, especially in her.

  Oddly enough, her patience had been shored up by the owner of that perpetual scowl. Upon boarding the CH-53E, Riyad had informed her that while he'd been on the ship-to-ship horn arranging for Chief Yrle to retrieve the rat bait, he'd also ordered an immediate search of the brig for any evidence of bait or pure strychnine.

  For all his screwups, the decisions had been sound.

  The reality of those decisions and their situation gnawed in as the Super Stallion's wheels finally embraced the Griffith's flight deck, albeit heavily.

  Regan removed her ear protection and life vest as the chopper's blades began to power down. She stowed the borrowed gear on the seat she'd vacated, then retrieved the rugged case at her feet before heading for the rear ramp of the bird.

  Riyad followed.

  Reality gnawed in harder as she stepped out onto the flood-lit deck. What the hell. Riyad might not like her—and she definitely couldn't stand him—but they had a case to work. Several, increasingly complicated mysteries to solve. Three critical names to uncover. The quickest way to achieving all of those goals before Durrani's remaining cohorts succeeded in accomplishing whatever they were still plotting was bricked straight down the path of active, interagency cooperation.

  Riyad was a spook. She might as well abuse that—and him.

  And she knew just where to start.

  It might be closing in on midnight aboard the Griffith, but it was barely 1400 back on the East Coast. Universities and medical offices would be open for hours yet. They could concentrate on the stateside ones until the others began opening up around the globe.

  Regan swung around and caught that irritating stare through the chilly night mist that swirled in around them. "Look. Right now, we disagree on a number of issues. But there's a lot we do agree on." For one, the motive behind Hachemi's death. While she was willing to entertain other possibilities until they'd been ruled out, her gut was insisting that the translator had been killed for silence, not revenge. Someone wanted to shut him up, and permanently. Which meant Hachemi's murder was intrinsically connected to at least two of the names they were seeking. "You and I need each other. We each have knowledge and skills unique to ourselves. It's going to take all of those skills to work this investigation."

  Was it her imagination, or had that ire cooled slightly? "And how do you suggest we begin, Agent Chase?"

  "You work counter-intel, right? Usually?"

  The simmer remained, but he nodded.

  "So work it." She bent down to set the microTLC's case on the nonskid-coated deck, then straightened. "Concentrate on the non-mother. She's our best way in. For all Hachemi's boasts, Nabil Durrani was the real brains behind that cave massacre and the psycho-toxin infections. If Hachemi knew the name of the traitor, you can be damned sure Durrani knows it too. Unfortunately, the doc is not going to give it up. But he just might give up the name of the seventh woman in exchange for the access I offered him to my recent medical records. You weren't there when I questioned him earlier today, but I could see Durrani wavering over that offer. I could feel it."

  She held up her hand as the spook's mouth opened.

  "I know—your absence was on my orders." She lowered her hand. "But the fact remains: that man is tempted. Plus, he could not take his eyes off the photo of that final woman. Her identity is the key to whatever plans he and this unknown traitor still have." Her hand went up again. "Let's table the Garrison-guilt argument for a moment, okay? Consider these facts instead. The woman was not pregnant. And yet, she was cut open and given an infant to look as though she was while she was lying on the floor of that cave. Durrani took the time to find another woman with twins to complete the image. He had to have known it wouldn't last, that we'd eventually realize she wasn't pregnant at the time of the murders. But that obfuscation bought him time. Nearly two weeks now. That's where our priority needs to be—the identity of that woman. Because the clock is ticking, Agent Riyad, and the hands are not moving in our favor."

  "You haven't yet shared precisely what you'd like me to do."

  "What spooks do best. Human intel. We need your connections. One of my fellow CID agents, Nathan Castile, has been busting his hump doing legwork on both sides of the border since Garrison and his men discovered those cave victims. Castile's been able to prove that the six identif
ied women all had prenatal visits with Durrani when he volunteered at Malalie Maternity in Kabul. The seventh doesn't appear to have been a patient, not that anyone there can recollect. We need someone with serious human intelligence contacts to comb through the other Afghan hospitals where Durrani worked, along with clinics and refugee camps—even his premed and med days at Harvard. Especially any extracurricular political or religious groups he may have joined while living in Boston, particularly those that have terror leanings. You'll understand that angle better than I or Agent Castile ever will. Our mystery woman may have been a fellow student Durrani met through one his classes or groups. They may even have had a relationship. Based on her dental work, she appears to have been upper class Pakistani. I need someone to coordinate with and direct Agent Castile's in-country searches. Someone who can reach out in fluent Dari, Pashto and Arabic to local laborers and medical professionals alike." If the spook spoke Urdu too, even better. If not, Nathan Castile did. "Our mystery woman's X-rays need to be run against all potential stateside, Afghan and Pakistani dental practices."

  Riyad's brow rose pointedly as she finished. "And you? What will you be working on while I'm crunching out message traffic to half the world tonight?"

  She tipped her chin toward the case at her boots. "That. I'll start with the bait you had Chief Yrle gather up, then move on to testing the coffee I logged into evidence."

  Naturally, she'd have Yrle by her side. She didn't need anyone questioning the impartiality of the results, including this man…whose scowl had returned.

  What the devil had she done to incur suspicion now?

  "Agent Chase?"

  Regan spun around to find the master-at-arms chief in question standing three feet away with a sheet of paper in her left hand. She returned the chief's salute.

  "Yes?"

  "You have message traffic, ma'am. It's from USASOC."