Backblast

by Candace Irving

  And with all that stress floating around the room? What better timing for an interrogation disguised as an impromptu sympathy visit?

  "That'd be Shifa International." Scott peeled off his latex gloves and tucked them in his trouser pocket, before retrieving his keys. "It's not too far away from the embassy, or the restaurant I've got in mind. I can always drive you back to the compound and your complimentary flop slot for the night when we're done."

  "Fantastic. I just need to stop by my temporary office and grab my scarf." She'd promised John she'd wear the dupatta while out and about, and a hospital visit with a follow-on dinner in town definitely qualified.

  Nor did it escape her that she might come off as more approachable to both Sadats if her hair was covered when she dropped by. And there was that bottle of ibuprofen inside the ditty bag in her suitcase. Two of the capsules within would ease her growing headache and ward off the need for caffeine for a few hours, at least.

  Ten minutes later, she was inside another black Volvo with her suitcase and gear locked in the trunk, two capsules duly swallowed and the dupatta concealing her French braid once again. This time she was in the front left passenger seat of the Volvo, watching the stark, almost desolate buildings of Islamabad proper pass by in the dark as Scott drove.

  Within minutes they'd turned onto Srinagar Highway.

  Scott glanced across the seat to her, then immediately shifted his attention forward to keep from colliding with a boxy Japanese number that tried to cut them off. "Sorry, still not quite used to driving on the left side of the road."

  The box made a second attempt.

  This time, Scott slowed and let it in. "So what's your assessment?"

  "So far, it's not much different than the outskirts of a southern city." Especially at night. Definitely not like Afghanistan or Iraq, and the places she'd been in both.

  Scott shook his head. "Not the city. Jeffers."

  As segues went, it couldn't have been more perfect if she'd tried. She laughed as she went with it. "Oh, he's a total bastard. He managed to toss Riyad's superior skills in my face within two minutes of meeting me. Hence, my interest in Jeffers at the Marine House."

  "Yeah, that's him. To hear Jeffers tell it, he's the lifeblood of Embassy I. Has been since he held Tom Crier's slot when the new mission was inaugurated. The guy's a plank owner in the chancery—and he lets everyone know it. Jeffers saves his charm for the locals. Which is odd, if you ask me, with him being a career diplomat and all."

  Agreed.

  "I think his wife's gonna leave him."

  What? Scott had been there two months. How'd he manage to glean that?

  There was something in the set of Scott's jaw when he glanced her way that told her he was serious. Anger.

  "What happened?" And why did she have the feeling that, like her, Scott had wanted to get away from the embassy so he too could talk—privately?

  When he failed to curse at the next driver who flat-out cut them off, she realized he was truly upset about something.

  "Scott?"

  He kept his eyes on the road, which was prudent, as it was notably crowded. But he sighed. Heavily. "Bethany came to see me last week in confidence. She thinks Jeffers is having an affair. She asked if I could stick around a few days after I was scheduled to leave and follow her husband on the sly. Find proof for her to use in the divorce."

  Yikes. This was big. And tricky. Yes, DSS investigated diplomats when needed. But for crimes against the country and other persons, not against the heart.

  "And?"

  "And I'm not convinced it is another woman. I mean, it could be. From what Bethany said, Jeffers is never in their residence when he should be, and when he is, he's preoccupied. She's says she's caught him on the phone late at night…in the guest bathroom with the door locked and the water running. When she pressed him, he lashed out, grabbed her arms so hard, he left bruises." Scott glanced over as he took the exit off the highway. "I saw them myself. Definitely compression fingermarks."

  "Have you spoken to Jeffers about it?"

  That earned her a snort. "The man's the fucking DCM. This is my first shot out in the real world of DSS—and he'll be signing off on my final assessment and making the recommendation on whether I get a second shot."

  "You said you weren't convinced it was another woman. Why?"

  Scott shrugged as he turned the Volvo into yet another street crowded with impatient, honking traffic. The scenery had shifted from shadowy stands of trees to sand-colored buildings, but she was too preoccupied now to study the signs in Urdu and English that covered them.

  She stared at the left side of Scott's jaw instead.

  It was tense.

  "I've been watching him since Bethany came to me. The man is on edge. Seriously so. I doubt he's getting action from anyone, let alone a hot new number across town. Something is eating at that man, Rae. It has been since he and the ambassador returned from their week-long, off-site, hush-hush that they still won't discuss. That said, I watch the news. And there's the timing of it all. It doesn't take a genius to figure out you were involved with what went down with that A-Team over there, and most likely are still working the fallout. And, no, I am not asking for a confirmation. I may be new to DSS, but I've been around it and the military long enough to know when to stick my nose in, and when to keep it out. I just…thought you should know."

  Regan nodded. "Thank you."

  Scott let it drop with that, and so did she.

  At least out loud. But that behavior Bethany Jeffers had described—potential extramarital activities and spousal abuse aside—it did mesh with a man who was trying to hide something…and was failing. Granted, Jeffers could simply be close to cracking over the political fallout from the cave murders and the psycho-toxin horror. Or, hell, any number of apocalyptic-level developments that top diplomats dealt with and were forced to keep secret, often on a daily basis.

  But when she added on the fact that Jeffers might also be hiding knowledge of Brandt and Baby Sadat's dimpled chin…

  Were her instincts off about the man?

  She was still hashing though the connections and possibilities as they reached the hospital.

  Regan took in the massive, modern and well-lit multi complex that appeared to crowd out more than an entire city block as Scott parked the Volvo. "Wow."

  He laughed. "I know. It's a medical monster, isn't it? I swear, it feels even bigger inside."

  And it did.

  The Shifa was also a fascinating mix of modern and traditional. The dichotomy surrounded Regan as they entered and moved deeper through the corridors. Gleaming marble, stainless steel and glass were everywhere, along with an overabundance of men and women. The men were dressed in everything from executive suits and silk ties to the most modest of shalwar kameezes, complete with short, round topi skullcaps up high and callused, sandaled feet down low. The majority of the women were wrapped—often head to toe—in endless, wisping yards of bright blues, peacock greens and lush purples, as well as vibrant yellows, burgundies, oranges and reds, many with silver and gold threads stitched throughout. And right next to these women—at times even chatting with them—the coarser, drab drapes of the completely obscuring shuttlecock burqa.

  But almost every single woman—sack-clothed, or gilded and silked—wore some version of the dupatta or a completely concealing veil.

  John was right. She and her CID-blue suit did garner a few stares as they headed through the maze of corridors, but the somber dupatta attracted even more attention in the way of approving glances and nods, as well as the occasional outright smile.

  Fortunately, the signs directing everyone were in Urdu and English. Within minutes, she and Scott had reached the waiting room outside the intensive care. She spotted Mrs. Sadat immediately. The woman was in her early-to-mid-twenties and dressed in gorgeous eggshell blue. The intricate silver floral design that edged her veil was delicate and stunning. The thickly lashed, caramel features within were more so.
/>   Regan had no idea what the woman's husband was wearing. Mr. Sadat was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, the man's tail had him firmly in sight.

  If not, they were screwed.

  Worse, Regan quickly discovered that his wife did not speak English. Odd. Not only had Inaya Sadat been married to a Pakistani Foreign Service National for several years, Staff Sergeant Brandt wasn't fluent in Urdu.

  Had her husband translated?

  Scott murmured something to the woman as he sat down a respectable seat away. Mrs. Sadat's response was equally soft.

  He glanced up as the woman dropped her focus to her folded hands. "I told her we came from the embassy to check on her family, see if they needed anything. The boy appears to be holding his own for the moment, and his blood sugar's stable, which is why her husband isn't here. He left the hospital to honor a scheduled appointment at their bank. She remained behind for their son."

  "He didn't arrange for someone to sit with her?" Regan took in the woman's reddened eyes, the dried traces of tears on Mrs. Sadat's otherwise perfect cheeks. Biological father or not, abandoning the woman to her fears was cold.

  Scott's sigh mirrored her thoughts. "Nope. And since she doesn't know when he'll be back—or if he's stopping anywhere afterward—I doubt we'll be able to explain away hanging around as long as it may take for him to return."

  Double damn. "Does she know about Brandt?"

  The woman glanced up at that name. Actually made eye contact with Regan. Spoke. In English. "Brandt?" Well, one, gently murmured word. The rest was a stream of still soft, but very rapid Urdu that Regan had no hope of translating.

  She waited for the woman to finish.

  Scott glanced over. "She wants to know when he's returning from his trip."

  Oh, boy.

  Not the best of ways to reveal this, much less the right time or place. But word regarding Brandt's unexpected death had been released that afternoon while the Sadats were here at the hospital. Mr. Sadat, wherever he was, was bound to learn of it soon. As much as she hated to push this woman while she was already distraught over her son, she had no choice. Mrs. Sadat was going to find out soon enough. She might as well offer it up now and catalogue the reaction.

  They needed answers.

  "Rae?"

  She nodded. "Tell her."

  He did.

  Regan might not speak Urdu, but after three years as an Army MP and another five with CID, if she was fluent in anything at all, it was death notifications and grief. She could feel the news sear in on that sharp, swift gasp, watched as the subsequent denial shook the woman's veiled head until it coalesced and settled into quivering lips. Dark, reddened eyes turning redder still as they filled with a wave of fresh tears.

  But that was it. They never spilled over.

  And, then, they evaporated.

  Less than half a minute later, Inaya Sadat sat there in her chair in the waiting room, staring at her hands once again. Silent. The quivering in those lips had long since ceased, her aura more subdued and remote now than it had been upon their arrival.

  Gentle stoicism didn't begin to cover this woman.

  The father of her child was dead, and this was it?

  Suspicion prickled in.

  Regan was about to suggest that Scott prod the woman with a few choice questions, when a slender, blond nurse interrupted. The lightly veiled British woman leaned down to whisper something in Mrs. Sadat's ears. A split second later, a high-pitched wail reverberated throughout the waiting room as Inaya stood and grabbed onto the nurse for support before both women half stumbled, half hurried across the room and through the door from whence the nurse had come.

  Scott came to his feet as well. "Her son's taken a turn for the worse."

  Regan nodded. She'd gathered that. But really? That was the reaction she'd expected over the notification of the staff sergeant's death.

  Before she could share her suspicion with Scott, her phone rang. She glanced down at the caller ID.

  Karl Goethe.

  The wave of emotion Regan had expected to hit Inaya Sadat crashed into her instead. Riding the crest: relief so intense, it burned. She closed her eyes to absorb it, then glanced at Scott. "I need to take this."

  She headed out into the corridor, turning so she had a view of all who passed as she accepted the call. "Yes?"

  "We need to meet. Off embassy grounds. The Serena Hotel. Do you know it?"

  "Yes." They'd passed the graceful, stone colossus on the drive here, though the hotel was closer to the embassy compound than the hospital. "I'm with Scott at Shifa International. Twenty, twenty-five minutes away. He can drop me."

  "Good. You're Mrs. Goethe. I'll be waiting."

  John severed the call.

  As she headed back inside the crowded waiting room to inform Scott of the change in plans, she realized John hadn't given her a first name.

  Then again, this was Pakistan. She didn't need one.

  As far as any local at the hotel was concerned, she was simply Karl Goethe's woman, an extension of the German businessman.

  Scott took one look at her as she reached his side and sighed. "I've lost my dinner date, haven't I?"

  "Sorry."

  He shrugged and led the way out of the hospital.

  Back at the car, Regan opted for the rear seat cater-cornered to the driver's in the front so she could still converse with Scott during the trip, yet appear to be the well-to-do, but modest expat upon her arrival at the hotel's manned entrance. Due to the influx of traffic on the roads, the drive took thirty minutes, during which Scott regaled her with his gustatory adventures around the city since he'd arrived. She tried to focus on their conversation, but dread had long since dripped through her relief at that call, coldly supplanting it. John had wanted to meet well away from the embassy.

  Why?

  She'd find out soon enough. Scott was already guiding the Volvo through the sculpted grounds of another dichotomous locale. Though the Serena appeared even sleeker and more impressive than the hospital they'd left, there was the whole veiled, two-steps-behind aspect of it all. Even here beneath the stone-covered entrance.

  As promised, John was waiting beside the doorman as Scott pulled up.

  He was wearing his dark gray suit from earlier in the day, though it was slightly wrinkled now. His leather suit bag was nowhere to be seen. With his Mrs. Goethe comment, she'd assumed they'd be having a secluded meal over china and crystal in a corner of the dining room. Had he checked them in instead?

  What the hell had he learned?

  He couldn't have gotten a name, could he?

  Adrenaline and hope burned through the remaining dread so quickly, her nerves tightened. So much so, her fingers had taken up that irritating tremor before John had even stepped up to the rear passenger door to open it for her. His right hand engulfed the fingers of her still steady one as he assisted her in exiting the car…or not.

  To the doorman, a passing local gentleman and probably even Scott, John appeared to be helping. What he'd really done was tuck something into her palm.

  Two somethings.

  Rings.

  Regan turned into the side of the car for cover and donned the solitary diamond and accompanying gold band. Score one for Tulle. The staff sergeant must've been sent to purchase the rings while John had been in his meeting. Though slightly loose, both were an impressively decent fit for impromptu guesswork.

  By the time John had retrieved her suitcase and gear, she'd gotten her confirmation. He had checked them in as man and wife.

  She nodded her thanks to Scott before following meekly behind as John led the way into the hotel and across the echoing marble foyer. He stopped in front of a pair of stainless-steel elevator doors and pressed the up button. Unfortunately, by the time the set of doors on their right opened, she and John weren't the only ones to enter.

  Conversation would have to wait until they'd reached their room.

  Especially since the dark-suited Pakistani and the slight, equally
somberly veiled companion standing behind him got off on their floor.

  Though it grated, she followed well behind John again. But as he stopped in front of the door to the executive suite he'd apparently secured, another formal suit opened the door from within and motioned them inside. The man wearing this suit was as short, slender and ebony as Staff Sergeant Tulle's dominating Nordic bulk was not.

  The unknown suit nodded as he hefted a nondescript stainless-steel case slightly larger than the one John had carried in for her. "All clear, man." The innate humor behind that follow-up grin was infectious. "Well…it is now."

  Bugs.

  Evidently John had called in a colleague to have the room swept for listening devices. And he'd found something. Not surprising. Executive suites tended to be occupied by executives. Industrial espionage was as big a racket as the one in which she suspected John's colleague chose to partake. Not to mention clearing this room would be easier, and certainly less suspicious, than ordering a sweep of their own embassy.

  "Thanks, Ty."

  Ty?

  Ty turned to her and nodded at the question evident in her raised brow. "Tyrell Bennet. I'm the Company man who's been dealing with the shadow requests you made via General Palisade this morning. Need any changes to the line up?"

  She nodded. "Stay on Maddoc, Crier and Sadat. Contact Major Garrison or myself if anything seems off—and add Inaya Sadat to the list…along with Jeffers."

  The man blinked at the final name, then inclined his head. "You got it."

  "Thank you."

  She headed deeper into the room to give John a few moments with Ty, since the man was primarily John's connection and not hers. The obvious rapport between them also suggested that John and Ty were friends, as well as occasional colleagues.

  Since John had her suitcase and gear at his side, she settled for taking in her surroundings as she attempted to massage the tremors from her hand. The room was huge, with a king-sized bed anchoring the far end. A generous sitting area complete with a plush, maroon couch, two matching chairs and a gleaming coffee table anchored the opposite end of the room. A glass slider beyond led to a small balcony where a wicker table and two seats overlooked a bejeweled view of Islamabad at night. Back inside the room, at the middle, sat a decent-sized desk on one wall, with a mirror and dresser flanking the other, all carved from the same heavy expresso wood of the coffee table and that king-sized headboard.