Brandt held her stare for a good ten seconds, then sighed. He took one last drag on the now stunted cigarette and leaned forward to extinguish it. He left the crumpled butt in the tin, shaking his head as he sat back in his chair. "No. I've never run across the major before. And, yeah, he did it. Though I swear to God, he held out longer than I would have."
"The taunting?"
Another nod. This one was downright grim. "The bastard was in rare form this morning—and, trust me, I know. I've been stuck on this boat since they brought the two of them here."
Brandt knew about Durrani then, too.
Regan wasn't surprised. She simply retrieved her pen so she could make a note in her tablet to that effect before she continued. "So you were there for the earliest sessions that involved just Agent Riyad?"
"Yes. Not that anything came of them. I guess that's why they brought in the major—personal history, and all."
This time, Regan nodded. "Sometimes it gets things going."
"This was definitely one of those times. Just not sure it was a wise choice, at least not this morning."
"Why not?"
"'Cause they were both pushing at each other. Granted, the major was pushing harder, at least for a while. Not in a bad way, mind you. Just…smart."
"How so?"
"Hachemi wasn't feeling well. I don't think he'd slept well, either. He was rubbing at his neck, and he was sweaty and thirsty. At one point he admitted his head was pounding and that his stomach felt like shit. He was green about the gills—and the seas were rough this morning. But he'd refused the pills the doc offered, so it was his own damned fault. The major must've thought so too, 'cause he finally reamed the guy with it. Said ships weren't his thing either—but that, lucky for him, he was about to leave. But he figured he'd give the bastard one last shot at the most understanding ear he was gonna get. 'Cause the word had come down that we were gonna hand him over to the Pakistanis when all was said and done, and let them deal with him. And if that happened, that bastard was gonna wish he'd died with those women in that cave."
"Do you know if that was the truth?"
Given the focus of her interview with John in his stateroom earlier, she hadn't had a chance to ask him. But she suspected not. Not only had General Palisade not mentioned a Pakistani rendition back at Fort Campbell, Agent Riyad hadn't broached the subject either, earlier today aboard this ship or during that recent session with John.
Though, there was precedent for allowing the Pakistanis to take the lead. Most infamously, the Al Qaeda terror mastermind Ramzi Ahmed Yousef and the first attack on the Twin Towers in '93. Then again, Ramzi Yousef had been in Pakistan when he'd been hunted down and arrested by US Diplomatic Security Service agents. Nor had Ramzi been a recently minted naturalized American citizen.
Hachemi was—or had been until this morning.
Brandt shrugged. "I don't know. Like I said, I figured it was smart tactics. 'Cause let's face it, if the guy had ended up in ISI's custody, he would've wished he had died alongside those women."
True. Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence agents had no compunction with regard to full-blown torture. Once the ISI got going, they tended to make the Gestapo look like a gaggle of Girl Scouts. They had with Ramzi Yousef…and others.
Granted, the ISI wouldn't have gone so far as to kill Hachemi—but Brandt was right. Hachemi would've wished they had. For a very long, painful time.
As interview techniques went, it was impressive. But ultimately, "It didn't work, did it?"
"Oh, no, it worked. Just not the way the major hoped. The bastard believed him—and he was terrified shitless. It was like a switch went off. I think he decided right then and there to go out on his own terms. You know that phrase: suicide by cop? Only in this case, it was suicide by Special Forces. 'Cause from that moment on, that fucker got in the major's face and he would not let up. Tossed his coffee at him and started going off again on how he'd targeted the major's men personally, then he lit in on how he'd gutted those babies right out of their moms' bellies, while the women were still alive. He kept describing it, over and over—the screaming and the blood. And all the while, that bastard was cackling. Like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. And then he started in about you. Saying how it was his idea, not Durrani's, to put that shit in your veins. That he and Durrani knew you'd be dead by the time they got to Iran and they didn't care, because they'd planned on draining your blood outta you anyway, by the bucketload. And, hell, it was what a whore like you deserved. That's when—"
The Marine broke off, took a breath and…nothing. The solidarity had returned, this time with a vengeance.
"Staff Sergeant?"
He met her stare, held it—and refused to budge.
"Please continue." It wasn't a request.
"Damn it, you said you knew."
"I do. But you have to say it." She pointed to the digital recorder. "For the record."
Reluctant blue zeroed in on that gleaming dot of green as the Marine evaded her stare. He dragged his gaze back to hers on a heavy sigh. "Fine. For the record, that goddamned fucker was in his face—laughing about you dying and deserving it—and that's when he snapped."
"The major?"
Brandt reached up and slicked his palms over the naked skin above his ears, then scrubbed them through the island of cropped hair that formed the high of the ubiquitous Marine Corps high-and-tight cut. His fury ebbed as he dropped his hands to his lap. Resignation set in. "Yeah. The major. He grabbed the back of Hachemi's
