Dr. McKay emerged from the lavatory and took a seat across the aisle from Gonz. She glanced at her watch and told Gonz, “Right on time.”
“Been here before?” he asked. She shook her head no. “You’ll like it. First class. Plenty of hot water for showers and no time limit, either. Great food too.”
“Sounds like I’ll want to stay.”
Gonz smiled. “You’re still on my team, so don’t get your hopes up.”
McKay studied the captured woman who was now looking out the window. “I don’t want to know, do I?”
“We need to know what she knows.” When McKay didn’t responded, he added, “The choice will be hers. It can be easy or hard.”
A look of apprehension crossed the doctor’s face. “Still–”
“I don’t like it either, if it makes you feel better.”
McKay nodded, then turned her attention out the window.
CIA Station, Somewhere In Kuwait Wednesday, April 12th 7:19 p.m.
“Found in the mouth, you say?”
“His right cheek.”
“No bite signs,” the medical examiner said as he inspected the yellow paper that lay unfolded on the glass tray of the flat machine. A light from below gave each crinkle and letter of the paper great detail. McKay marveled at the scientific tools in the lab. No wonder Gonz had insisted they package up the head in a cooler, along with the note, and hightail it to Kuwait.
“From what I could tell, the note was placed in the mouth after death,” McKay explained.
“Written in English, at least.”
McKay smiled. “Gonz was happy to see that too.” The medical examiner gave her a puzzled look and she quickly said, “My boss. Head of Marco Polo 5.”
The medical examiner went over to the head, which lay face up on a metal tray. Probing with his gloved fingers, he tried to examine Quizby’s mouth, but the head rolled to one side. “Hold it steady,” the man said McKay, also wearing latex gloves, walked around to the other side of the metal tray and held the head firmly face up. As the medical examiner made a careful inspection of the mouth, he gave a low whistle.
“See something?” McKay asked, afraid she missed something in her initial exam.
“Crown came loose. Back molar.”
“Maybe from the beheading. The force of it,” McKay suggested.
“Could be, yes. If it was a bit unstable. But could be he was grinding his teeth.” He straightened and looked at her. “I’ve heard it could be a hundred and twenty out, but you know death is imminent and you get the chills. So bad, your teeth chatter.”
“And that caused the crown to break off?”
He shrugged. “We’ll never know. Not that it matters, but I’ll put it in my report anyway.” Using a penlight, he then looked up each nostril and meticulously checked each ear. Finally he announced, “No other foreign matter.”
Just then a door opened and Gonz strode in. He walked over to the table and introduced himself to the medical examiner, “I’m Richard Gonzalez. Head of Marco Polo 5.”
“That’s in Baghdad, right?” When Gonz nodded the medical examiner grinned. “How is Baghdad these days?”
“About the same as always,” Gonz replied.
“A few blasts a day to keep everyone on their toes, eh?” the man said with a chuckle.
Gonz glanced at McKay then said, “Anything yet?”
“Note is in English.” The examiner saw Gonz’s frozen expression and quickly added, “I just started. No other debris in any orifice of the deceased. You have the torso too?”
“No, just the head,” McKay answered.
“I’ll need some time with the note. At least you don’t have to worry about a translator filling in the blanks. I’ll run tests on the paper, but there is one thing I’ll show you now.” Stepping back to the machine that held the note, the medical examiner typed in some commands on the keyboard. The light under the glass cycled through several colors then stopped. The note looked orange now. Then very faint lettering in Arabic appeared on the monitor.
“What’s that?” Gonz asked in surprise.
“My guess, and I won’t know until I run some tests, but I think that this paper was perhaps the carbon copy of another.” He looked from Gonz to McKay. “They have such papers, just as we do. Perhaps a customer copy on top, usually white, then the next copy is for the merchant, usually yellow. Or perhaps pink, something like that. Not sure the order of the colors, but I do know some businesses over there use colored carbons like this.”
“So this might be letterhead of some kind?” McKay asked. “Of a business?”
“My guess, yes.”
“Hard to make out. So faint,” Gonz said.
“I’ll sharpen it up.”
“Pretty small in size,” McKay pointed out. “A business that uses postcard size paper with a letterhead?”
“Yes.”
“Not taken from a larger sheet?” Gonz asked. “Cut out? We’re just seeing what, a third of the whole sheet maybe?”
“No, no,” the examiner replied. “She’s right. It is from what I’d guess to be a small tablet.” He pointed to the top of the paper. “If I’m right, there will be some glue residue here.”
“How long?” Gonz asked impatiently.
“A few hours. The head staying or going?”
“Once you’re done, it will have to be arranged with State,” Gonz explained, meaning the State Department. They had the unenviable task of getting the bodies, or in this case, body parts, of American civilians back to the their families.
“Few hours then.”
Gonz nodded and turned to McKay, “Come with me.”
McKay peeled off her gloves, tossed them in a nearby trash can and gladly left the medical examiner to work alone.
Jadida, Iraq Wednesday, April 12th 7:20 p.m.
“What was it?”
Maaz shook his head. “I zoomed in as much as possible, but...” his voice trailed off.
“Good work. You are a photojournalist at heart,” Dr. Lami said, patting him on the shoulder affectionately.
Duqaq, Maaz, and Dr. Lami all stood behind Fadhil who worked the computer. The next photo showed the woman holding the yellow wad with long tweezers. “I’ll try to isolate it,” Fadhil said as he used the mouse to highlight the yellow wad which suddenly became much bigger on the monitor.
Duqaq looked at Maaz and smiled to himself. The fledgling photographer had surprised him by fishing the digital card out of his sock once they were safely in the car. Duqaq had presumed that he hadn’t been able to retrieve it before the Iraqi soldiers had confiscated the Canon digital camera. Maaz had been furious that they had taken his camera, but once Dr. Lami saw the photos, he promised Maaz he would personally go to the police department to get it back. And if that failed, he would buy Maaz a new digital camera.
“What happened next?” Dr. Lami asked Duqaq.
“They put the head in some kind of ice cooler. The yellow... thing, it was put in a plastic bag by the woman there. Then they left.”
“What about the Iraqi woman?” the owner of the Iraq National Journal asked. “What happened to her?”
“She was handcuffed,” Maaz explained. “I got a photo of her as she was taken away.”
Dr. Lami put a hand on Fadhil’s shoulder, saying, “Let’s see all the photos again, please.”
Fadhil keyed in commands and a slide show began of all the photos Maaz had taken. The two-star American general at the press conference. Then some pictures of the Marines at Checkpoint 2. Then from the hotel roof, again the Marines clustered around. Then moving away as one brought a pole to probe the head.
“That one,” Dr. Lami said. “We’ll use that for sure.”
Fadhil highlighted it and the slide show continued. There was a great shot of the taser gun being used on the head. “I think they were worried about explosives,” Duqaq said. “It’s the only explanation.”
Everyone was quiet as the next photo showed the man and woman in fatigues inspec
ting the head. Then the shots of her reaching into the mouth and the yellow wad.
“And that one,” Dr. Lami said, again touching Fadhil on the shoulder. “I’ll need color prints of that.”
“For what?” Duqaq asked. “We have no idea what it is.”
“No, but the Americans do. And I can take the photo to those I know in the U.S. Army. Ask them to share information, or I’ll release the photo.” Dr. Lami looked at Duqaq with a grin. “You stumbled on something or the Iraqi Security Forces would not have come down on you so hard.”
“They didn’t arrest us,” Duqaq pointed out.
“True, but by taking the camera they believed they had the photos. They thought that no one would ever know that something had been placed in the dead man’s mouth.” Again Dr. Lami smiled at Maaz. “Good work, son. Very good.”
“I can’t be a photographer without my camera,” Maaz said grumpily.
Dr. Lami laughed. “Don’t worry. You will have a camera.”
The slide show continued with a close-up of the Iraqi woman being escorted to a Humvee by two Marines. “Zoom in,” Dr. Lami said. Fadhil manipulated the image and the young woman’s face filled the monitor. She was gorgeous and for a moment the room was silent as each man looked at her face on the monitor.
“She brought them the head?” Dr. Lami asked Duqaq.
“Either that or she was nearby when the Marines found it.”
“I’ll need a copy of that,” Dr. Lami said, tapping Fadhil on the shoulder again.
“What are you going to do?” Duqaq asked.
“Find out who she is,” Dr. Lami replied. “I want to know what was in the dead American’s mouth. And what this woman has to do with it.”
Chapter Three
CIA Station Somewhere in Kuwait Wednesday, April 12th 7:41p.m.
“I’m sure he was a DUCK,” Gonz said as they made their way through the different corridors. Dr. McKay couldn’t help but peek into the various offices as they passed by. She saw people working on computers, talking on phones, and several talking amicably at a small table in the modest cafeteria. This could be any work place in America, McKay thought. She had been surprised when the Gulfstream V had landed on a runway that seemed to her to be placed in the middle of nowhere – the middle of an uninhabited desert. There were no structures to be seen anywhere. The plane had taxied for some time, then stopped. When the door opened, a Humvee sat nearby waiting for them.
The Humvee had driven a few miles along a sandy track before coming to a gleaming white single-story structure with darkly tinted windows. With no roads leading to it, only the sandy track, it looked as if it had been picked up from a commercial tract in a U.S. suburb and plunked down in the middle of the desert. While she had been surprised that they hadn’t landed in Kuwait City or even Hawalli, she wasn’t surprised that the CIA had a secret base in Kuwait. After all, the Kuwaitis were still thankful to the U.S. for their intervention in the first Gulf War.
“Walks like a DUCK, smells like a DUCK, it probably is a DUCK,” Gonz said with a grimace. “But we need to know.”
McKay nodded. “DUCK” was the acronym for “Dead Upon Kidnapping.” Since the term was pronounced like the mallard, everyone was soon spelling it that way too. It simply meant that a civilian was as good as dead as soon as he or she was kidnapped. This was almost always the case if the civilian was an American. A few European and Japanese civilians had been kidnapped in Iraq, but they were usually quickly ransomed for big money. Those few lucky souls were referred to as “KFC,” not a reference to Kentucky Fried Chicken, but “Kidnapped For Cash.”
“I still don’t get it,” McKay said. “Why act like she doesn’t speak a word of English until she’s here?”
Gonz gave her a quick smile. “That’s another thing to find out. But the fact that she speaks English isn’t all that surprising. Many young adults in Iraq speak English now – even the women.” He stopped and opened a heavy steal door, motioning for her to go first. McKay stepped into yet another corridor, this one poorly lit and quite narrow. “All the way to the end,” Gonz told her. As her eyes adjusted to dim surroundings she saw another door at the end of the hallway. Once again, Gonz opened it for her, as if they were on a date and he was opening the door of a restaurant.
They now entered a small viewing room with two rows of stadium-style theater seats facing a large glass wall. Beyond the glass McKay saw the Iraqi woman facing them as she sat stiffly in a chair, her hands, still locked in handcuffs, resting on a table in front of her. From a shelf under the glass window, which McKay knew was a two-way mirror, Gonz handed her a very small plastic earpiece. “Go with the flow. If I want you to head it in another direction, I’ll say so,” Gonz explained. “The volume is very low. She won’t overhear anything.” She watched as he placed an external ear piece with boom microphone over his own ear. McKay then placed the device in her right ear.
“What was done to her?” McKay asked with a bitter tone as she stared at the woman.
“Nothing.” McKay gave Gonz a harsh look and he repeated, “Nothing, I swear.” McKay didn’t seem to believe him, so he told her, “Ask. She wants to talk to you – ‘the woman at the Checkpoint and who was on the plane.’ That’s you. Ask.”
McKay looked around the viewing room. “Just you going to watch the show?”
Gonz could barely keep his impatience at bay. “You have a problem, tell me now.”
McKay couldn’t meet his gaze. Finally, she said, “I don’t know. I don’t like torture. Okay?”
“She wasn’t touched, McKay, I swear,” Gonz said angrily.
“I believe you.”
“Good. Fine,” Gonz replied defensively.
“I just feel that if she clams up, doesn’t say what you need to hear, then it starts. Whatever it is you guys do to people.”
“Let me tell you something,” Gonz said taking a step close to her and looking down at her with burning eyes. “We are at war. Her friends pulled Timothy Quizby from his truck – a truck that was taking air conditioners to schools, believe it or not – kept him for nearly three weeks before decapitating him, airing it live and–”
“I know,” McKay said, interrupting him and waving him off. “I know.”
“So we need to find out what we can about these murderers,” Gonz told her in a softer voice.
“I’m not an interrogator. I’ve never been trained–”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gonz told her. “She speaks English and she asked to talk to you. I’ll help you. If she isn’t forthcoming, fine. We tried.”
“And then the beatings start.” McKay’s tone was harder than she intended, but the truth was she abhorred torture and didn’t want any part of it.
“Actually, sleep deprivation, loud rap music, which I personally find quite annoying, then forced positions for hours on end, say squatting, until it feels like your legs and back muscles will burst.” McKay looked uncertain, so Gonz continued, saying, “Then we make it clear if she still doesn’t want to cooperate, yes, we’ll hurt her.”
McKay gave him a sharp look. “Which makes you no better than they are. There is the Geneva Convention to consider–”
“This isn’t a conventional war!” Gonz angrily retorted. “They don’t wear uniforms. They booby-trap bodies, send suicide bombers into packed crowds, killing their own men, women, and children! They target police recruitment centers, schools! For God’s sake, McKay!”
She turned away, once again studying the Iraqi woman behind the glass. Gonz ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. He was frustrated beyond words. First losing Quizby. Then having the head show up at the checkpoint, and now dealing with McKay.
As if reading his thoughts, she turned back to him and quietly said, “Sorry.”
Gonz nodded, then said “Timothy Quizby would tell you to do whatever is necessary so another innocent American isn’t beheaded. Think of that.” Gonz studied her for a moment, than added, “Or ask his widow. Or his children. Children that will never
see their father again.”
“I get it, Gonz. I get it.”
“Good,” he said with finality, bringing the matter to a close. “Then see what she has to say.”
Jadida, Iraq Wednesday, April 12th 8:12 p.m.
“They took it! They just took it!”
Daneen glanced at her husband pacing in the next room as she stirred the stew with one hand and bounced the baby in her other arm. Maaz had come home much later than usual, but she had dutifully waited for him, and now she was quite hungry. “Dr. Lami said you’d get it back,” Daneen reminded him.
“But it was my camera,” her husband fumed. “They had no right to take it. Bastards. The lot of them.”
Daneen was glad that their oldest, Faris, was spending the night with a friend. She had been teaching the nine-year old about their country’s past, the tenants of democracy and a free society. Which of course, meant respecting the rule of law and the police. She didn’t need Faris to hear such talk about the police. For how many years had they feared the police? Saddam’s henchmen? Besides, the boy had found the camera and had been so pleased that it had made his father so happy. If all went well, the newspaper owner could retrieve the camera before Faris even learned it was missing. “I know you’re upset, but he said he’d get you a new one if need be.”
“It’s just the principle of it all,” Maaz scoffed in anger. “This is democracy? Then the Americans can keep it!” With that he strode over to their old television and flipped it on. The al-Jazeera news came on.
Putting a lid on the pot and turning the burner to low, Daneen checked the baby’s milk warming on the other burner. Then she joined her husband in their small living room. As she sat beside him on the couch, he immediately reached for the baby and Daneen gladly gave him up. He was fourteen pounds now and getting heavier by the day.
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 4