"Why not? Someone was. I don't have a clue as to why he might've been there in the first place, but if it was Webber, the man got a damned good look at me at my lowest point. Might even explain why the bastard kept trying to get me to hit the bars and strip clubs with him off Bragg. I finally had to get in his face and tell him I wasn't into that shit. He just smirked. I assumed he'd seen all the crap the networks had spread across the evening news. Now I'm thinking he had a front row seat to it all."
John shot her an apologetic glance. If Riyad hadn't been there, she knew he'd have followed it up with more. Because of Webber's obsession with John, Durrani had been able to get to her. And that bothered John. A lot.
She shook her head, silently absolving him.
Not only was it not John's fault, they had bigger issues than some rogue SEAL observing her dirty laundry. Or some Afghan bastard of a doc trying to strangle her with the clothesline from which it had all been hung.
Gil was right. Durrani was dead. No matter how and where the man had accomplished that death, he'd lost.
Nor did it matter where Webber had been a year ago September. The traitor was here, in Islamabad, now. There was only one reason. Whatever was about to go down, it was going to happen in Pakistan, quite possibly in its capital city.
Regan stepped closer to the spook. "Tom Crier, Warren Jeffers—do either of the men know Webber?" Especially the latter, given the DCM's SEAL-worship tendencies.
"Both." Riyad glanced at John. "After you left Fort Bragg, Webber headed overseas to go through the results of the security review in person. He lily-padded through several countries here in the Near East, but first up were the consulates at Peshawar, Karachi and Lahore. He wrapped up the Pakistani leg of his trip right here in Islamabad. Crier and Jeffers had recently taken over their slots, so yeah, they knew each other. And there's something you should know about Jeffers—"
"He drools over your type." Regan shrugged. "I got a face full of his spewing veneration of you this afternoon. It wasn't pretty." Had smelled even less so.
To her surprise, the spook flushed. Something told her he was even less comfortable with the DCM's worship than she'd been.
Riyad nodded. "Exactly. So who knows what Jeffers has done—or would do for Webber?"
That could be a problem. "DSS Agent Scott Walburn and I go back to MP school. Scott's been in Islamabad working on a human trafficking case. He confided something in me today. Seems Mrs. Jeffers has noted secretive behavior in her husband of late. Midnight phone calls in the bath and angry comebacks when he was caught—enough to leave bruises on her arms. She thinks the man's having an affair. But—"
"Could be something else. Someone." Riyad.
"Agreed." Possibly, even Webber. She raised a brow as she glanced at John.
Damned if the man's Rae-dar wasn't becoming fully tuned, because he already knew what she was asking: his Abbottabad colonel's intel on Crier.
John nodded.
She turned to the spook. "Major Garrison's source has dirt on the political officer too. Tom Crier's definitely having an affair. It's with a local. His source doesn't know who, but evidence I found in Brandt's quarters, a conversation I had with the woman, along with changes in her recent social behavior, suggests it might be Aamer Sadat's wife. Mr. Sadat's a Pakistani Foreign Service National. He and his wife, Inaya, have an infant currently in intensive care at Shifa International. The boy's a diabetic and they're attempting to stabilize him. Scott and I stopped by, but I wasn't able to speak with the husband. The wife's a curiosity. I'm almost positive her son was fathered by a Caucasian, but I have no idea yet if it was Crier or Brandt."
Or if the baby was someone else's son entirely.
Hell, she couldn't even be sure if the kid's parentage pertained to their terror case. At least not without further digging.
People weren't perfect, even those who tried. That was why some investigations were so mind-numbingly difficult. Oftentimes, rooting through people's personal and professional lives caused so much hidden garbage to float to the surface, it could be difficult to figure out what, if any of it, was related to the case at hand.
Regan adjusted her right hand, tucking her fingers deeper into the crook of her crossed arms to conceal the stubborn trembling. "As for Mr. Sadat, he was sent to the Griffith with the diplomats."
Riyad nodded. "I read the summaries of those sessions on the ship. If Crier or Brandt is the father, the Pakistani prime minister is going to shit bricks. And they won't be used to shore up goodwill toward US or our military. Iftikhar Bukhari has a serious problem with everything American—secular or Christian. Even Muslim. Bukhari has also got his eye on the presidency, so if you have to deal with him, watch him closely."
Good to know.
Surprising too, this newfound forthrightness of Riyad's. Then again, asshole or not, it appeared he was on their side, at least about this. No matter how the spook felt about her and John, the former SEAL in him had finally accepted that they were in this together. They didn't have to be friends, and probably never would be, but they did have to function as a cohesive unit if they planned on taking Webber down.
Hooah for the team concept.
The only problem was, while Senior Chief Webber was definitely a traitor to their nation and his former sailors on the teams, she wasn't convinced Webber was the traitor they were after. Yes, though Webber had officially been on the reservation a year ago September, he still could've been in that parking lot listening to her and John. And, yes, as a SEAL, Webber could've easily gotten ahold of her BI, especially if he'd done so while he'd been faking his loyalties.
If he'd really wanted to, John could've gotten her BI at any point this past year as well. He hadn't, because he had morals. Standards.
Something Webber had clearly lost, unless he'd been faking all along.
But what she suspected that Webber did have, was access to the traitor who was currently inside the embassy. How else would Webber have known to link up with Brandt at Al Dhafra to hand off the strychnine? The information that Brandt would be departing the ship and then returning with Durrani and Hachemi had to have come from those diplomats who'd been on the Griffith or from someone back at the embassy who was in the know. But who?
And there was Hachemi's murder, itself. Had the translator had a name after all?
Webber's?
As he had with John, had the translator and the dirty SEAL worked together in Afghanistan? Was that where and how Hachemi had been turned?
And why Hachemi had been marked for murder?
She was beginning to suspect so.
She glanced at Riyad. "What about DSS Agent Charles Maddoc? Do you know him?"
"The RSO? Only by name. But, yeah, he was in Pakistan when Webber came through on his security review. Maddoc was with the US consulate in Karachi then; arrived here sometime last year. Can't remember when."
"April seventh." Regan shrugged as the spook gave her an odd look. The date had been in the RSO's backgrounder. "I have a thing for numbers."
Scratch that; that wasn't surprise reverberating within the spook's fixed stare. It was shock, and not over her numerical recall skills.
It was John who voiced the cause. "That's the day the SDV mission went south, or damned close to it, isn't it?"
Riyad nodded. "My men died on the eleventh."
His men?
Oh, that explained so very much. The spook's constant, thrumming anger and obsession. Not to mention the bleak pain now swimming in the murky depths of his eyes.
It was the same pain she'd seen in John that night in Germany when he'd been mourning a fellow SF officer and friend who'd died from an IED earlier that day in Iraq, and again, as John had lost man after man to that psycho-toxin.
This time, she voiced the cause, so neither of them would have to: "You weren't just on that mission. You led it. You were in charge when those four SEALs died, and when Webber and that SDV went missing."
"Yes."
Ah, Christ. She did n
ot want to feel for the spook. But she did. From the tension in John's jaw, the throbbing in that telltale pulse point of his, so did he.
Riyad managed to clear his throat first. "It's not a coincidence, is it?"
She shook her head. "Maybe, maybe not. Maddoc was already in Karachi. I'm assuming the transfer had been in the works for some time."
"Most likely."
But they were all thinking the rest. If Webber had followed John to that parking lot nearly sixteen months ago, the rogue SEAL could've recruited Maddoc even earlier, before the RSO had even been assigned to Karachi. If so, Maddoc could have requested his Karachi and Islamabad security assignments.
Given John's comment regarding Webber's repeated invitations to hit the bars and strip joints off Bragg, Webber had clearly attempted to recruit John. Why not Maddoc and others, as well? An ocean of booze, some male bonding, an abundance of tits and ass—it all went a long way to greasing the skids, if someone was ready and willing to slide off the rails. A conclusion Webber must've reached as he'd listened to their blowout in that parking lot.
"Why would Webber want to recruit me?"
It wasn't until she'd glanced up at John that she realized she'd fallen silent. But it hadn't mattered. John's Rae-dar was truly up to speed and working. This time he'd managed to read her mind.
She shrugged. "Your skills? Your contacts?" Until they had an inkling as to what Webber had planned in Pakistan and elsewhere, they couldn't be sure. "John—"
"Just a sec." He pulled his vibrating phone from his suit jacket. But as he turned away to answer it, Riyad's rang—and then hers.
Shit. A trio of simultaneous calls to a team like theirs was never a good thing.
As Riyad turned in the opposite direction from John to answer his, she headed for the desk to give them all space for their individual conversations.
Scott's name was rolling across her screen.
She accepted the call and skipped the preliminaries. "What's wrong?"
"You got a TV in that room?"
"Yeah."
"Switch it on."
She turned toward the sitting area, but John had beaten her to the punch. He stood back from the TV so she and Riyad could watch from their respective corners of the suite. A mob of Pakistani men filled the screen. Most were dressed in the country's traditional shalwar kameez, and nearly all were crowding and pushing in on the main gates of the embassy compound she'd visited hours earlier.
A man nearest the gate had an American flag in hand. Two others appeared to be dousing it with gasoline. A fourth—a kid, really—brandished a lighter.
A split second later, Old Glory was engulfed in flames.
But that wasn't even the sight that turned her stomach.
It was the photos slotted in along the bottom of the screen. There were seven in all—each a graphic depiction of a woman who'd died in that cave. Worse, those seven photos hadn't been snapped by Durrani. They'd been taken by the US Army. Regan knew, because those exact photos were currently weighing down the classified accordion file in her possession—and ratcheting up her nightmares.
Son of a bitch. They had another leak.
But was it the same leak?
Because while those who'd had access to her BI would also have had access to those crime scene photos, there were others—in both the Afghan and Pakistani diplomatic contingents—that had only been granted access to the latter.
And what the hell was being said by that commentator?
She'd find out soon enough. John was listening intently to the accompanying narration. Evidently, she needed to add Urdu to the man's languages list. Though, really, with Urdu sharing forty percent of its vocabulary with two of his other proficiencies, Persian and Arabic, it would've been a natural acquisition for John.
She heard Scott shouting for someone to grab extra CS riot-control grenades before he refocused on their call. "All hell's broken loose, Prez. Someone called in a tip to the local news. Claims seven pregnant Pakistani women were murdered in a cave in the Hindu Kush by a US soldier—an SF captain by the name of Mark McCord. As you can see, the informant provided some seriously hellish photos of the carnage, as well as a DNA report proving that McCord's blood was found at the scene—on the women's bodies. I'm guessing this is connected to that psycho-toxin shit that hit the news a few weeks back. I remember McCord's name from that, though the commentator I heard hasn't made the connection—yet. I can only assume Staff Sergeant Brandt's death is somehow linked to that massacre, and that's why you're really here in Islamabad."
Regan glanced at the TV. Given the situation currently blowing up on the screen, not to mention in her, John's and Riyad's collective faces, she opted for honesty. To a point. "McCord's DNA was found in that cave—but the man was set up."
Unfortunately, the truth had a rabbi's chance in Tehran of being believed at this stage, didn't it?
Worse, with Durrani and Hachemi dead, they had no one to hold up as the real culprits. Sure, they could release the additional forensic reports that proved McCord's blood had been planted at the scene, but who would believe them now?
Not that raging mob.
Gil might be wrong after all. That Afghan bastard of a doc might have just won.
"Rae?" John had reached her side.
"Hang on a sec, Scott."
"That's all the time I got. Things are getting hot across the whole damned city. You'd best be getting back to the bunker. There's safety in numbers."
She killed her mic and turned to John. "Yes?"
"Ty's got good, bad and shitty news. The good—Tom Crier's en route to the embassy to assist. He's minutes out; Jeffers is already there. The bad—the Shifa was so crowded, Aamer Sadat managed to give his surveillance team the slip."
That was definitely bad. "And the shitty?"
"Ambassador Linnet had a function in town tonight. She's about eight blocks from here. The RSO's with her, along with a couple other men, heading back."
"Got it. Have Ty's men stay on Crier, Jeffers and Maddoc if at all possible." She clicked on her mic and resealed her phone to her ear. "Scott, contact the RSO. Tell Maddoc either Agent Riyad or Major Garrison will be heading his way to augment protection and assist in getting the ambassador safely back to the compound. The other one will be with me. I need to return to the hospital."
If she couldn't have Aamer Sadat's head on a platter tonight, she'd settle for his wife's. She had a feeling that, when pushed, Inaya would spill more anyway.
Unfortunately, she still needed a translator.
"Understood. Good luck, Prez."
"You, too." She was about to add a stay safe, but Scott had already hung up.
As had John and Riyad. Riyad was already pocketing his phone and heading for the door to the suite.
"John, where's Riyad go—"
"Down a few flights to pick up Tulle." John slung her laptop over his left shoulder, then grabbed her crime kit. He leveled a blistering frown on her when she tried to retrieve her kit from him. "Don't even. Your hand's been vibrating like an idling Humvee ever since Riyad walked back into the suite."
So much for hiding it from him.
She released her grip on the kit.
"As for Riyad and Tulle, they'll assist in getting Linnet to the embassy, where they'll remain. Riyad knows as much as I do about the plans Webber worked on, and a hell of a lot more about how Webber thinks and operates. I'll be escorting you to the hospital. Need anything from your suitcase?"
"No." Anything crucial was in her laptop bag or kit, including her extra ammo.
She did grab the scarf John had purchased at Al Dhafra and was truly grateful for his foresight as she wrapped the swath of black silk around her hair. Now was not the time to look western, much less American.
"We'll be back for our clothes." Her gear still in his left hand, John motioned her toward the door with his right. "I've got keys to the SUV Tulle rented. Riyad's got his own wheels. Let's go."
They did.
A teeth-grit
ting thirty minutes later, they'd bypassed a seething nighttime Islamabad via Srinagar Highway and were nearly at the hospital. Regan had spent the bulk of the journey on the phone with Agent Castile, letting him know about the latest leak regarding the crime scene photos and Captain McCord's DNA report. She tasked a member of Nathan's team with discerning its source, if at all possible. Meanwhile, she'd concentrate on breaking Inaya Sadat.
John was still on the phone with his own succession of contacts as she hung up. Unfortunately, nearly all of his conversations had been in Urdu or Arabic.
She had no idea what had been said.
John wrapped up his final call as he parked outside the Shifa. There'd been no point in asking him to let her out at the entrance. He would've refused on the grounds of her safety, and she needed his translation skills inside, anyway.
Since she'd visited mere hours earlier, she led the way.
Instead of finding a tearstained, but solemn Inaya Sadat in the waiting room, sheer chaos greeted them. As for Inaya, the veiled mother was sobbing uncontrollably and even more inconsolably just outside the door of the pediatric ICU. No less than three nurses and a doctor were trying to calm her.
Regan turned to John. "What happened?"
"Something's wrong with the boy. As near as I can make out, his temperature is dangerously high, and…" John cocked his head as if trying to concentrate on a single stream of rapid Urdu out of the many. "Convulsions. The baby just had a seizure."
Oh, Jesus. She possessed nearly as much knowledge of medicine as Urdu, but even she knew that was bad. The boy was barely two months, and—
"Why?"
John glanced down at her. "Why, what?"
"The baby's supposed to be here for diabetes. I don't know a lot about the condition, but there was a girl in one of my foster homes who had it. Seizures can occur. But that shouldn't be happening here in an ICU, while they're monitoring him."
Chills rippled in as Regan recalled the rest. Namely, the girl's insulin. The vials had been refrigerated.
Another vial flashed through her brain. This one had been stored in a locked refrigerator in the pharmacy at the Joint Craig Theatre Hospital on Bagram Airbase. Only that vial had been tampered with before John and Captain Mendoza's A-Team had returned to Bagram, leaving the vial with its original anthrax booster contents and—
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