Backblast

by Candace Irving

  "Does anyone know about your wife and Tom Crier?"

  "No." The man was adamant.

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Because they met at our house. He always arrived to discuss 'embassy business' and I was always there in another room so that no one would ever suspect."

  Aamer was right. It was a solid cover.

  But not infallible.

  If no one had figured out what was going on and Brandt wasn't being blackmailed over the boy's paternity, but because the man was gay…had Crier truly killed his own son to sanitize his trail? If so, surely Crier would have infected Aamer and Inaya along with the boy? Or was some other catastrophe due to befall Danyal's parents? But, if so, why not wait and include the boy?

  Damn it. This case still made no sense.

  Yet.

  "Mr. Sadat, Staff Sergeant Brandt killed a prisoner in his charge. Brandt deliberately murdered him. With poison."

  Shock stiffened Aamer's entire body. He stepped toward her, stopping short as she sensed John's form shifting slightly—decisively—behind her.

  Aamer shook his head. "No. He would not do this. Yes, Stephen was a soldier, but he was the gentlest of men. He could not—"

  "The man Brandt killed was responsible for the slaughter of those pregnant women in that cave in the Hindu Kush. The one on the news tonight. Captain McCord did not kill those women or their babies, an Afghan translator did. And not only did Brandt murder the translator, he did it while he was aboard the ship—after he spoke to you from Al Dhafra. I found his prints on a vial containing the remaining poison. A vial that was hidden in a doctored pack of Pakistani cigarettes that also bore only his prints."

  Aamer stepped backward at that. Staggered really, until his spine hit the wall.

  Regan was half afraid the man was so dumbfounded he was going slide all the way down.

  He didn't. But Aamer did use the wall for support as he nodded. "To avenge what I saw on the news? That, Stephen might want to kill for. But I still cannot believe he would."

  "What if he was being blackmailed—about his relationship with you?"

  If the Marine Corps had learned of the staff sergeant's secrets, Brandt would've been court-martialed. Not because he was gay, but for a host of other violations under the Uniformed Code of Military Justice, including the fact that indulging in an affair with a married Pakistani Foreign Service National had left Brandt open for blackmail while he was serving as a Marine Security Guard at a critical US embassy. Blackmail which, by extension, had risked the security of that embassy and his nation.

  Also, while Brandt might not have been willing to murder to save his own career, gentle man or not, she suspected he'd have done it in a heartbeat to save Aamer. Because his lover's career hadn't just been on the line, but his life. The traitor wouldn't even have had to threaten to kill Aamer; the bastard could've simply let it be known to Brandt that he'd leak the truth regarding Aamer's sexual orientation and stand back to let the righteous wolves descend to carry out the so-called will of Allah.

  Then again, given what they were dealing with—and that an infant had been targeted, too—the traitor had probably just threatened to kill Aamer outright.

  "Mr. Sadat? Do you think he was being blackmailed? You told me that Tom Crier and your wife were careful. That no one knew about them. But you also told me that Crier met your wife at your house. Did Crier know about you and Brandt?"

  To her surprise, Aamer's eyes filled up with tears, much like his wife's. "I do not know. I pray not. But…it is possible."

  And there was something else. Someone else. She was certain of it. Someone this man believed capable of blackmailing his lover into murder.

  "Who?"

  Those dark eyes blinked. "I did not say—"

  "No. But you're thinking it." Because she was thinking it too.

  There was a reason no one in Staff Sergeant Brandt's chain of command had thought to compare that baby's dimpled chin with his.

  "Mr. Sadat, who knew Brandt was gay?"

  "Warren Jeffers. Stephen could not abide the man. He refused to tell me why, but I believe Jeffers knew Stephen was gay. And Jeffers? That man, he is so polite to everyone outside the embassy, but he is ugliness itself inside. Jeffers would abuse such information. I know it."

  So did she. Hell, she'd had firsthand experience with Jeffers' abuse that afternoon. Why else had he slugged her with that tidbit about working with her dear old dirty dad? A man like that was willing to use anything to further his own goals.

  But what were those goals, damn it?

  John's phone pinged behind her.

  She tensed, waiting for hers to go off. It didn't. She was still breathing out her relief when she heard John click off his phone and then,

  "Rae?"

  Shit. It was time to go. "Okay. Just a second."

  She pulled the purple nitrile gloves she'd taken from the ICU from her pocket. "Mr. Sadat, do you or your wife have your son's insulin vial handy?"

  "Here, at the hospital?"

  "Yes."

  He shook his head. "My wife was panicked when she left. There was no time to check. And when she arrived here, no need. But I think Inaya had just opened a new one yesterday. The empty one has already been discarded. Why?"

  "It doesn't matter." She returned the gloves to her pocket. There was no sense in admitting what she suspected. If the boy did survive the chimera, she'd only be giving his parents nightmares about his medication—and what might really be inside it—for the rest of their lives. She glanced at the door. "You can go. But don't go far."

  "I will not. For all you have done and are doing, I swear it. I will be here."

  Of that she was certain. Only because she was about to have Ty double the man's shadow, and this time, she wanted those involved posted within tackling distance.

  Aamer bowed his head toward her, then John, and left.

  The second the door closed, John was at her side, her laptop already slung over his left shoulder, keeping his right—and his dominant gun hand—free as he motioned her toward the door. "That was Tulle. The ambassador has returned to the embassy, but the protests are spreading. If we want to slip in the back gate unnoticed—"

  "We need to go now."

  John didn't even take the time to nod. He simply opened the door and shepherded her through.

  As with their trip to the Shifa, the drive to the embassy was burdened with calls. Again, John's were in Urdu and Arabic with men she didn't know. Hers were in English, the opening one to a man she knew very well and trusted even more: Gil.

  With Gil's call came a sliver of hope for the Sadats' baby. Gil had already arranged for an emergency flight to Pakistan to transport the chimeral cure he'd used to treat her and John's surviving men. It would be airborne within the hour, in Islamabad less than sixteen hours later.

  God willing, it would be soon enough.

  As for John and herself, they arrived at the embassy within forty minutes of departing the Shifa and managed to slip inside relatively unnoticed. Both Riyad and Staff Sergeant Tulle were waiting for them at the entrance to the chancery.

  From the tension in the spook's and the staff sergeant's features, each had news.

  And neither set was good.

  John opened one of the glass double doors and ushered her inside to the silvery marble foyer. There, he finally relinquished her laptop and crime kit with a murmured, "I'll find you," then peeled off to head deeper into the chancery with Tulle. Most likely to assist with the compound's security once he'd received the latest update.

  The update she'd be getting from Riyad.

  Midnight had come and gone well over an hour ago. With her grip once again becoming questionable at best due to the inherent exhaustion of yet another night of stunted sleep, Regan tipped her head toward the carpeted waiting area to the right. Just off the echoing marble and its gleaming grand piano. "Over there."

  Fortunately, Riyad followed.

  She dumped her laptop and crime kit
on one of the plush chairs and stretched out her recalcitrant hand as she turned back to the spook. "What's wrong?"

  The scowl she'd become so familiar with was still firmly in place, but for once, it wasn't directed at her. "We got that ID you wanted."

  The seventh woman from the cave?

  "Oh, thank God."

  Riyad shook his head. "I'd wait on that praise. Plus, you should know, we didn't make the ID. The victim's father recognized her from the collection of leaked photos that are still being slapped up on all the local news stations."

  Oh, shit. That particular close-up was the one she'd ordered the boots on the ground to have in hand—for the necessary shock value. But that was a shock she'd never intended. Not that any of the other leaked photos were less horrific.

  Especially to each victim's family.

  "Who is—was—she?"

  "Asma Chaudhry Jafari. Chief Justice Harun Chaudhry's youngest child and only daughter—and, from what I understand, the apple of his and his wife's eye."

  Their victim's father was the chief justice of Pakistan's Supreme Court?

  Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad.

  And, hell, even Riyad could read her expressions now. Because he was nodding. "You were right. She's the key."

  Wrong. That poor mutilated woman was the log that was going to fuel the fires of hate and discontent that were already sweeping the city, and keep them raging for who knew how long. How the hell were they going to put this one out?

  "Wait—did you say, cherished daughter?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then how is it that mom and dad didn't even know she was missing?" Asma Chaudhry had been murdered four weeks ago. Granted, her own upbringing had been utterly shitty, but if Asma's hadn't been, shouldn't the woman's mother or father have noticed her absence at some point over these past weeks?

  Especially with this country's extended, and very tight-knit, family structure?

  And then it hit her.

  "She's a traveling nurse, or—" Given those pregnant victims, "—a midwife." How else had Durrani lured her away from her job, prior to murdering her? Asma might not have trusted Durrani as dating material, but he was a doctor. She'd have believed the bastard when he claimed he had patients who needed her. Either way, "The woman was working in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, wasn't she?"

  Directly across the border from Afghanistan, and near enough to that cave. Where Pakistani villages were few and far between. With even fewer amenities.

  Phones.

  Riyad nodded. And was that actually a glint of respect in the man's eyes? For her? "That's a damned good guess."

  "Not a guess." She'd earned that insight during her hellish final session with Durrani in the Griffith's brig. "How did Asma and Durrani meet? Do we know?"

  "Not yet. But she did get her nursing degree in Boston, so Agent Castile will begin there. She worked in Islamabad until she married a local doctor, Ejaz Jafari. They were in a car accident about two years ago. Ejaz was killed and she miscarried their son. She went back to work afterward. But there's more. It's about her father, the chief justice—and the prime minister. There's been a power struggle going on this past month in this country and it's more serious than outsiders think."

  That was news to her. But then, this past month she'd been up to her neck in the cave investigation and then in a coma.

  She knew Chaudhry by name, but only because of the news he'd made a year ago, not a month ago. And, of course, there was the reason for her instant recall after all these months. An element had hit a personal hot button. "I just remember the older news. Last year Chaudhry became a national hero when he outed a longtime, trusted clerk of the courts who was passing information to the Indian government." And the hot-button reason she still remembered it out of all the other news that month? "The clerk-turned-mole, he's related to Pakistan's prime minister, isn't he?"

  "Yes. Though the clerk is now in prison, serving a life sentence…and is also now Iftikhar Bukhari's former son-in-law."

  She nodded. She wouldn't admit it out loud to Riyad, but asshole or not, she actually felt for Bukhari. She definitely related to the personal and political shitstorm the prime minister had undoubtedly endured as a result.

  "I assume the news I missed while I was working the cave murders and in a coma is related?"

  "It is. I'm not sure if you know, but Chaudhry's been one of our country's biggest supporters over here. More so than Pakistan's president and especially Prime Minister Bukhari, who still regularly takes to the floor of their parliament to bitch about how we violated their country's sovereign borders to take out Bin Laden without letting them know—while completely ignoring the fact that the powers that be in this country knew damned well the fucker was here the entire time. But Chaudhry's take is more balanced. Even leans a bit toward us. Possibly because the man got one of his degrees at Yale, and then sent at least two of his kids back to the States for theirs."

  The first half she'd known, but not the part about Yale and his kids.

  Regan tucked the insight away as Riyad shrugged. "Anyway, love for Chaudhry still runs exceptionally high on the Pakistani streets, and of course, Bukhari can't stand him. But now their military is on Chaudhry's ass, too. The chief justice made a ruling last month against the army, then followed it up with a major televised interview. Chaudhry's never been a fan of military rule. During the interview, he laid out why. Made a damned good case for why both coups and military rule have actually been detrimental to the world as a whole and to his country in particular. Chaudhry's of the mindset that Pakistan must be an Islamic democracy, but that the country's strength lies in both elements; that while he does believe in a strong military, it should remain in the wings within their country and out of the internal power structure. His arguments are being discussed openly in the media and on the street—and ordinary Pakistanis are beginning to agree with him."

  "Is that it?" Though, frankly, that was a heck of a lot.

  "Nope. There's one more thing. Chaudhry's eldest son? Ironically, he's a colonel in their army…and he's currently assigned to the country's nuclear weapons' arsenal."

  Well, shit.

  Didn't that just complicate things?

  As for Chaudhry, the chief justice was a hit-and-run accident or home gas heater explosion away from the grave. With the country's prime minster and the army gunning for his hide, even with his son's connections at the arsenal, the only thing that had protected the chief justice this long had to have been his connection to the common man. If the army did kill him, there was a real risk that they'd end up elevating the man's status posthumously. And in doing so, would be giving credence to Chaudhry's arguments, since everyone would know who'd killed him and why.

  But, now, with his daughter dead?

  And his colonel of a son quite possibly arguing against democracy and for vengeance upon those who'd mutilated his baby sister?

  Riyad's suit jacket vibrated. He reached in and retrieved his phone, only to glance at the screen before returning it to his inner pocket. "You know what this all means, don't you?"

  Yeah, she knew. "Basically, we've got a Pakistani army general who wants to be president and a prime minster willing to help him out for a share of the pie, topped off by a moderate sitting president without the political oomph to fight off Prime Minister Bukhari or the army. And, of course, the only one with that political oomph has just discovered that his cherished only daughter was supposedly murdered by American soldiers."

  In other words, they had a recipe for the very thing Chaudhry had argued against. A coup.

  At the very least, Bukhari and the army might have effectively killed Chaudhry's pro-American sentiment and—without the apple of his eye around to boost it up—quite possibly his spirit too, especially given how Asma had died. Hell, Regan wouldn't be surprised if the man retired from the bench to grieve with his wife in private.

  A win-win for Bukhari and his G3-rifle-wielding thugs.

  With those riots
spreading out around the embassy and, eventually, the city and the country, all the army had to do was wait a bit longer and they could take the presidency for themselves, installing their current commanding general in the job, or they could pretend to hand power over to their current political lapdog and puppet, Bukhari. Again, a win-win.

  Either scenario spelled disaster for future US-Pakistani relations, not to mention Pakistan's support for any current and upcoming joint anti-terror efforts.

  "I need to speak to him."

  "Chaudhry?"

  She'd finally succeeded in stunning the spook.

  Good. She had a few more surprises up her sleeve, if she could get her recalcitrant hand to cooperate. Yeah, it was after 0130 local time, but she doubted very many folks were sleeping in the city tonight, much less the chief justice and his wife.

  Not with the image both of Asma's parents now had reverberating around inside their heads and their hearts.

  "Yes, Chaudhry. And I'd like to speak to his wife, as well." Not so much so she could make an appeal to the mother, though she'd definitely do that, but because she owed the woman and her husband a personal apology over that photo.

  Hell, she owed an apology to all the victims' families. Not only should those photos have never been leaked, the images within were ones that loved ones should never have to carry around for the rest of their lives.

  She ought to know. She had one hell of a final, horrific view of her mom lurking in the recesses of her own mind…always.

  Regan rubbed at the vibrating fingers of her right hand, hoping the self-massage would work as well as John's deeper one, but it didn't. "If the ambassador can't arrange it, I can put in a call to Palisade—or you can hit up your buddy, the Big Bubble. I'm sure both men have our president on speed dial."

  And he should be able to arrange it.

  To her surprise, Riyad nodded swiftly and decisively. "I'll speak to the ambassador. If she can't make it happen, I'll see what Kettering can do."