Backblast by Candace Irving (miss read books TXT) 📕

to keep something to herself, because Regan had succeeded in knocking the DCM back on his heels with something that carried a lot more punch than that smell.

The truth.

Jeffers was floored. Oh, the man tried to hide it. But that fixed stare, that tense jaw and that thick swallow? The gray that was slowly overtaking those meaty jowls as the blood slowly receded from the DCM's face?

Even this asshole had finally realized he had a traitor in his midst.

"Now, I have a question for you, Mr. Jeffers. Did either you or the ambassador share the details of my real mission with anyone else—American, Afghan, Pakistani or, hell, even Martian?" She wouldn't put any of it past either of them.

Color returned to those jowls, staining the generous flesh redder than the deck had been in the Griffith's brig the night before. "Yes."

"Who?"

"Just the regional security officer. And Maddoc won't talk. I guarantee it."

She was less than impressed with the assurance. Especially in light of the assurer's worship of Riyad. Still, she nodded. "Bring him in and press the point. No one else can know. Call me if you need backup."

Frankly, she wasn't sure Jeffers would have the balls to push it with the regional security officer. Look how quickly he'd folded with her.

Then again, clamping down on the embassy's senior Diplomatic Security Service agent didn't sit right with her either. Neither had lying to Maddoc and his DSS staff in the first place. Frankly, it was frustrating as hell to have as many counter-intel and investigatory assets as there were attached to this compound and not be able to use them. Much less confide in them. Receive time-tested wisdom and advice.

But during that out-brief at Al Dhafra, General Palisade—evidently with Admiral Kettering's support—had been firm. No DSS agent in Pakistan would be privy to the truth until every single one had been cleared and the traitor arrested.

She might hate keeping colleagues in the dark, but she understood why.

Especially on this.

Anyone who knew counterintelligence history would. All they had to do was look back to 2009 and the arrest of a Department of State employee with nearly thirty years in who'd been arrested and convicted of conspiring to provide classified US information to a foreign government. And there were more cases in other critical agencies. Certainly enough to give her pause, even without that chimera floating around out there.

As for Warren Jeffers, "Sir, I'd like to begin my interviews. I'll need to speak to every name on my list. I believe you have a copy." Not that Jeffers needed it. As he'd said, he'd been in the Griffith's conference room when her BI had hit the table. "I'll be sure to let you know which one of your staffers is dirty—after I take the bastard down. Until then, stay out of my way."

She must have made her point, because the man nodded once, muttered something about her standing by for visitors, and left.

Regan slumped back into the edge of the table as the door opened, then closed behind him. The implications of everything the DCM had revealed continued to pummel though her brain. Her still trembling hand all but ached to retrieve her phone and punch in Mira's number. She wanted to demand that her friend drop everything, and pull up Riyad's file and read it to her word for word.

But she couldn't. Reality had set in.

She was stuck in this room until dinner, at least. And since she was in Pakistan, among a people known to eat markedly later than those in her own country, the meal might not occur for many hours. Until she made her escape, she'd have to remain on her guard. Assume that this room and potentially others within the compound were bugged. If so, there was no telling who might be listening on the other end.

Much less, if they were friendly.

With what she'd been forced to reveal to Jeffers to get him on her side and actively pursuing her goals, she prayed not. Nor could she risk revealing more, let alone to anyone else.

The thought dogged her through all four of her following interviews.

She had to give Jeffers credit. When he'd finally accepted reality, he'd moved heaven and earth to assist.

Unfortunately, nothing came from the DCM's efforts or hers. Though Jeffers hadn't intended it, she'd discovered more in those ten minutes going at it with him than she had from all four of the staffers who'd shuttled through the chair on the opposite side of her makeshift desk. Even more frustrating, the two men that her gut had kept pinging on during her initial research on the flight from Al Dhafra to Islamabad hadn't shown. Couldn't.

According to a subsequent call from an almost apologetic Jeffers, both the embassy's senior political officer and the Pakistani Foreign Service National who'd accompanied the other staffers to the Griffith to transcribe the minutes and assist with translation were out for the remainder of the day. The political officer, Tom Crier, was in a meeting across the city, while Aamer Sadat had left the compound before Regan's C-130 had even touched down at Islamabad International.

Evidently Sadat's wife had phoned before lunch. The Sadats' three-month-old son had diabetes and had suffered an insulin reaction. Mrs. Sadat had taken the baby to hospital. The boy was still there, now in intensive care, along with his terrified parents. As excuses went, it was one Regan couldn't argue with.

Who'd want to?

Regan sighed as she closed her notes file on her computer. The lid of the laptop followed with a stronger snap. 1800 local time had just come and gone. Whether she liked it or not, it appeared she'd be meeting with Crier, Sadat and the embassy's loose-lipped ambassador in the morning.

Hope surged as her phone vibrated, only to sink as she caught the name in her caller ID. It wasn't Colonel Tarrington, or even John with news about whatever he and Tulle were up to. It was Gil.

"What's up, Doc?"

Despite the ten-hour time deficit on