Regan set her crime kit on the deck and took a moment to reset the password on her phone before she opened her recording app. She stated her name and rank, as well as the chief's, and briefed the reason for her coming monologue as she and Yrle donned a pair of latex gloves. Beginning near the door, Regan described her activities for the recording as she began a systematic search of the metal wall unit, pausing to snap photos here and there along the way.
Unfortunately, she came up empty for contraband, let alone anything that looked as if it could have contained the poison that had been fed to Hachemi.
Uniforms, spare boots, laptop bags, duffels, as well as the carton of Pakistani smokes the staff sergeant appeared to prefer—they were all neatly stowed and devoid of strychnine.
She searched the bunkbeds next, hooking the toes of her boots up onto the metal edge of the lower rack so she could begin with the pristine upper one.
By the time Regan had climbed down, the corporal's bed was in as much disarray as the staff sergeant's. It was also clean of contraband and suspect containers.
Her equally detailed search of the lower bunk revealed a curiosity…and a potential hiding spot. Two of the packs of Pakistani smokes that she'd come across during her canvass of the wall unit were half empty. So why was there a third pack of smokes tucked between the staff sergeant's mattress and the far bulkhead?
Regan brought the smokes with her as she climbed out of the nest of twisted sheets to stand beside the bed.
Chief Yrle frowned at the pack. "Brandt's smoking in bed?"
Based on the censure in the chief's voice, Regan assumed the activity was as advisable aboard ship as it was on dry land. Possibly less so. She opened the pack. All twenty cigarettes were accounted for. And, yet, this pack was heavier than the others. She tapped the smokes out into her gloved palm. All were less than half the length of the packaging…and there was a false bottom inside.
"Grab an evidence bag from my kit, please."
"Yes, ma'am."
Regan transferred the stunted smokes to the proffered bag, leaving Yrle to seal it as she carefully worked the false bottom free.
A small, dark blue bottle rolled out into her palm. She twisted off the lid and spotted traces of clear liquid in the tip of the attached eye dropper.
"Strychnine." Yrle's whisper filled the stateroom, stark with disappointment.
Given the stunted smokes and the hidden bottom?
"Yup."
Damn. She liked the burly Marine. But it appeared Brandt hadn't liked the translator. Possibly less than she and John had.
But premeditated murder?
Because that was precisely what this was shaping up to be.
Regan sighed as she closed the bottle. She snapped photos of the outside of the now empty pack of smokes and the bottle, then tucked both into the fresh evidence bag Yrle held up. She checked her watch.
0748.
Not enough time for the chromatography testing. Not unless she wanted to keep a general waiting. Something that, even during a murder/terror investigation, wasn't advisable. But she did have time for a few questions.
"Chief, did you get to know Staff Sergeant Brandt this past month?"
"Not really. Well, we did talk college football. We both have brothers who play, though mine's quite a bit younger than me."
"Same team?"
The woman snorted as she sealed the evidence bag. "Not even close. Brandt's a Longhorn fan. My brother's a Cornhusker."
A Cornhusker? Regan had no idea what that was, but a Longhorn? "Brandt's brother goes to UT—in Austin?"
Yrle nodded. "Is that important?"
It might well be. According the records she'd read on her flight to Bagram over two weeks ago, Captain McCord had received his commission from UT's Reserve Officer Training Corps program.
Coincidence?
Possibly. The University of Texas was a huge school. And the connection appeared to be solely through Brandt's younger brother…so far.
But if it panned out, Riyad might be right about the motive behind the poisoning after all; he'd just attributed it to the wrong soldier. During her interrogation of McCord at Bagram, the captain had begged her to slip him the name of the man who'd murdered the mother of his child. McCord had vowed to come back from hell to extract his revenge.
Surely a US warship in the Arabian Sea provided slightly easier access?
Except how would McCord—who was currently in Landstuhl, Germany, with his newborn daughter—have contacted the Marine, much less have gotten strychnine to the man?
Fortunately, with Brandt attached to an IV in sickbay, she'd be able to make her meeting with Palisade and still have time afterward to pull the staff sergeant's records and begin the search for another tie between him and McCord.
A tie strong enough to account for murder.
One thing was certain, the smell of vomit exculpated Brandt from lying about his nausea. Nor was the cause of that vomit poison, at least not with any self-induced strychnine Brandt might've had left over. While nausea was a potential symptom, there were too many others and all were more definitive.
And there was the timing.
If Brandt had ingested pure strychnine before he'd gone to sickbay, he wouldn't be ill right now, he'd be dead. At the very least, he'd be convulsing and about to be.
Yes, the possibility existed that Brandt had been set up. But, until she ruled it out, he was her leading contender—and nothing more.
A contender she'd sat two feet away from the day before while she'd interviewed him…and hadn't suspected a thing.
Of course, she hadn't known yet that there was anything to suspect, but still.
After that fiasco with Durrani, she was in no mood to cut anyone slack, least of all herself. The case was getting too damned dicey. And definitely more ominous.
Brandt was a Marine security guard, currently attached to one of the nation's critical embassies in the War on Terror. As such, the man should've been above reproach. Brandt sure as hell shouldn't have been up for murdering a terrorist on anyone's behalf, for any reason. Especially a terrorist who had yet to give up a critical name.
Unless, of course, Staff Sergeant Stephen Brandt was that name—and the terrorist she was after.
17
Regan stared at the evidence in Chief Yrle's hands as she absorbed the full implications of Brandt's possible guilt—and shifted her priorities accordingly.
She closed up her crime kit and reset the tumbler, then nodded to the sealed evidence bags. "Thank you for your assistance, Chief. Please take those to your office and finish logging them in. Then get them locked into the safe. I'll be down after my meeting with General Palisade to perform the chromatography tests. Under no circumstances is Agent Riyad to run them. Lock the microTLC up in the safe, if you have to. But first, contact Dr. Mantia directly and enlist his aid. I want Brandt kept in sickbay and in ignorance until I give the word that he's to be released."
"Yes, ma'am. Do you need an escort to the wardroom?"
Regan shook her head as she peeled off her gloves and shoved the expended latex in her upper right trouser pocket. She remembered the wardroom's tack number from the day before, along with the briefing Yrle had given her regarding how those numbers corresponded to the Griffith's deck and frame numberings, effectively providing her brain with an interactive, three-dimensional map of the ship.
All she had to do was keep moving forward as the second number lowered in value, and then down, and she'd get there.
If not, "I'll ask someone if I get turned around."
But first, her stateroom.
Regan located her temporary quarters easily enough and stowed her kit within. She headed for the wardroom next and managed to arrive there unassisted as well. But as she reached for the handle of the door, however, she was forced to pause.
The tremors had returned. And they were visibly noticeable.
Really? Now? With a general on the other side of the door? The general in charge of USASOC,
no less?
Even if she'd wanted to beat feet back up to her stateroom to try to massage the quivers into submission, it was too late. Someone had opened the door from the other side. An enlisted sailor stood amid the empty frame. Deeper inside, and to the young man's right, she could see Agent Riyad seated at the far side of the table. And, well, well, what do you know? He was glaring at her.
Another day, another scowl.
That spook could win the War on Terror single-handedly if he ever figured out how to weaponize them.
"Is that Agent Chase?" Palisade.
Great. She was trapped now.
"Yes, sir." She flashed a smile she didn't quite feel as the sailor stepped back so that she could enter the compartment, then turned toward her right.
The general was seated at the head of the long dining table, an empty seat to his right, then Riyad. A blond, ACU-clad male she didn't recognize and then John were slotted down the table on Palisade's left.
"Have a seat, Chief. There's one beside the major."
As embarrassing and heavy-handed as that comment and accompanying amused twinkle were, she was grateful for the suggestion. While both seats flanking the spook were open, she wouldn't have taken either one, general's orders or not.
Fortunately, John's military manners were more ingrained than his boss'. He settled for a sedate nod as she claimed the chair to his left.
"Coffee?"
She glanced across the table, bemused with Riyad's seemingly polite offer…until the man nodded toward the trio of white ceramic mugs turned upside down on the silver serving tray between them. The spook might've nodded toward the cups, but he was staring at her right arm.
"The coffee in the pot is hot, Agent Chase, and the cups are clean. Have at it."
Not an offer, then—but a dare.
Had the spook caught that fresh bout of tremors at the door?
The ones that were still quivering along her fingers. Fingers that were now firmly jammed into her lap.
Or was Riyad wondering if her hand was still shaking from last night?
Either way, John cut the agent off at the pass. He leaned forward and snagged a cup, deftly flipping it right-side up before he set it down on the table, directly in front of her. He extended that brawny arm again, this time for the pot. He filled her cup, leaving a good two inches of room lest the motion of the ship—or her hand—send the contents sloshing over the rim, then returned the pot to its slot on the tray.
"Agent Riyad?"
The spook was forced to shift his attention to the head of the table. "Yes, General?"
She took advantage of Riyad's distraction and whatever the general was saying to look directly into John's eyes. "Thank you."
Her quiet appreciation wasn't for the coffee, and they both knew it. She was referring to his predawn labors with her bloodstained boots and gear.
His answering nod was brief. The appearance of that slight, soul-warming slash, briefer still.
It was enough.
The tremors actually eased.
"Chief?" Palisade again. If he'd caught her exchange with John, much less had intentionally forced Riyad's attention away to allow for one, he didn't let on.
"Yes, sir?"
Palisade tipped his tight crop of silver toward the unknown male she now couldn't see at all. "My aide has an apology to make—to you. Captain Hoffman?"
His aide?
An apology?
She didn't know which surprised her more, the general's statement or that the captain had come to his feet. The latter was welcomed, however, since the captain had disappeared from her view the moment she'd sat down.
That titanic torso of John's was still blocking half the general's body and everything else at the far end the wardroom, too.
Hoffman cleared his throat as he focused on her. Flushed. "Yes, well, regarding those three orange hairs? Agent Chase, I'm the leak."
"Excuse me?"
The general's aide was the leak? According to the tab velcroed to the upper left sleeve of his ACUs, the man was Special Forces.
And he'd passed along classified information about a terror case? While the case was still open?
But the captain nodded. "During my previous tour, Captain McCord and I served together. He saved my hide a number of times. When I learned about those hairs, I believed I'd found a way to repay him. I just wanted to put his mind at ease. I shared the information with McCord when I was in Bagram on the general's behalf. I was wrong, and I apologize—to everyone involved in the investigation and especially to you. I understand that my lapse in judgement affected your interrogation with the captain, and could have affected the outcome of the case. I am sorry."
Wow.
Given the strength of that flush and the rigidity of his spine, she'd hate to have been in the room when Palisade had discovered that the leak had come from one of his own. She'd have lost a few inches of her own hide simply by being near the captain.
She offered Hoffman a clipped nod. Given her audience, there wasn't much else she could do. She was still pissed, but the information had solved at least one mystery on her list.
The captain resumed his seat and promptly disappeared behind John's bulk. She had a feeling it was intentional, too.
Palisade turned and murmured something to his aide. The captain came to his boots once more and swiftly departed the compartment, leaving her, John, the general and the spook behind. And then the general stood.
Regan assumed the purpose behind her attendance had been to listen to Hoffman's public mea culpa, and that with Palisade's looming stance, the meeting was now over…until the general caught her eye and nodded. To her utter surprise, Palisade was also blushing. Badly. "I'm your second leak, Chief."
"Sir?" Because if Hoffman had leaked the presence of those hairs, there was only one lapse of judgment left on the table. And this one was profoundly personal.
To her.
The general nodded again—and his flush darkened. "Your BI. When I tapped you to lead up both the cave investigation and the one into the SF deaths at Campbell, my decision met with some flak from the State Department contingent holed up here aboard the Griffith. There were…questions raised about your lineage. Some had also heard about your run-in with the major in Germany and, quite frankly, did not feel you were agent enough to support the weight of both investigations and our tenuous relationship with Pakistan. I disagreed. I'd already accessed your BI. Based on your background, I knew you were the perfect soldier for the job. I also knew you would not give up, and I needed State to know that. So I passed your BI along to certain folks."
Certain folks?
Hope began to trickle in. Which folks in particular?
Diplomats?
Because a diplomat who'd turned against his or her country would also qualify to be branded as a traitor…
Adrenaline joined the hope, surging along with the latest roll of the Griffith. She reached out to prevent her cup and the coffee within from surging out with it. She didn't care that Riyad watched, or that he saw her fingers quiver. Because certain folks would also make up a certain list. And the US Army general standing in front of her, humbling himself on her behalf, would know every single name on that list.
Every single suspect.
She smiled. "Thank you, sir—for the apology and the leak."
What was the humiliation of yet another public, town-square lashing compared to a solved case? A traitor thwarted, and a terror incident actively prevented.
At least this round hadn't made the nightly news.
"Chief?" She'd clearly confused the general.
From the nod John offered her, her sincerity hadn't baffled him. But then, she'd already discovered that John was well into mapping out how her brain worked, whether she was ready for the added intimacy or not.
"Yes, sir. I'm particularly grateful for the leak. If you'll provide a list of those you shared my BI with, we can use it as a starting point. If we assign an agent to meet with them face-to-face, we c
an winnow those names down until we have—"
"Just one. The bastard who passed your BI to Durrani."
"Yes, sir."
And that would give them their traitor.
"I'll scratch out the list as soon as we've finished here. If those initial names have shared your BI, and with whom, I do not currently know. But I will do all I can to assist in finding out." The determination faded from the man's eyes as the blue within turned solemn. "And I am truly sorry for the violation of privacy and trust."
"Thank you, sir."
To her relief, the general sat. For some reason, his regret had made her uncomfortable. Which caused her craving for the caffeine in front of her to bite in that much harder. She slid the cooling cup of coffee closer and lifted it to her lips.
The risk paid off. Her hand and fingers were steady enough.
She downed the contents of the cup as quickly as she dared, lest her nerves suffer a relapse.
Palisade nodded as Regan returned the cup to the table. "We'll consider the issue closed then. As for which agent will be doing the interviewing with the diplomats and their staff, that'll be up to you. Corporal Vetter witnessed your interview with Durrani. He saw Durrani smack his forehead onto the table so the bastard could rip into his own carotids before you launched yourself up onto that table to push him upright. Vetter also testified that you did your damnedest to save Durrani's life, even though the man was fighting you. Chief Yrle briefed me about the interview's audio file as well. The contents back you up. While we all knew they would, it too was a necessary step, and now it's complete. Agent Chase, you are officially back in charge—of the case on this ship and the remaining questions that need answering regarding the unknown woman from the cave, as well as the traitor. Agent Riyad will assist you."
Agent Riyad was not happy with that.
Not only had the scowl returned, but lo and behold, it was leveled squarely on her as she went further out on that limb of chimeral tangled nerves, reaching for the pot of coffee with her still reasonably steady hand so she could refill her cup.
Captain Hoffman returned to the wardroom, slipping back into his seat to hand over a sheet of paper and converse quietly with the general. What was on that sheet, she had no idea, but from the general's frown the contents appeared serious.
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