And there was the traitor/terror angle to consider. If Riyad's rogue SEAL had been the one to infect that baby, Zakaria Webber had been slipping in and out of Islamabad for a lot longer than just today.
What else had Webber been doing while he was here?
"Rae?"
She turned to John, ignored the lingering frustration and fury still threaded within his dark gray eyes. "I need you to scare the shit out of that woman."
"What?"
"John, listen to me. We don't know who infected that boy in there, much less Staff Sergeant Brandt. Yes, given that both Brandt and the baby were infected, it's looking as though Brandt was the father, and that a guilty Aamer Sadat was getting revenge and cleaning house. But what if that's what we're meant to see? If your source is right, and Crier is seeing a local, that kid could just as easily be his."
If Tom Crier was the father and their traitor, what better way to obscure his trail? Crier could've just as easily gotten the chimera from Riyad's dirty SEAL. If she hadn't walked into that ICU and deliberately leaned over for a whiff, the boy would most likely have continued having seizures—confusing the hell out of his doctors—until he was dead, seemingly of complications from his diabetes.
And, once the boy was dead, no one would be looking to connect him to a father outside of Aamer Sadat.
Nor would this be the first case of infanticide that she'd come across in her time with CID. And as dastardly as this particular method would be—if it succeeded—it wouldn't even be the worst. She didn't have to tell John that either. After the hell his father had subjected him to growing up, it was a miracle John had survived long enough to grow into his body and take his survival into his own hands.
All that baby had was them. She needed to get to the bottom of this now. For so many reasons. And, frankly, she would use whatever she could to get there.
If that offended John, or tarnished her in his eyes, so be it.
"Just repeat what I say, no matter what. And remember—" She laid her hand on his arm, pressing into the hard layer of muscle to reach the surprisingly tender man hidden beneath. Whether John admitted it or not. "—you are not hurting her. It's me."
Nor would this be the first time.
That familiar gray stare studied her, much as she'd studied Inaya from across the room. Its owner finally nodded. "Okay. But you can't fool me. Not any longer. You don't like what you're about to do any more than those you're forced to do it to."
He was right.
But she wouldn't admit it. She couldn't afford to.
So she did the only thing she could. She ignored it. "We passed a consult room just outside this waiting area. It's empty. Tell Inaya I have news about her son's condition and that I'll speak with her in there. I'll be waiting."
There was no way a married woman in the Near East would admit to what they needed Inaya to admit to in a public waiting room, Muslim or not.
As John turned to fulfill her request, Regan headed for the consult room. Fortunately, it was unlocked. Unfortunately, there were only two black, plastic-and-metal chairs inside. The room was also more a claustrophobic booth.
It would have to do.
She scooted the shoulders of one of the chairs into the corner of the tiny room and placed the other facing it, in the center. When John opened the door, she motioned the petite, veiled woman inside toward the cornered chair, John to the other in the center of the room. Regan took in those wide, reddened eyes amid that delicate, silver-edged wisp of eggshell blue as she took up her spot, standing behind John.
Emotionally, Inaya Sadat was on the edge.
Excellent. It would help.
She and Mrs. Sadat waited as John leaned down to tuck her laptop on the floor beneath the metal legs of his chair. Evidently, he'd done this before, because he remained silent as he straightened, listening for her cue as to when and what to speak.
"Mrs. Sadat, my name is Special Agent Regan Chase. I lied to you when I stopped by the hospital earlier this evening with Agent Walburn. I wasn't here to offer my condolences. For that, I apologize. But there was an important reason for my lie. I'm investigating a case that involves soon-to-be mothers who were murdered in a cave in the Hindu Kush less than a month ago. Have you heard the news?"
Regan paused and waited for John. She could hear his deep voice, translating her words, but she didn't focus on it, or him. She stared over his imposing shoulders instead, completely focused on Inaya Sadat.
Black, white, European, Pakistani or Russian, it didn't matter. Micro-expressions were universal to humans, man or woman.
She needed to see this woman's.
Regan watched as the shock set in, caught the woman's slight nod, confirming that she'd heard of the murders, then continued. "Mrs. Sadat, I know what's wrong with your son. He's been infected with a new and very deadly virus. I recently survived the same virus. Your son's doctor is speaking to mine in the United States right now. I arranged that call. The cure will soon be on its way here. I'll be honest; I don't know if it will help. Your son is very young and his medical condition will most likely complicate his treatment. Now, I need something from you for my efforts. I need the truth." Even if it meant that she'd be getting it by implying that the boy's critical medical treatment was tied to his mother's willingness to answer questions from the strange Americans who'd brought her into this room.
The tactic might be heinous and brutal, and Regan might hate herself for it, but it was a time-proven producer of results.
