Backblast

by Candace Irving

  By the time both Chaudhrys had refocused on her, Regan knew she'd hit on the nexus between those two lives: Durrani's and Asma's.

  She risked confirming it. "It's true, isn't it? Your daughter knew Dr. Durrani. He gave her reason to fear him…somehow."

  The mother's eyes filled with fresh tears.

  But it was the father who had the strength to nod. Speak. "Yes. She confided this, and more, to my wife. You are right. This man was unnaturally obsessed with her. She thought by leaving her job six months ago, and taking another, she would be safe. But she also believed in our tribal regions and its people. She suffered much pain and grief when she lost her beloved husband and her own unborn child. She wanted to remain there, working to improve their conditions. This is how he found her, yes?"

  "I believe so." In an effort to give the father a moment to deal with the tears that had begun to tinge his eyes, turning them luminous and black, she busied herself with the papers that were now littering the table in front of her.

  She gathered them together. After two failed attempts to reattach the binder clip, she gave up and set the papers down, laying the clip on top.

  "Your hand. It shakes." The chief justice flipped through his stack once more until he'd located the medical assessment she'd included. The one that described her neurological fallout from that psycho-toxin, along with Sergeant Welch's and Staff Sergeant Hudson's. "It is a result of the chimera Dr. Durrani infected you with?"

  "Yes."

  "This damage may be permanent?"

  The chief justice was asking for information she'd have forced Durrani to barter his very life for. She gave it freely to this grieving father and his wife.

  Nor did she mask her own pain. "Yes."

  The admission caused her hand to shake harder. To her horror, the quivering hijacked her entire arm, as it had following Durrani's suicide.

  She was mortified when the fingers of John's left hand came up to cover hers. To lightly stroke and soothe. Not because he'd done it.

  Because it worked. In front of others.

  But the Chaudhrys weren't staring at her hand; they were looking at John's. At the ring he, too, hadn't removed since the Serena. Both Chaudhrys' gazes shifted, almost in tandem, to her left hand. To the matching rings that were still there as well.

  And then, something seemed to click in both husband and wife.

  Again, it was Harun Chaudhry who acted on it. He stood. Bowed. "I thank you for the time you have taken to speak to my wife and myself." His attention shifted to John. "Major Garrison, I also sincerely thank you for your efforts, and those of your men, to save those precious lives. Asma's, as well as the others. I believe you both."

  Regan was still stunned, attempting to put her gratitude in this man's trust into words, when the chief justice turned to the ambassador.

  "Ambassador Linnet, I must do what I can to quell the unwarranted anger outside your gates. Perhaps a speech? Tonight. Before things grow worse. Televised, so that my fellow citizens can wake to the truth and not to lies. My wife will, of course, be at my side."

  Bukhari stood then too. "As will I." The prime minister turned to stare down at Jeffers and the ambassador. "I will assist in the preparations."

  Wow, that was quick.

  And apparently definitive, because everyone else on the opposite side of the table had come to their feet and were now nodding their approval.

  Regan came to her feet as well. She bowed her head to both Chaudhrys in turn. "Chief Justice, Begum Chaudhry, if you don't mind, I have one more thing. I would like to formally apologize for the leaking of the photo of your daughter. I cannot imagine your shared pain at losing a grown child, and I am truly sorry you both discovered it the way that you did. I don't yet know how the photo got out, but I will not rest until I find the leak. I promise you." And if it hadn't been Crier, she would plug it.

  Permanently.

  Regan bowed to the Chaudhrys again, then gathered up her papers and turned to head down the table for her laptop, leaving John behind.

  As with Riyad, John's skills would be crucial to the security for the coming televised conference that Jeffers and the prime minister were already outlining.

  One crisis had been successfully averted.

  But there was another, potentially larger one looming on the horizon. From the comments she'd overheard, the prime minister was insisting—quite vocally—that the chief justice's speech take place outside the gates, off sovereign, American soil.

  In front of that mob.

  Harun Chaudhry appeared to believe that he could quell the anger of his fellow citizens before he even walked through the gates, by making a brief announcement via the embassy's loudspeaker. But even if that worked, it might not be enough.

  Because that crowd wasn't their only concern.

  According to Riyad's tip, Zakaria Webber had been in Islamabad for at least eight hours now. Given everything that had gone down around town tonight—events Webber himself had very likely set into motion—what were the odds that the rogue SEAL wouldn't be out there in that angry, overflowing crowd…waiting for Chaudhry?

  And there was Bukhari's half-assed rebuttal to her evidence, not to mention the man's strangely swift capitulation to this entire, precarious scenario.

  Why did she have the feeling this impromptu conference was playing into the prime minister's hands?

  Unintentionally or not, had she just tagged Harun Chaudhry for death?

  24

  Harun Chaudhry had managed to calm the crowd, and he'd yet to make his appearance. At least in person.

  Regan had to hand it to the spook; Riyad's assessment of Pakistan's love for their current Supreme Court chief justice was genuine and profound. All Chaudhry had needed to do was fire up the embassy's loudspeaker and begin speaking. The chief justice told his fellow citizens that he'd personally reviewed the evidence from the cave massacre, and that he had a statement to make. But he had his grieving wife with him. If the crowd did not quiet down and become orderly—and stay that way—he would not be bringing her out, nor would he be speaking himself and sharing what he knew.

  In less than a minute, the unruly mob had shifted into a quietly grumbling press of people, almost polite in their eagerness to hear "the truth" firsthand.

  But how long would the mood hold?

  And why couldn't she seem to shake this sense of foreboding? The one that was buried deep in her gut?

  Regan stared at the portrait of the commander-in-chief hanging in the RSO's office as she contemplated just how many ways the next hour could blow up in their faces—literally. And that didn't account for Webber's suspected attendance.

  Already, there were signs that those gathered were growing restless. Worse, the numbers outside the front gate had begun to take on biblical proportions once the media had been informed that their presence had been requested en masse.

  Fortunately, everything appeared to be a go. Like everyone else involved, she wanted this over with, and quickly.

  "I heard you were in here."

  John.

  She turned around to find the dark gray suit he'd donned aboard the Griffith twenty hours earlier dominating the frame of the doorway. A moment later, he stepped all the way into the RSO's office, dominating the room.

  Her nerves.

  Once Pakistan's president arrived to complete the "united front" image, John would be walking out through the gates with the Pakistani and American contingents. Agent Riyad and Staff Sergeant Tulle would be in the crowd. She would be with Scott, already up on the hastily constructed, temporary platform designed to allow the crowd to see Harun and Sitara Chaudhry as the chief justice spoke.

  With her hand still operating apart from the rest of her brain, she wouldn't be able to do much more than provide an extra set of eyes, continually scanning the crowd for a face that resembled the photos that Riyad had provided of Webber.

  But she could at least do that.

  And that scanning would be critical, since both Chau
dhrys had refused to don bulletproof vests on the grounds that the coming event was one of mutual respect, leaving the remainder of the diplomatic contingents to decline as well.

  "Rae? You okay?"

  "Yeah. Just worried."

  So much could go wrong.

  John nodded. "Corporal Swan asked me to tell you that someone will be here shortly to open the safe for you."

  "Thanks." Given the classified nature of over half the files on her laptop, she couldn't just leave it lying around, even now. Nor could she risk bringing it up onto that platform. That left her waiting in here for someone with the combination to the RSO's safe.

  And quietly going nuts.

  She just couldn't shake this sense of foreboding. It was buried too deeply in her gut. And, apparently, in her brain.

  At least the portion that controlled her hand.

  The tremors that had spread up her arm during her meeting with the Chaudhrys hadn't ebbed; they'd grown worse. A fact that hadn't escaped that steady stare of John's.

  "We've got at least five minutes before tee off." His brow nudged up, then came down to frame a decidedly inappropriate twinkle. "I could always lock the door. Work my magic."

  She couldn't help it; she laughed.

  Damned if his dimple didn't fold in, warming her, and her mood, further. "What, no crack about my ego? Or has my arrogance finally dimmed?"

  "Oh, it's there." But she was getting used to it. Among other things.

  "Turn around."

  She shook her head. They weren't in the privacy of some hotel room.

  "Turn around, Chief." Dimple and twinkle had faded, leaving that irritatingly adamant stare behind. The unequivocal order issued from Army major to warrant.

  One she had no choice but to obey.

  She turned.

  As his fingers came up to dig into her braid, ruthlessly kneading the tension from the base of her skull, she was forced to admit that he was right.

  It didn't matter where they were. Nor was this massage between the man and woman who'd shared a bed in the Serena's executive suit earlier that evening. This one was between two soldiers and based solely on unit readiness. Safety and mission might well be on the line within the next hour, and the major behind her, now relentlessly rubbing the day's incalculable stress and the night's lack of sleep from her neck and shoulders, was determined to make sure she was ready for whatever went down.

  And bless him, it was working. Though not quite enough.

  Unfortunately, it was going to have to suffice.

  Major and warrant fell away as he finished and she turned around. For several taut, painful moments, man and woman assumed their place.

  A strangely thick, acidic fear dripped through her, burning straight into her heart. She'd never felt it before.

  But as she stared at John, she knew he was feeling it too.

  "Major G? The Pak president's arrived." Tulle. The booming decibel of his voice suggested the staff sergeant was just outside the RSO's office.

  John didn't respond to his soldier, nor did he turn to leave. His thumb came up instead, its calluses gently scraping along the curve of her cheek.

  "I wish you weren't here."

  She nodded slightly, and gave him the stark truth in return. "I'm glad you are."

  His answering nod was equally slight. And then, one last scrape of his thumb, and he was gone.

  "Agent Chase?"

  She turned toward the door to find a thickly muscled, Hispanic gunnery sergeant she didn't know hovering just inside. "Yes?"

  "Swan said you needed to get into the safe?"

  She nodded. "I need to stow my laptop."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The gunny entered the room and made a beeline for the dial in question, spinning it several times. A sharp clunk followed.

  He stepped back as she approached the oversized safe to tuck her laptop in next to the stainless-steel body of her crime kit. She was about to step back as well, when she spotted the numbers on the tumbler—and froze.

  What the hell?

  Someone had tried to tamper with her kit.

  She could tell from the lack of jimmy marks that they hadn't been successful. But there was more. Based on the outdated set of numbers her barrel sported, there were only two people who could have touched her kit. And one had no reason to.

  But the other?

  That crisp brown envelope slipped into the forefront of her mind. The one she'd found in Crier's desk. The brass brad. She hadn't thought about it at the time, but the fastener had been as stiff and unyielding as that envelope's smooth flap. Unlike the worn pages within. Shouldn't the envelope have sported wear and tear as well?

  Had Crier transferred the papers to a new sleeve? Or had someone else culled those papers from a larger stack of classified material and secreted them in a fresh envelope so that they could be planted inside that hidden drawer?

  Had Crier been framed?

  She stared at those outdated numbers on the barrel of her kit. Or had Crier been working with someone else? Someone other than Webber?

  "Ma'am?"

  Damn it, her nerves were shot. And she desperately needed sleep.

  Evidence? Her arm for one. It was already returning to its pre-massage vibrating state. She'd been on edge given the nature of Crier's death, not to mention her pending meeting with the Chaudhrys. Hell, she'd probably reset that older number herself up in Crier's office without thinking. Either way, she had no time to delve into it now.

  She could hear Scott speaking to another agent in the hallway, on his way to grab her for their joint assignment.

  Tee off time had arrived.

  She stepped back from the safe and nodded to the Marine gunny. "Go ahead and close it up."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She waited until the gunny had shut the door to the safe and spun the dial, then headed into the hall. She found Scott, waiting as expected.

  He held out a spare earpiece. "You ready to get this thing done?"

  More than he'd ever know.

  "Absolutely." She accepted the earpiece, donned it and gave it a quick test, then adjusted the dupatta to conceal its presence. "Let's go."

  Fifteen minutes later, they were standing on the instant platform that several DSS agents had set up within yards of the floodlit embassy gates.

  Regan continued to stare out at the crowd, constantly scanning the sector she'd been assigned. Considering. Rejecting. Moving on slightly to start over.

  Again and again.

  But for the additional floodlights that had been rigged, she wouldn't have had enough light to pick out a stray tank, let alone a sniper or a suicide bomber amid the thousands of faces that had gathered in the distant dark. Unfortunately, the chief justice was right. He might've managed to quell this mob, but the other demonstrations that had cropped up around the country had begun to strengthen. Closing in on five a.m. local time or not, they needed to get this done and on the news to combat what was already out there.

  Moments later, the gates opened again. United front intact, the diplomatic contingent quickly streamed out and stepped up onto the platform.

  The chief justice and his demurely veiled wife led the procession, along with John and a slightly less beefy DSS agent she didn't know. They came to a halt several feet down from her right, peripheral view. Following the couple and their walking American body armor were President Niazi, Ambassador Linnet, and Prime Minister Bukhari and their DSS agents, since they too had declined the wearable variety.

  Warren Jeffers and his protection brought up the rear, in somewhat subdued diplomatic mode as the DCM bowed and scraped to a halt beside the others.

  Clearly eager to get this finished so he could escort his wife off the stage and back home where she could grieve in private, Harun Chaudhry stepped up to the microphone and began to speak, first in Urdu, then in English.

  Regan gritted her teeth at the succession of flashes that popped out among the crowd, intermittently interfering with and outright obs
curing her view. Then again, the photos and instant phone videos would further their cause. Even better, she could see the sporadic nods in the crowd multiplying, feel the wave of compassion and support for both Chaudhrys as the chief justice offered a truncated, toned-down description of events, similar to the one she'd warned John against giving to him.

  In short, his beloved daughter Asma had indeed been murdered in that cave along with six pregnant women—but the women were not killed by an American soldier. They were slaughtered by an Afghan doctor who passed himself off as a devout Muslim. But no true Muslim would kill innocent women and unborn children. And as chief justice, he could not allow the falsehood to stand. In fact, another team of American soldiers entered the cave after the murders and tried to save the lives of those who were dying within. For almost all the souls in that cave, it was too late.

  But one survived—because of the Americans.

  As the chief justice moved on to his praise for President Niazi and the Pakistani president's patience in not jumping to conclusions as the investigation unfolded during the previous weeks, Regan shifted her focus to the far right of her zone in the crowd, once more considering. But, this time, there was no rejection.

  Every other face was turned toward the chief justice, carrying varying degrees of horror, outrage and sympathy over the details that had been offered.

  This man’s face was anything but. His deep smile was almost rapturous…as if he'd made his peace with this world and was ready to meet his maker.

  His focus? The ambassador.

  Regan activated her mic as discreetly as she could.

  "To the left of the justice, fifteen, twenty feet out and steadily moving up on Linnet. Male, local. Early twenties, bearded. On the tall side. Two, three inches over his surrounding companions. White, coarser traditional dress with matching topi, looks to be contrasting embroidering around the base of the hat."

  What color, she couldn't be sure.

  He was too far away and, even with the additional floods, too shadowed.