But, now, with his daughter dead?
And his colonel of a son quite possibly arguing against democracy and for vengeance upon those who'd mutilated his baby sister?
Riyad's suit jacket vibrated. He reached in and retrieved his phone, only to glance at the screen before returning it to his inner pocket. "You know what this all means, don't you?"
Yeah, she knew. "Basically, we've got a Pakistani army general who wants to be president and a prime minster willing to help him out for a share of the pie, topped off by a moderate sitting president without the political oomph to fight off Prime Minister Bukhari or the army. And, of course, the only one with that political oomph has just discovered that his cherished only daughter was supposedly murdered by American soldiers."
In other words, they had a recipe for the very thing Chaudhry had argued against. A coup.
At the very least, Bukhari and the army might have effectively killed Chaudhry's pro-American sentiment and—without the apple of his eye around to boost it up—quite possibly his spirit too, especially given how Asma had died. Hell, Regan wouldn't be surprised if the man retired from the bench to grieve with his wife in private.
A win-win for Bukhari and his G3-rifle-wielding thugs.
With those riots spreading out around the embassy and, eventually, the city and the country, all the army had to do was wait a bit longer and they could take the presidency for themselves, installing their current commanding general in the job, or they could pretend to hand power over to their current political lapdog and puppet, Bukhari. Again, a win-win.
Either scenario spelled disaster for future US-Pakistani relations, not to mention Pakistan's support for any current and upcoming joint anti-terror efforts.
"I need to speak to him."
"Chaudhry?"
She'd finally succeeded in stunning the spook.
Good. She had a few more surprises up her sleeve, if she could get her recalcitrant hand to cooperate. Yeah, it was after 0130 local time, but she doubted very many folks were sleeping in the city tonight, much less the chief justice and his wife.
Not with the image both of Asma's parents now had reverberating around inside their heads and their hearts.
"Yes, Chaudhry. And I'd like to speak to his wife, as well." Not so much so she could make an appeal to the mother, though she'd definitely do that, but because she owed the woman and her husband a personal apology over that photo.
Hell, she owed an apology to all the victims' families. Not only should those photos have never been leaked, the images within were ones that loved ones should never have to carry around for the rest of their lives.
She ought to know. She had one hell of a final, horrific view of her mom lurking in the recesses of her own mind…always.
Regan rubbed at the vibrating fingers of her right hand, hoping the self-massage would work as well as John's deeper one, but it didn't. "If the ambassador can't arrange it, I can put in a call to Palisade—or you can hit up your buddy, the Big Bubble. I'm sure both men have our president on speed dial."
And he should be able to arrange it.
To her surprise, Riyad nodded swiftly and decisively. "I'll speak to the ambassador. If she can't make it happen, I'll see what Kettering can do."
"Fine. I'd like—"
"Uh…Agent Riyad?" Jeffers.
And just like that, the scowl was back.
The spook wasn't kidding. He really did not like Warren Jeffers, much less the man's sycophantic attitude.
She could see the tinge of disgust coating Riyad's latest frown as he turned toward the DCM's downright timid approach across the foyer. "Yes?"
"The ambassador's looking for you."
"Was. I left her side fifteen minutes ago. Unless this request is new?"
"Oh, no. Sorry. I'll just—"
Regan stepped forward, before the man could complete his almost comical tail tuck and instinctive about-face. "Mr. Jeffers?"
The man froze. In honor of her presence, Riyad's nearly perpetual scowl had shifted, now appearing on the DCM's meaty features. "Yes?"
"I need to see Mr. Crier. Now." She hadn't had a chance to discuss the latest with Riyad, so she shot him an open glance instead. One that promised dirt, if he'd but back her up.
To her relief, the spook clipped a nod in return. "Right. As a matter of fact, we both need to see Crier." Riyad nodded to the DCM, tapping into a surprisingly effective store of charm she'd yet to see from the man. "Mr. Jeffers, if you would be so kind as to escort Agent Chase to Crier's office? He told the ambassador he'd be holed up there until further notice." Riyad turned to her and leveled a brief, but stunning smile on her in place of his standard-issue frown. "I'll join you shortly, Regan. Just as soon as I've taken care of that matter we discussed."
Chaudhry.
She returned the spook's smile with more than a touch of pure camaraderie, if only to piss Jeffers off, as she gathered up her laptop and stainless-steel kit. "I'll see you there. Good luck." She allowed her smile to drip away as she headed for the DCM and his thatch of wilted peppery curls and wrinkled suit. "Shall we?"
The DCM's annoyance at having to do her bidding echoed with each peeved step along the silvery marble flooring as they crossed the foyer. It continued to serve as the only communication between them as Jeffers led her past the inner security, as well as darkened office after darkened office, until they'd reached the chancery's political section.
She paused to set her crime kit down on the secretary's outer desk as Jeffers grudgingly continued on toward a closed, inner door, presumably to knock.
A split second before his thick knuckles connected with the slab of wood, a sharp retort reverberated from within.
Gunshot.
Regan dumped her laptop and vaulted toward the DCM,
