Backblast

by Candace Irving

  John would undoubtedly be leveraging his proficiency with the German language and that Pakistani love for the German people to his advantage.

  But with whom?

  Riyad had been right about one thing in her stateroom the day before. Over the years that he'd spent as Special Forces, John had operated on and around some exceptionally blurred lines on the globe, especially those along Afghanistan's porous southeastern border with Pakistan. While doing so, John had made quite a few connections. And, yes, some of those connections were shady as hell.

  Right now, those were precisely the sort they needed.

  While Vetter returned to his guard duties in Islamabad and Riyad headed off to link up with Agent Castile at the US consulate in Peshawar to add his FCI skills, as well as his own proficiency with Dari, Pashto and Arabic, to Castile's knowledge of Urdu and the search for the seventh victim, John would be abusing every one of those connections of his that he'd deemed capable of getting them the information they needed.

  Beginning with that Russian Bioprepart contact of Durrani's…and whoever else Aleksi Skulachev had been selling biological warfare agents to.

  They might desperately need the intel John was after, and she might still be pissed over that chest-beating incident in the Griffith's wardroom earlier that morning, but she was worried. About him. Who was she kidding? The idea that whoever had infected Brandt with the chimera was still out there scared the absolute shit out of her. How much more of that virus did their unnamed traitor have?

  And what else was in his possession?

  John might be immune to the chimera, but he wasn't immune to everything those Bioprepart monsters had created.

  As the C-130 dropped noticeably in altitude, the sudden pressure in Regan's inner ears pushed her attention back to the mission. The cargo plane had begun its final approach to Islamabad International, where she was due to be met by an agent with the Diplomatic Security Service. From there, she and the DSS agent would head to the embassy so she could begin interviewing the State Department personnel who'd received her BI.

  The only foreseeable complication—and, admittedly, it was a huge one—would be discerning if the initial seven recipients on the general's list had then turned around and shared her backgrounder with anyone else. If so, who? A dicey quest, to say the least, since anyone admitting to the affirmative would also be admitting that they'd passed on classified information without proper authorization.

  A bit of a death knell for a diplomat's career.

  Or it should be.

  Minutes later, they were wheels down, cruising along the tarmac as the C-130's pilot headed for their pre-arranged parking slot on the military ramp near Pakistan's haphazard collection of older, Soviet-era aircraft.

  Several more minutes passed before the bird stopped moving. Within moments, the C-130's giant turbofan engines had begun to power down.

  By the time Regan had unbuckled and bypassed her half-full duffel to retrieve the small civilian suitcase Chief Yrle had procured from one of the Griffith's generous sailors, Riyad had already hefted his civilian suitcase and was heading down the aft ramp. Regan shouldered her laptop case and grabbed her crime scene kit as well, before joining John and the corporal. She expected to catch up with Riyad out on the tarmac to exchange polite goodbyes, but the spook wasn't there.

  As he had the night before up on the flight deck of the Griffith, Riyad had taken off across the tarmac—alone.

  John slipped her suitcase from her right hand before she could stop him, then shouldered the black leather suit bag he'd had the foresight to bring to the ship. Since advertising US military status wasn't advisable in their host country at the moment, his own uniforms and duffel remained stowed in the plane alongside hers.

  John swung his chin toward the spook's retreating back. "I need to make a few calls about that man, ASAP."

  Amen to that.

  "I'll phone Mira as soon as I get a moment alone, too." Only that call might be some hours from now, given that she could make out the silhouette of another man on the tarmac, and this one was passing Riyad and heading toward her.

  Even better, that short, wiry build and sandy hair were distinctive enough to place.

  "Scott?" She moved up the right side of the plane to set her crime kit and laptop down on the tarmac beside her suitcase and John's leather bag, then continued on toward the nose of the bird, eager to whittle away the remaining distance between an old friend and herself. "You're the DSS agent I've been assigned?" She glanced at John. "Scott and I went to MP school together; did our first tours over in Iraq with Agent Jelling." Though, granted, every time this guy had gotten roped into an IED/human-remains collections and cleanup, Scott had threatened to bail on the Army.

  It looked as though he'd made good on that threat.

  Though if Scott was with State's Diplomatic Security Service, he hadn't gotten very far, had he? Protecting embassies and their personnel was an equally rough gig.

  In a lot of ways, far rougher.

  "Good to see you, Prez. It's been too damned long." Scott grinned as he hauled her in for a wonderfully familiar hug. One that nearly crushed her ribs.

  The man was definitely still in shape for the job.

  He stuck out a hand to John. "Scott Walburn, DSS. Will you be needing a lift to the embassy, too?"

  John's scarred hand engulfed Scott's significantly smoother one. "John Garrison, SF. Thanks, but I've got my own welcoming committee. He's right behind you."

  Regan glanced past Scott's dark gray pinstripes to see yet another familiar face, similarly suited up and marking time, just beyond the edge of the tarmac.

  Tulle.

  The Nordic giant who'd shadowed her off the official books for Palisade back at Fort Campbell at the start of it all nodded to John, then her. She should've expected that John would be linking up with his staff sergeant. He and Tulle would have done so yesterday, had it not been for the situation with Hachemi.

  John's staff sergeant remained at the edge of earshot, patiently waiting for his commander to wrap things up with them.

  "Rae, you ready? I've got an embassy car and driver just off the tarmac."

  She glanced at Scott, then tipped her head toward the plane. "I just need to get my gear and let Corporal Vetter know we're leaving."

  As she and John headed back down the C-130's belly, she spotted Vetter conversing with a member of the security detail near the aft ramp. In light of the on-again/off-again relationship their country shared with the country that owned the tarmac beneath her shoes—and the reality that the relationship was currently tilted toward off—the detail would remain in place and on alert until she, John and Riyad returned to the plane that Palisade had left at their disposal, just in case.

  Well, she and John. Lord only knew what the spook's plans were beyond hooking up with Castile, and whether or not he'd ever deign to share them. At least with her.

  "Ready, Corporal?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Just gotta grab my duffel. It's still inside."

  She nodded as Vetter headed for the plane's rear ramp.

  The tension had returned—inside her. She knew it was time to turn around and retrieve her own suitcase and gear. But for once, she didn't want to. Not yet. Not with the harsh reality of it all scraping back in and refusing to let go.

  John. He was leaving too. The man was a minute, perhaps two, from Tulle and that mystery bird of theirs, and wherever it was scheduled to land. The suits they'd both donned suggested that there wouldn't be a lot of backup. Not close by, anyway.

  What if something went wrong?

  "Rae?"

  She forced herself to turn. John was staring down at her, intently. The way she'd worked very hard to not stare at him on that Super Stallion as they'd left the Griffith behind, then again during their brief wait at Al Dhafra and aboard the C-130 on the way here. The scruff that had taken over his jaw these past few weeks was still there. With his current mission, going barefaced wouldn't have been prudent. But he'd clean
ed it up after he'd left sickbay. Trimmed his mustache and beard into something downright sleek and cultivated. The result was disturbingly touchable. Missable.

  Along with the rest of him.

  Damn it, what if he didn't make it back?

  She was pushing through the fear, reminding herself of those who were waiting, as John reached into his suit jacket to pull a length of black silk from within.

  A scarf?

  Where on earth had he obtained that? When?

  Her bemusement must've shown, because that distracting dent of his slipped in. "I bought it off a woman in Al Dhafra. You and Riyad were checking out the male latrines to see where Brandt might've been infected."

  Unfortunately, they hadn't been successful in their quest. Unlike John.

  "Surely you don't—"

  But he nodded. Worse, he'd lifted the swath of silk and was carefully draping it over the top of her French braid, completely concealing it. He crossed the trailing ends beneath her chin and tucked them over her shoulders. "Wear the dupatta when you're not on the embassy compound. It'll deflect attention, help you blend in as just another expat. One with male ties."

  He was correct. About all of it. But she still had an issue with the whole cover up the woman aspect of the thing. Ten seconds in, and she was already suffocating. Mentally, at least. She sighed. "I know. The mission's critical. I'll—"

  He shook his head.

  He wasn't debating the mission's importance, and she knew it. It was the rationale. The scarf, and the protection it offered, was personal…to him.

  "Sir? Hate to push, but I got that lift fired up three birds over, burning through fuel."

  That intense focus didn't shift. "Be right there, Tulle."

  John held her gaze for another few seconds, then inclined his head. Turned.

  She reached out without thinking, pressing her fingers into the sleeve of his dark gray suit, feeling the solid warmth beneath. The man.

  He stopped, turned back. Waited.

  Well, crap. She'd started this round. Now what?

  "Be careful."

  He flashed that dent once more, and then he was gone.

  She drew her breath and her nerves in deep and held them for several beats before releasing both. It helped. She bent down to retrieve her suitcase and gear. Scott was grinning like the proverbial village idiot as she returned to his side.

  "Well, I'll be…the Prez finally found herself a First Man. Uncle Ronnie would be so proud." He added insult to injury as he chortled over his own sorry joke.

  "Shut up."

  When he refused, she swung the suitcase into his midsection, grinning herself at the sharp oomphf the blow produced.

  Corporal Vetter joined them, his duffel and gear in hand. She was still smiling as they followed Scott across the tarmac, taking Riyad's path instead of John's. Ten minutes later, she was sitting in the rear seat of a black, bullet-resistant Volvo with Scott and headed out of the airport and toward the embassy on the opposite side of the road than they would've been had they been driving in the States. Vetter was up front and catching up with the driver on what he'd missed while he was aboard the Griffith.

  She was tempted to use the time to pump Scott for information as well.

  The moment she'd spotted her old friend and his pinstripe suit on that tarmac, she'd realized she had an in with the embassy staff. A potential source of office gossip, and more, for the names on her list. Hence, she'd immediately accepted his offer of a late dinner. Unfortunately, she'd also since realized the odds that she'd discern anything actionable were not on her side.

  It turned out Scott was temporarily assigned to the embassy. Not only was he nearly as new to DSS as Riyad was to NCIS, Scott had been snagged from his newbie DSS stateside posting to assist with an intricate and extensive human trafficking racket out of Islamabad because of his proficiency with Urdu. The arrests had gone down the day before. Once the wrap-up was finished, he'd be heading back to Arlington, Virginia.

  Which, of course, was why Scott had been roped into his current chauffeur and Army-CID liaison duties. Still, the man was sharp. Though he wasn't working directly for the embassy's regional security officer, he had met the RSO on a number of occasions. Scott might've gleaned something these past two months that she in turn could glean—and use.

  Either way, Vetter and the driver's presence would hamper their conversation. Scott wouldn't feel it prudent to dish on his fellow co-workers with others in earshot.

  She'd need to tread carefully over dinner, too. Scott had been fed the same cover story that nearly everyone would receive: she was in Islamabad following up on the untimely death of Staff Sergeant Brandt while Brandt had been away from embassy grounds, nothing more. Only Vetter—by virtue of his personal involvement—and the ambassador—knew the truth…along with the embassy's hidden, terror-cell connection.

  Regan settled for catching Scott up on the lives of several mutual friends, including Agent Jelling, as the Volvo turned onto Islamabad's Srinagar Highway and headed northeast toward the embassy. The endless, tree-filled expanse that bordered both sides of the road could've resembled the outskirts of any number of large cities in the mid-southern US, but for the daunting rugged peaks and slopes of the Margalla Hills that formed this section of the Himalayan foothills.

  Scott was more impressed with her gossip. "Wow. I knew the guy wanted to join CID, but married? Jelly?"

  She grinned. "Yep. And with a kid."

  Jelly Jr. would be two in a few months. With all the numbers that tended to rattle around in her head, she still couldn't quite believe that one. And she'd presented Jelly with the box of hideously blue stogies he'd handed out on the big day.

  "What about you, Rae?"

  "Kids?" She shook her head firmly, before the memories could filter in, along with the ache that was still too raw to accept, much less discuss. "Nothing to see here."

  "I don't know. That goodbye looked an awfully lot like see you soon."

  She shrugged.

  Really, what else could she do? Except pray her expression was as impassive as she needed it to be. For once, she wasn't quite sure.

  "Prez?"

  She finally located one of the deceiver's smiles and slotted it into place. "I'm just tired. Last night was a long one." One spent dealing with an utter bastard who'd thrown that same aching memory into her face, before he'd gone on to rip open his carotids in front of her.

  Every time she closed her eyes, she could see that blood jetting out. Feel it. Probably would for the rest of her life, just as Durrani had intended.

  Even if she'd wanted to confide in Scott, she couldn't. So she let it go and focused on the road.

  Islamabad's Srinagar Highway and their shorter jaunt up the more crowded Khayaban-e-Suhrwardy had given way to the imposing gates of their embassy. Thirty-six acres filled with decidedly American buildings, the most impressive of which was that massive, seven-story, glass, concrete and steel embassy complex that had weighed in at a cool three quarters of a billion by the time it'd been inaugurated within the Diplomatic Enclave not too long ago—shortly after she, Jelly and Scott had met. In all, a decent sized bite of the Red, White and Blue smack in the middle of Pakistan.

  Only, someone inside was not thrilled with that patriotic outlook.

  Within minutes, the Volvo had cleared security and they were winding their way through the grounds of one of the largest US embassy compounds in the world. With its own commissary, post office, diplomatic staff residences and a three-story recreational building complete with an indoor pool, not to mention an on-site well water and waste treatment plant, Embassy Islamabad was essentially a self-contained city.

  In light of where it was located, and that it was designed to accommodate a staff of twenty-five hundred, it needed to be.

  "We're here."

  The driver pulled up beside the striking seven-story chancery and stopped to let them out.

  Vetter grabbed his gear from the trunk and Scott snagged her suitcase,
leaving her to shoulder her laptop bag and retrieve her crime scene case.

  She waved goodbye to the Marine and followed Scott into the marble and glass interior and through several more layers of security, until she'd gained yet another federal ID, this one to hang around her neck.

  They finally reached a small, barebones, windowless room with a modest, faux wood-grained table and two chairs, one executive in nature.

  Scott set the fabric suitcase Chief Yrle had procured down beside the door. "Sorry it's not classier, what with your lofty presidential status and all."

  Regan laughed as she tucked her stainless-steel kit and laptop beside the suitcase. "This will do just fine."

  That high-backed, padded chair was decidedly more luxurious than she usually got in the field. Especially on the battlefield.

  She couldn't lie though. Right about now, a tiny coffee station would've been a godsend.

  "So, what's the OPLAN, Detective?"

  Regan removed her suit jacket and hung it from the shoulders of the nicer chair. "Find caffeine, then get started. I have a few folks I need to interview. Basically, those who were on the Griffith before I arrived." It was barely 1500 local time. If she was lucky, she'd be able to get through the leading contenders before the diplomats and staffers departed for home and dinner. "Of course, I also have Brandt's quarters."

  "Absolutely. Once the RSO got word about the staff sergeant's death, Maddoc had Brandt's room sealed. He figured someone from the outside would want to take a peek—though I think he expected a Marine." Scott's sandy brows furrowed. "But interviews? Linnet told us the staff sergeant suffered some kind of seizure."

  The ambassador had kept her word regarding the cover story, then.

  Excellent. Regan could only pray Linnet had kept her trap shut regarding the untimely deaths of Hachemi and his scissor-wielding idol, as well. With some diplomats, you couldn't be sure. But the woman was serving as the president's face in a particularly tense part of the world. Clearly, Linnet was made of stern stuff.