Backblast

by Candace Irving

  "Rae?"

  John had followed her to the table. She slipped the used GSR container into the evidence bag Riyad had already prepared and sealed it, as well as the one containing the Glock, then turned to face both men. Prints on the 9mm, as well as the envelope and papers, would have to wait. Not to mention her pending call to the local morgue. "Sam, I need you to swap out your NCIS cap for that SEAL one. You know better than anyone here how Webber operates. I think we'll all be better off if you head back to the security office to assist Maddoc." Based on what they'd found in that desk, the RSO and his men would need new contingencies, and fast. "Major Garrison will be with me…and the Chaudhrys."

  "Agreed." The spook peeled off his gloves and shoved the latex into his pocket as he headed for the door. "I'll keep you posted."

  "Ditto." She turned to John. "You were there in that cave when it went down. Trust me, they're going to want to hear from you, too. Don't leave anything out. And don't try to be vague or use euphemisms to spare their feelings. When I call on you, tell them exactly what happened. They've already seen the worst of it: the photo of their daughter's mutilated corpse. If you try and tone it down, they'll know. And that risks them believing we're not being honest about the rest of it."

  And that they could not afford.

  Frankly, John's testimony and the files on her laptop were all they had to go on, quite possibly all that stood between this country and hers…and war.

  John glanced at Crier's body, shifting as he turned back, deliberately using that massive torso of his to shield her from the death scene he'd realized was uncannily similar to her mother's the moment he'd entered the office.

  His fingers came up to smooth a strand of hair that had slipped out of her braid, tucking it back under the dupatta she hadn't even realized she'd forgotten to remove upon her return to the embassy.

  So much for claustrophobic.

  As for the compassion that had begun to simmer within John's stare, however… "Are you okay?"

  She shrugged. Really, what else could she do?

  "I have to be."

  The glower he'd worn upon entering returned. She knew he wanted to argue with her, but he didn't. Nor could he. Because he knew she was right.

  "How bad is it outside the gates?"

  His sigh was dark. "Bad. And it's getting worse."

  Somehow, she managed a smile. But it was stunted, much like her dwindling hopes that she could pull this thing off. "So, no pressure then."

  "You can do this, Rae."

  She was grateful for his vote of confidence. Because at the moment, her own nerve was lodging an insistent, belligerent veto.

  She corralled her doubts as best she could as she finished packing up the contents of her crime kit. She added in the items she'd taken into evidence, including the smooth envelope and its classified contents, then automatically secured the kit's barrel lock on a new number. Finished, she nodded toward the stainless-steel case, knowing John wouldn't let her carry it anyway. Not with the tremors beginning to work their way up her arm.

  "That's ready to go. My laptop's still in the outer office."

  John hefted the case and motioned her toward the door. "How do you plan on working this?"

  The same way she always did. It was the only way she knew how. "Corporal Vetter?"

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "I need access to a wireless printer and photographic paper, ASAP. I also want copies of all security footage that pertains to this office from this past week forwarded to my CID email." She definitely needed to know what Crier had been doing—and who he'd been doing it with. She motioned for John to pass her crime kit off to the corporal. "Have that case secured in the RSO's safe, and do not let it leave your side until it goes in. Finally, seal up this office and post a guard outside. Unless the chancery's on fire, the guard does not leave his post until I've had a chance to deal with the body."

  God willing, her conditional wouldn't come to pass.

  "Yes, ma'am. Corporal Swan will take you to the printer."

  She and John followed a tall, black, sinewy Marine out of the secretary's office.

  Twenty minutes later, freshly printed materials tucked beneath her non-trembling arm, John was escorting her down the corridor and into the conference room where Ambassador Linnet stood in the far-right corner, just beyond the end of the walnut table that dominated the space. Linnet was nodding her sleek, blond bob as she spoke quietly with a petite woman of roughly sixty years. Since Linnet's companion was the only female Pakistani in the room, she was most likely Mrs. Chaudhry. And there was the evidence in the woman's face. The slightly reddened and puffy eyes. While Sitara Chaudhry had surely rivaled Inaya Sadat's beauty in her younger years, the plain burgundy of her silken shalwar kameez and dupatta suggested that the older woman preferred the more subdued end of the rainbow.

  Either that, or Sitara had chosen the muted colors in honor of her daughter's passing.

  Regan recognized the stocky white-haired and bearded, western-suited Pakistani male nearest the women from the news the year before: Chief Justice Chaudhry.

  As for the taller, fiftyish, traditionally dressed Pakistani male engaged in a low, but politely heated conversation with Warren Jeffers in the opposite far corner, it appeared the country's prime minister had made an appearance as well.

  Lovely. This was going to be hard enough without either of those blowhards chiming in.

  Except, the look Jeffers shot her as he glanced up from his conversation with Prime Minister Bukhari hearkened more to his attitude toward the spook than it had during either of her previous conversations with the DCM.

  Had she managed to knock the disdain and vitriol from the man when she'd shoved his bulk to the floor outside Crier's office following that gunshot?

  If so, she could only hope she'd earned Jeffers' coming support, or at the very least, his silence. Though, in light of her previous intel on the man, she doubted it.

  Jeffers headed toward her, his peppery curls and suit even more wilted and rumpled than they'd been at their last meeting. "Agent Chase, please, let me assist you with that."

  She shook her head as he reached for the thick folder she'd just created. "Thank you, but I've got it."

  Those overly generous lips flattened.

  Scott and Aamer Sadat had been spot on, then.

  Further proof arrived with the saccharine smile that resumed oozing as Jeffers turned toward the ambassador and her guests. The look he'd shot Regan upon her entrance had simply been a reflection of his need to keep up diplomatic appearances.

  Good to know.

  As John stopped at the head of the table to deposit her laptop beside the leading chair, she bypassed Jeffers and continued on toward the ambassador and the Chaudhrys. Though she hadn't yet met the former, she nodded as though she had.

  The ambassador picked up on the cue and nodded back.

  The thirty second crash course in Pakistan manners that John had given her in mind, she stopped in front of the chief justice and his wife and bowed her head to both. "Chief Justice Chaudhry, Begum Chaudhry, As-Salaam-u-Alaikum."

  As she straightened, the errant strand of hair from Crier's office slipped free again. Her fingers shook as she smoothed it beneath the dupatta.

  Given who she'd been about to meet and why, she'd decided against removing the head covering during John's customs lecture.

  It was a good call.

  Both Chaudhrys seemed pleasantly taken aback by the swath of black. Especially since it was clear she hadn't donned it simply to impress them, but had been wearing it a while. She'd caught her reflection in the sliver of glass embedded in the conference room door just before John had opened it.

  Unlike the grieving mother's veil, the silk dupatta John had purchased at Al Dhafra was clearly crushed and limp from the day's use.

  Even the prime minister appeared pleased with the tip toward traditional, female Muslim modesty as Bukhari approached to let her know that his president was dealing with another cri
sis and would be arriving as soon as he was able.

  Regan repeated the formal greeting to Bukhari that she'd offered the Chaudhrys and waited as Jeffers stepped up to encourage everyone to take their seats.

  Though both the American and Pakistani contingents claimed chairs along the opposite side of the walnut table from her, she focused her attention solely on the grieving mother at the center of the grouping.

  Her gut—and her quick googling of the woman while she and John had been waiting on the printer—had assured her that Mrs. Chaudhry was the key. Not only did the chief justice value his wife enough to bring her along and offer her the choice, center seat, ironically Mrs. Chaudhry was a practicing surgical nurse at the Shifa, of all hospitals. And, like her husband, the woman also spoke English.

  If anyone would be able to study the evidence she'd printed and quickly zero in on the truth, it would be Sitara Chaudhry.

  Despite that excellent grasp of English however, John had felt it best that, out of respect, he offer his statement to the Chaudhrys in their native tongue.

  Regan had agreed. "Major?"

  On cue, John departed the head of the table and moved down to her side. He took the seat to the right of her and waited.

  "Chief Justice, Begum Chaudhry, I would like you to meet Major John Garrison, US Army Special Forces. Major Garrison led the mission into that cave where your daughter died. With your permission, I would like the major to begin with his account of what he and his men saw and did upon their arrival, and afterward. Please, feel free to stop Major Garrison at any point with questions—or…just to stop him."

  John waited for Chaudhry's revealing, questioning glance in his wife's direction and the man's subsequent nod, then began.

  As with the hospital interview with Inaya, Regan didn't understand a word of John's stream of gravelly Urdu. She didn't need to. The entire translation was right there, in Mrs. Chaudhry's face. In the emotions that took hold in the woman's reddened eyes and in those gently quivering lips. When John reached his hoarse, halting description of the mutilated bodies he and his men had found in the cave, and of the infants that had been cut free and dumped on their breasts, the woman's eyes turned even redder and filled with glistening tears.

  As had John's.

  Regan reached out without thinking and slipped her hand into his lap beneath the table to squeeze the fist his left hand had unconsciously made. As much as her heart ached for the Chaudhrys, it ached just as much for John. Yes, he'd encountered death in countless ways in his career—but he'd never had to describe it to a loved one before.

  Not like this.

  Though John promptly turned his fingers so that they engulfed hers, he continued to stare straight ahead as he held on tight, swallowing hard as the tears began to fall from both Mr. and Mrs. Chaudhry's eyes…and his own.

  John finished speaking, cleared his throat and waited.

  Evidently he'd offered enough—or perhaps too much—because the chief justice shook his head slightly. There would be no questions of John.

  At least not tonight.

  Her turn then.

  Regan waited for Sitara Chaudhry to gather herself, or as best the woman appeared able, then slipped her fingers from John's and stood. She opened her folder and removed the copies she'd printed of the evidence reports and lab results that hadn't been leaked to the Pakistani media because they exculpated McCord. She slid a binder-clipped packet in front of the Chaudhrys, another in front of the prime minister, and a third between the ambassador and her deputy chief of mission to share.

  Regan kept the fourth for herself as she returned to her seat, removing her black binder clip so she could hold up each item as she went through them. "The first few pages have already been released to the media, so you may have already seen them. And it is true, Captain Mark McCord's blood was found inside the cave on a shawl that had been draped over one of the babies, as well as on two women—one of whom…was your daughter. But Captain McCord's blood was planted."

  Regan held up the second round of labs that had proven it. "These are the results of the tests that were run on the captain's blood. If you'll note the sections I've highlighted in yellow, you can see that the lab determined that plasma proteins were missing from the blood evidence that was found on the two women and the shawl. The absence of such proteins indicates that a quantity of the captain's blood was frozen sometime before the murders, and then thawed out and placed inside the cave."

  She held up the next several pages. "You can read a description of the blood-washing process here, as well as a statement that proves that the machine vital to the process was purchased by a hospital in Tehran, and that the doctor who committed the murders attended a training session there. It's during this session that we believe the captain's blood was frozen. The technician who held the training picked Dr. Nabil Durrani's photo out of a lineup. Also, you'll find a statement by Dr. Soraya Medhi describing how she spotted Dr. Durrani leaving the pharmacy at the Joint Theatre Hospital on Bagram Airbase in the middle of the night on the twelfth of October of this past year—during a false bomb threat. The same night, a pint of McCord's blood was stolen. The pint had been donated during a blood drive. There are additional supporting documents in your papers as well. Along with a transcript of the initial statement of an Afghan translator by the name of Tamir Hachemi, admitting that he assisted Dr. Durrani with the murders, and even obtained knives belonging to Captain McCord. The knives that were used to commit the murders and remove the babies from their mothers' wombs. I'm ready to answer any and all questions regarding the contents of your packets. Finally—" She turned to the second to last sheet. "—I've included Captain McCord's statement. He admits he was having an affair with one of the victims and that the child Begum Khan carried was his. We believe this is why Begum Khan was targeted by Durrani. To more effectively set up the captain for the murders."

  "And this?" Mrs. Chaudhry's voice whispered across the table. The woman's fingertips shook as she traced them over the final item in the Chaudhrys' stack.

  It was one of the eight-by-ten-inch glossy photos Regan had printed in the office Corporal Swan had escorted them to half an hour earlier.

  "That's the child who survived, Begum Chaudhry. Her doctors believe that the shawl that was meant to railroad her father into murder actually saved her life, as it allowed the infant to hold onto what little body heat she had until Major Garrison and his men arrived to rescue her. Begum Khan's husband does not know who fathered the child, but he has rejected it regardless, on the grounds that she's a girl and not worth the expense. As a result, Captain McCord applied for custody and has named his daughter Jameelah after her mother. At the moment, the captain is with his daughter in Germany, in Landstuhl's neonatal intensive care. Jameelah has been growing stronger every day and is expected to be released from the hospital soon."

  A fresh batch of tears welled up in Mrs. Chaudhry's eyes. Regan's began to burn too as the woman continued to trace her fingers over the photo of the thriving infant, swaddled in pink and lying in her plexiglass bassinet.

  That slow, loving trace revealed so much.

  Sitara Chaudhry was more than a grieving mother right now. She was also a not-quite-grandmother grieving what might have been.

  But the child beneath her fingertips was also proof that Americans and Pakistanis could come together. Regan could see that in those tears and quivering lips as well.

  For the first time in days, hope began to bud within her.

  Until the prime minister coughed. Snorted really. "Agent Chase, you say a respected Afghan doctor killed these women. But there is no proof in the pages you provided. Just some American who claims the doctor purchased a machine to do this…washing of blood. Why would an honorable Muslim do this? Kill innocent Muslim mothers? Kill the precious flower of our chief justice?"

  Regan pushed her temper down as she offered a respectful smile to the doubting ass who hadn't bothered to even glance through his own stack of papers, let alone study the
highlighted sections that proved her case.

  Fortunately, the chief justice and his wife had not only followed along with her commentary, they'd gone back to the beginning of their packet. Even now, both were carefully reading through each page before the chief justice turned to the next.

  She left them to their personal horror and addressed Bukhari. "Yes, Prime Minister, Nabil Durrani was a doctor." Diplomatic meeting or not, she just couldn't refer to the bastard as respected or honorable. "But Durrani was obsessed with Chief Justice and Begum Chaudhry's daughter. Durrani would not take no for an answer, much less leave her alone. During my discussions with the man, I came to believe Durrani even harassed the young woman to the point of her leaving her job."

  Sitara Chaudhry perked up at that, shifting her focus across the table. Her husband might still be reading, but his wife wasn't.

  Regan had the woman's complete attention.

  And more.

  She also had the blaring suspicion that Mrs. Chaudhry knew something. Quite possibly something she'd been told by her daughter. But Asma hadn't confided in her father, because Harun Chaudhry's expression hadn't changed.

  He was also still reading.

  Regan continued with what she did know, and suspected, hoping her facts and supposition would intersect with whatever secrets the mother had been privy to. "I think they worked together, but I'm not sure where. I know Durrani got his medical degree in the United States, at Harvard in Boston, Massachusetts. I also know that shortly before the murders, Durrani culled his remaining victims from the Malalie Maternity Hospital in Kabul, where he was volunteering and had recently been offered a full-time position. Before that, Durrani worked with a local Islamic charity that assisted in vaccinating women against polio and tetanus in your country's own Federally Administered Tribal Areas—"

  Regan paused as the older woman sucked in her breath, then turned to her husband to speak softly, urgently, in Urdu.

  Regan risked a glance at John.

  He nodded.

  Something she'd said had clicked with the mother.

  She turned back to the prime minister, since technically she'd been addressing his concerns, but Bukhari was now ignoring her. He, too, was focused on the equally urgent comments that Harun Chaudhry was now offering his wife.