Backblast

by Candace Irving

  She hoped.

  "The ambassador's right, at least as far as we know." Regan removed the scarf John had purchased for her, then bent down to retrieve her computer bag. She set the scarf and the bag on the table in front of the executive chair and withdrew her laptop. "Seizure was the shipboard doc's initial assessment, though he wasn't sure what caused it. Probably something preexisting that the Marine Corps never noticed. We'll know more after the autopsy." That was true enough.

  And she did need the confirmation that the autopsy would bring, along with the rerouted ship-to-shore consult with Gil that Dr. Mantia had scheduled.

  As for the postmortem? For once luck had been on their side. Colonel Tarrington's chopper had been about to churn up its blades when the Griffith's CO sent word to stand down. Her own ship-to-shore call from Tarrington regarding Brandt's autopsy results should be routing through her mobile phone before nightfall.

  Either way, "A few observations and non-medical assessments on the staff sergeant's health by those who knew him best can't hurt." Especially since, while those staffers offered their assessments, she'd be making her own…on them. "You remember the drill. I was closest to the scene, so I was given the job. I'm just dotting the i's—"

  "And crossing the t's." Scott hooked his hip onto the edge of her latest temporary desk and nodded. "I haven't been in long, but trust me, it's the same, mind-numbing bureaucracy with DSS. It's the other moments that make up for it—as with CID, I suspect. So, you'll need to grill me too? I've only been here two months and Brandt was gone for the second, but what little I know is up for grabs if you need it."

  "I'll take you up on that." Just not for the reason she'd be grilling the others. Since Scott was on temporary orders, he wouldn't be intimately involved with the embassy compound's security, if at all. But he was still DSS, which meant he'd have a unique insight into Staff Sergeant Brandt and his duties. But, although she did need to find out what Scott knew about the Marine, right now what she needed more was what Scott knew about everyone else she'd be interviewing. "Do you have time now?"

  The door pushed all the way open.

  "No, Agent Walburn does not."

  Scott straightened as the owner of that booming voice entered the room. She caught the glint in her former colleague's hazel eyes just before he turned.

  Fascinating.

  Regan studied the intruder, immediately placing the riot of short, salt and pepper curls topping those heavyset features. It would've been impossible not to. Their owner's mugshot had been slotted in at the very front of the background information she'd downloaded at Al Dhafra. This man was also the lead entry on Palisade's list: Warren Jeffers, Embassy Islamabad's deputy chief of mission. As DCM, Jeffers served as Ambassador Linnet's replacement when the woman was not in country, and the ambassador's right hand when she was.

  What Regan didn't know, was why Scott disliked Jeffers. Intensely.

  Though Scott covered well. Had she not served with the man in Iraq, she might've even bought the respectful tip to Scott's sandy head.

  "Rae, this is Warren Jeffers, the embassy's deputy chief of mission. Sir, Special Agent Regan Chase, US Army CID. She'd like to—"

  "I know what the agent would like. I'll take it from here, Walburn. Nasim needs to speak with you. Now."

  The glint returned as Scott caught her eye. "You still up for that late dinner? We can finish catching up after you grill me."

  "Absolutely."

  He slipped a hand into his suit jacket and withdrew a business card. "My number's on the front. Call me when you've had your fill." The glint flared, leaving no doubt as to whom Scott believed she was about to get her fill of.

  She kept her expression bland as Scott departed.

  If anything, the DCM's expression resembled Riyad's standard fare as Jeffers closed the door on his embassy colleague before turning back to her. "Let me be blunt, Agent Chase. I was not exaggerating. I know exactly why you're in Islamabad, and I am not happy about it. But what really pisses me off is your insinuation that someone on my staff is a traitor, up to and including me. And, yes, in case General Palisade failed to inform you, I was against your heading up the Fort Campbell murders and the cave investigation. Hell, I led the disgruntled pack. You weren't worth the risk. Not then, and not now. The ambassador agrees. So much so, she's in a meeting with our host country's president, informing him of the deaths of not one, but two terror suspects that his country had a right to interview when we were done with them. After all, that cave is located on their land."

  Well, okay. Linnet definitely fell into the can't keep her blessed mouth shut category. As did the woman's metaphorical right hand.

  Good to know.

  And, yes, that cave was located on Pakistani land—as was a certain dusty compound that had once existed a mere seventy-five miles north of where she was now standing. A compound that had ironically also been located just outside Pakistan's version of West Point in Abbottabad. And, yet, no one—up to and including Pakistan's former president—had bothered to let her government know of the existence of said compound. Despite the fact that its infamous, now deceased, occupant—one Osama bin Laden—had led the terror strike that had taken the lives of nearly three thousand Americans on 9-11.

  It appeared Pakistani diplomats were better at keeping secrets than her own.

  Regan thought about masking her anger and surprise over the ambassador's loose lips, but decided to go with it. Even bumped the latter up several notches. She was intrigued enough to wind up the ambassador's right hand as far as she could. Heck, she'd even use her own literal right hand to do it. See what else Jeffers would reveal.

  "Why so shocked, Agent?"

  She lifted her fingers to smooth a wisp of hair off her temple and into her braid. For once, the resulting tremor was deliberate. "The ambassador had orders to remain silent."

  The man's lips thinned as he spotted the quiver. Since they were on the fleshy side to begin with, it wasn't an attractive look. "She did. But here's the thing: at Embassy Islamabad, we don't work for the Army or the Pentagon. We work for the secretary of state—and the president. So if you need to bitch to someone, call one of them."

  The mood she was in, she just might.

  Especially since there was more of that chimera, and God only knew what else, floating around out there—and someone who worked for this asshole was bent on using it. But as much as she'd have loved tossing that hefty hind end of his into Leavenworth personally, she was all but certain the traitor wasn't Warren Jeffers.

  He was too in her face. Nor was he concerned about drawing attention to himself. Whoever she was after was cooler, definitely more methodical. This man's temper could smack an intercontinental ballistic missile out of the sky all by itself when suitably pricked.

  And there was the rest.

  She'd been on the receiving end of territorial ass-rippings her entire career. But with this guy? There was too much rage leaking through. This almost felt…personal. Which was weird, since she hadn't had the displeasure of meeting him before.

  "Is that all, sir?" Tirade or not, she was here to do a job.

  "Actually, no. I also met with Dr. Durrani and Tamir Hachemi while I was aboard the ship. Privately. I don't give a crap what you think; that translator lied about this so-called traitor. He was trying to get a better deal. Hell, Hachemi all but admitted it to me. As for your fun-filled BI? Sweetheart, I knew all about your tawdry past before it landed in the Griffith's conference room—because I knew your father. You're the brilliant detective; I'll leave it to you to figure out when and where. But I will tell you this: you're a chip off that old rancid block. And Hachemi's murder? I'm with Agent Riyad. John Garrison had a damned good reason to kill him. If you tried taking your blinders off and staring at the major with his clothes on for a change, you might just see that."

  The hell with faking. She was stunned now. Her hand was shaking for real, too. Right along with the fury that was ripping through her gut.

  She man
aged to round the latter up. Trap it there. But it was still roiling, threatening to spew forth. Jeffers could impugn her father all he wanted. The bastard deserved it. And at least she now understood why this had felt personal.

  As for her? Jeffers could slime her to her face in front of the entire, snickering embassy for all she cared. She'd endured worse from at least three of her so-called loving foster "mothers" while growing up, especially her final one.

  But she'd be damned if she'd let this man kick John to the dirt. Not after what John had given—and given up—for their country.

  She stepped well into the DCM's personal space. The man had two inches on her five-eight, maybe three. It didn't matter. Her rage carried her right up to his level and a bit beyond. "It's a shame you've been channeling my NCIS counterpart, Mr. Jeffers. You should've picked someone more in tune with reality. Agent Riyad couldn't grasp the concept of motive if Ted Bundy himself had brought him along and offered up a blow-by-blow while good ol' Ted was selecting his victims and murdering them. And Riyad sure as hell doesn't understand what makes Garrison tick."

  The surfeit of garlic Jeffers had consumed for lunch blasted right back into her, fueling his hot breath that much more. "Coming from you, that's amusing as hell. Because, unlike you, Riyad is more than some cut-rate Army dick. That man is a former Navy SEAL who's done more to track down terrorists and put them out of commission since 9-11 than you can hope to finger in a hundred careers. And if Garrison thinks he can slide into that slot alongside Riyad at Homeland Security, he's got another think coming. Especially after I finish sending my two cents up the chain."

  Riyad was a former SEAL?

  What the—

  "Cat got your tongue there, Agent?"

  Try every single lion on the Serengeti. But her instincts were roaring louder than all of them combined. And shredding though her suspicions with a lot more force.

  If Sam Riyad was a former SEAL, why had he hidden it?

  Because he had. With her, and with John.

  Only, she was now almost certain the spook hadn't been as successful in deceiving John as he'd hoped.

  She also knew why John had needed to get to a phone, and what he'd wanted to confirm. Part of it, at least. According to a number she'd come across while working a joint case shortly after she'd been tapped for CID, there were roughly twenty-five hundred SEALs on active duty. Special Forces had close to three times that.

  Yes, there were joint training schools and missions. But as a rule, SEALs and SF tended to play in separate sandboxes when the day-to-day shit went down. Hence, while as a whole both communities were tight knit, they didn't know everyone.

  A fact Riyad had depended on.

  Something must've given the spook away. An unguarded comment, a suspiciously defining behavior. Possibly several. Whatever it was, it had caused John to suspect the man's professional lineage…and something else. Something so serious John had been loath to discuss it with her—and General Palisade—until he was certain.

  But what?

  And why did she have the feeling that whatever it was, it was also tied up with Riyad's irrational suspicions about John? Why else had the spook worked so hard to hide his former status from a current special operator?

  "Agent?"

  The sneer that blew in on that fresh wave of garlic hauled her back to the present. To her temporary office. She needed to get Jeffers out of there, so she could think. Make her own covert call—to Mira. Find out what the hell was going on.

  As for the other revelation Jeffers had made, the one regarding John and a pending slot at Homeland, she'd take that up with the only man who mattered.

  And he wasn't standing in front her.

  Despite the garlic, she stepped that much closer to the one who was—and smiled, albeit grimly. "If Agent Riyad is so brilliant, how did he manage to miss the fact that Tamir Hachemi was poisoned by Staff Sergeant Brandt?"

  "What?"

  She nodded crisply, even as her eyes began to water from that odor. "Getting his face bashed into the bulkhead didn't kill the translator, strychnine did. That and your Marine."

  Why not? The moment she and the others had reached Al Dhafra, Palisade had drawn her, John and Riyad aside before he'd departed to deal with whatever had been in that message traffic that his aide had brought into the Griffith's wardroom that morning. Once again, the general had made it clear that she had absolute control and discretion over the release of information regarding her case. That hadn't pleased the spook, and would probably please Riyad's current cheerleader even less.

  She didn't care what Riyad or Jeffers thought. It was what the ambassador did with the information that mattered. Linnet possessed loose lips, at least over this.

  Why not use that to their advantage? What better way to let the Pakistanis know John hadn't been responsible for Hachemi's death?

  They were going to need the Pakistani president's support, not rancor, if they hoped to identify the final victim from that cave and catch the traitor before he managed to infect someone else—and prevent whatever else Durrani's cohort had planned.

  For once, Jeffers' fleshy lips appeared stuck in neutral. "I don't understand. Hachemi was poisoned? By Brandt?"

  This second nod was even crisper, and more than a bit clipped. "Yes. Do try and keep up, sir. Brandt brought strychnine onto the Griffith. But he obtained it when you and the others returned via Al Dhafra. I need to know how, and from whom."

  Jeffers swallowed hard as the implications ricocheted in. "We—my staff—we were the only ones who knew those two Marines were heading back to the Griffith after they picked up the prisoners."

  "Exactly. But there's more. Brandt's seizure was caused by the chimera. He was infected at Al Dhafra too."

  Either that tidbit hadn't been shared with Linnet or the woman had managed to keep something to herself, because Regan had succeeded in knocking the DCM back on his heels with something that carried a lot more punch than that smell.

  The truth.

  Jeffers was floored. Oh, the man tried to hide it. But that fixed stare, that tense jaw and that thick swallow? The gray that was slowly overtaking those meaty jowls as the blood slowly receded from the DCM's face?

  Even this asshole had finally realized he had a traitor in his midst.

  "Now, I have a question for you, Mr. Jeffers. Did either you or the ambassador share the details of my real mission with anyone else—American, Afghan, Pakistani or, hell, even Martian?" She wouldn't put any of it past either of them.

  Color returned to those jowls, staining the generous flesh redder than the deck had been in the Griffith's brig the night before. "Yes."

  "Who?"

  "Just the regional security officer. And Maddoc won't talk. I guarantee it."

  She was less than impressed with the assurance. Especially in light of the assurer's worship of Riyad. Still, she nodded. "Bring him in and press the point. No one else can know. Call me if you need backup."

  Frankly, she wasn't sure Jeffers would have the balls to push it with the regional security officer. Look how quickly he'd folded with her.

  Then again, clamping down on the embassy's senior Diplomatic Security Service agent didn't sit right with her either. Neither had lying to Maddoc and his DSS staff in the first place. Frankly, it was frustrating as hell to have as many counter-intel and investigatory assets as there were attached to this compound and not be able to use them. Much less confide in them. Receive time-tested wisdom and advice.

  But during that out-brief at Al Dhafra, General Palisade—evidently with Admiral Kettering's support—had been firm. No DSS agent in Pakistan would be privy to the truth until every single one had been cleared and the traitor arrested.

  She might hate keeping colleagues in the dark, but she understood why.

  Especially on this.

  Anyone who knew counterintelligence history would. All they had to do was look back to 2009 and the arrest of a Department of State employee with nearly thirty years in who'd been arr
ested and convicted of conspiring to provide classified US information to a foreign government. And there were more cases in other critical agencies. Certainly enough to give her pause, even without that chimera floating around out there.

  As for Warren Jeffers, "Sir, I'd like to begin my interviews. I'll need to speak to every name on my list. I believe you have a copy." Not that Jeffers needed it. As he'd said, he'd been in the Griffith's conference room when her BI had hit the table. "I'll be sure to let you know which one of your staffers is dirty—after I take the bastard down. Until then, stay out of my way."

  She must have made her point, because the man nodded once, muttered something about her standing by for visitors, and left.

  Regan slumped back into the edge of the table as the door opened, then closed behind him. The implications of everything the DCM had revealed continued to pummel though her brain. Her still trembling hand all but ached to retrieve her phone and punch in Mira's number. She wanted to demand that her friend drop everything, and pull up Riyad's file and read it to her word for word.

  But she couldn't. Reality had set in.

  She was stuck in this room until dinner, at least. And since she was in Pakistan, among a people known to eat markedly later than those in her own country, the meal might not occur for many hours. Until she made her escape, she'd have to remain on her guard. Assume that this room and potentially others within the compound were bugged. If so, there was no telling who might be listening on the other end.

  Much less, if they were friendly.

  With what she'd been forced to reveal to Jeffers to get him on her side and actively pursuing her goals, she prayed not. Nor could she risk revealing more, let alone to anyone else.

  The thought dogged her through all four of her following interviews.

  She had to give Jeffers credit. When he'd finally accepted reality, he'd moved heaven and earth to assist.

  Unfortunately, nothing came from the DCM's efforts or hers. Though Jeffers hadn't intended it, she'd discovered more in those ten minutes going at it with him than she had from all four of the staffers who'd shuttled through the chair on the opposite side of her makeshift desk. Even more frustrating, the two men that her gut had kept pinging on during her initial research on the flight from Al Dhafra to Islamabad hadn't shown. Couldn't.