“We were there!” Maaz said excitedly, pointing to the television. “Right there. Checkpoint 2.”
The television commentator talked over footage showing the U.S. Marines turning away cars. The newscaster explained that the head of the dead American had been left at the checkpoint earlier that day.
“We were on the roof over there,” Maaz explained, pointing again. “You can’t see it, but it’s just over to the right. That’s where I got lots of photos! Lots!”
Daneen could see her husband was still excited by all that had happened and put a hand on his leg. She smiled and said, “Good that you got the photos out of the camera.”
He gave her an exasperated look. “Digital card. You can’t take the photos out. Just the card.”
“That’s what I meant.”
He nodded. He knew he was being irrational and taking out his frustration on her. Finally he smiled and said, “I did it. I really did it. I’m a photojournalist now.”
She gave him a warm smile in return, then turned her attention back to the television. They were showing footage of the American dressed in an orange jumpsuit and kneeling before the men who were about to kill him. Daneen’s heart went still. What must Americans think of them? And if it continues like this, Daneen thought, the Americans will leave. Then where will Iraq be?
“Timothy Quizby worked for the American company Halliburton,” the newscaster said, as if that somehow explained why he was about to be murdered in cold blood.
“He needs a bottle,” Maaz announced, getting up.
“There’s one there,” Daneen said quietly, waving a hand toward the kitchen, her eyes riveted to the small screen.
“Where?” Maaz asked from the kitchen.
“On the burner,” Daneen said automatically. “Check it didn’t get too warm.”
Maaz took the bottle out of the small pot of heated water and turned off the burner. He dripped a few drops of milk on his wrist. Just right. He offered the bottle to the baby who greedily took it in his mouth. Maaz moved back into the living room just as the television replayed the beheading, the first strike not quite doing the job. How many times had they shown it today? Over and over and over again. Now the second strike and the head was completely severed from the body. The camera followed the head as it rolled across the floor, blood spraying from the neck. Another roll, blood now splattering the pant legs of one of the terrorists. Then it listed to one side, teetered for just a moment and then stopped completely.
Daneen let out a shriek, covering her mouth with both her hands. She stared at the television. The head was now motionless, the pant legs behind it also frozen. She had seen those bloodstained pant legs before. That’s Adnan, she thought, her mind reeling. Adnan was there! He was there!
“No, no, no!” Daneen wailed. “What have you done!? What have you done!?”
Maaz hurried to the television and quickly turned it off. He stared at his wife, unsure. She had seen such beheadings before. What was wrong with her? She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “No, no, this mustn’t be! This mustn’t be! Oh, no, no, no!”
Maaz could only watch as his wife slid off the couch and started banging her hands against the floor, screaming, “No, no, no..!”
Frightened by his mother’s screeching, the baby dropped his bottle and started bawling. What the hell, Maaz thought. What the hell just happened?
CIA Station Somewhere in Kuwait Wednesday, April 12th 8:16 p.m.
“Get her to elaborate,” she heard Gonz say in her ear.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Dr. McKay said. “You brought us the head. But that wasn’t the plan?”
“They were scared,” the Iraqi woman explained, gesturing with her hands which were still shackled in front of her. “They were young. Maybe eight, nine, ten?”
“Boys,” McKay prompted.
“Yes, yes. Boys.”
“Did they know what it was?” Searching for clarification, McKay added, “They know what was in the shawl?”
She suddenly laughed. “Of course.”
“But they were scared,” McKay said, again encouraging her to explain what happened.
“Yes. They knew. They had been paid, and they wanted to help al Mudtaji, yes? You may not understand, but it would allow, what do you call? Bragging rights, yes?”
“And you saw them get the head?”
“I told you, I left car, what? A block before? Then I walked to where the men were talking to the boys.”
“Who were the men? Their names?”
She smiled patiently. “I do not know. No one knows anyone’s real name, just al Mudtaji knows. You’d have to ask him.”
“Okay,” Gonz quietly said in her ear. “Why did she do it? She suicidal or something?”
“So you brought us the head,” McKay continued. “Why?”
“As I said before, opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what? To get caught?” McKay laughed, scoffing at her. “Yes, that was a good opportunity.”
“Exactly,” came the young woman’s quick reply.
McKay stared at her for a moment. “You must’ve known we’d put you in prison.”
“Maybe, but you would question me first, yes? That’s what we’re doing. I just thought it would be in the Green Zone. Not... Where are we, may I ask?”
“I can’t reveal that,” McKay replied, a little unnerved that she didn’t know herself. Regrouping, she said, “Okay, so you wanted to speak with us. Delivering the head would get some attention and you could speak. So speak.”
The young woman took a deep breath. “I want it to stop.” When McKay gave her a puzzled look, she continued, saying, “I want you to stop him.”
“Al Mudtaji?”
“Yes.”
McKay was taken back. “But you work for him. You–”
“No!” she thundered, her face suddenly dark. “No! He took me! From my home. My life. He took me so it would be better for him, yes? You are looking everywhere for him, yes? Looking for him among maybe some men, yes? Probably not looking for a man and a woman. Dressed as you.” She gestured with her hands again. “Not like that. Army clothes, but Western clothes, yes? Dressed nicely, looking European, maybe. Looking like maybe we are married?”
McKay was surprised by her outburst. “He kidnapped you?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes! Exactly!”
“When?” Gonz asked in her ear.
“When?” McKay repeated. “When did this happen?”
“January 24th. He had asked me to work with him, I had told him, no. I hate him. Hate him! So he blew up the restaurant where I work! Five people died! That day, he took me!”
“And you’ve been with him ever since?”
“How can I be free? If I go out, he has people with me or follow, yes? He’s a terrible man. Terrible! You must stop him!”
“Why you?” McKay asked. “Why’d he pick you?”
“He is my brother,” the Iraqi woman answered without emotion.
“Shit,” Gonz muttered in her ear.
When McKay just stared in surprise, the Iraqi woman explained, “My half-brother. His name is Mohammed. Mohammed Monla. His real name. Older, by two years. His father, my father. Not same mother. Our father, he hates the West. Hates, understand? He filled al Mudtaji’s head with hate for Americans. Hate!”
McKay shook her head slightly, as if to clear the cobwebs. “But why–?”
“The first Gulf War, yes? My father was in that war. Republican Guard. He was hurt. By a bomb. Lost both legs.”
“Shit,” Gonz grumbled again.
“I’m sorry,” McKay told her.
“I don’t care. He is not my father.” When McKay gave her a baffled look, she explained, “How you say? Biological father, yes. He is not a true father – one who would show love for me. For my mother.”
“Where is your mother now?”
“She died. After the war started. This war. She was very sick for long time. Then she died.”
“And your fat
her?”
“Here.” She realized her error and stated, “Baghdad. I never talk to him.”
“Does al Mudtaji?”
“Al Mudtaji?” she repeated, seeming surprised. With a shrug she said, “Not in person. No, no. Too dangerous. Al Mudtaji sends a man to talk to our father. Or father gets word to al Mudtaji. Not in person, no. I don’t know, but I think my father helps him. But maybe not. I don’t know for certain. But I think, yes, my father helps.”
“Let’s take a break, McKay,” Gonz said in her ear with a heavy sigh. “Offer her some food. Water. Take the handcuffs off.”
Baghdad, Iraq Wednesday, April 12th 8:22 p.m.
Dr. Lami removed the photo from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. The man across from him was simply known as Colonel K.C. Now in his 50s, with salt and pepper wavy hair and green eyes, he had retired from the U.S. Army several years ago and now worked as a journalist for one of the American cable news companies. With his good looks, he was quite popular in the States. With his no-nonsense expert military opinion, he was also popular with America’s top military leaders in Iraq.
“Pretty,” Colonel K.C. said in English, sipping his beer. While the colonel was fluent in Arabic, whenever the two met in a public setting it was better to speak English and avoid being overheard. Dr. Lami noticed the colonel’s beer was almost empty and motioned to the waiter for another.
“I want to know who she is,” Dr. Lami said.
“She had the head?”
“Yes. She was arrested. I have talked to everyone I know, but it is like she doesn’t exist. No one can tell me anything.”
The colonel smiled before finishing off his beer. It wasn’t as good as American beer, but it wasn’t all bad either. “So you’re fishing.”
Dr. Lami nodded. “I can print the photograph, but I want to know who she is first.”
“Print it,” the colonel said with a shrug. “She deserves it. Pretty or not.”
Dr. Lami studied the photograph for a moment before speaking. “She is pretty, yes. But I feel there is something more.” He glanced up at the colonel just as the waiter brought the second beer. After the waiter had left them, he added, “Did you know that there was something in the dead man’s mouth?” Colonel K.C. glanced up sharply. “I can print that too. But ask yourself this. Why have the head go to a checkpoint? Why not just throw it away? Because there was something al Mudtaji wanted the Americans to see. Something he put in the dead man’s mouth.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” the colonel admitted.
Dr. Lami again pushed the photo toward the colonel. “I gave you some information. Return the favor. Find out who the woman is. Her connection to al Mudtaji.”
“So you can publish it.”
“Yes,” Dr. Lami responded. “So I can publish it.”
Chapter Four
Jadida, Iraq Wednesday, April 12th 8:24 p.m.
Once the Americans invaded and some Sunni groups decided to fight back by using improvised explosive devices, commonly called IEDs, the Iraqi people quickly learned to recognize the signs of an impending roadside bomb. It wasn’t hard. Basically, all activity in the area ceased. Market place stalls emptied, store shops suddenly had no customers, children were no longer playing outside and most noticeably, the streets were devoid of normal pedestrian traffic.
That was what Aref was looking for that evening as he rode the old bicycle through the streets of Jadida, a neighborhood of Baghdad that had been his birthplace, where he had gotten married more than fifty years ago now and where he had buried his beloved wife. If he had it his way, he’d die in Jadida. Preferably sooner rather than later. But sadly, there were no signs of any impending attack. Too much activity. Even though the sun had just dipped below the horizon and his vision wasn’t what it used to be, he could tell from the foot traffic alone. He was out of luck.
Not for the first time, Aref wished he knew exactly when and where some American soldiers would patrol. Then, if he could see all the signs of an imminent attack, and with luck, timing it just right, he could be blown to bits along with an American convoy, and finally be reunited his wife. He wasn’t sure exactly what happened after death, but he believed with all his heart that once again they would be together. Whether it was heaven or hell, he didn’t care. As long as they were together.
Suddenly an American Humvee pulled out of a side street ahead of him. Aref felt a thrill of exhilaration and rose off the saddle, pedaling hard, doing his best to catch up. Vehicle traffic was heavy and he pushed hard. The stoplight ahead turned red and he took advantage, passing cars on the right as fast he could. His legs had already been tired from his day’s excursion, and within minutes he felt like they were on fire. But he wasn’t about to be deterred. This was his chance. He was in Jadida. The Humvee was just two cars ahead... Now one car ahead. Maybe someone had a rocket-propelled grenade. They would aim right for the Humvee, and if he could just be right next to it... He was almost there when the loud blast shattered the tranquil evening.
Next thing he knew he was sprawled on the pavement, his hands stinging in pain and one knee painfully sore. He saw his bicycle lying on the ground nearby, the front tire spinning around lazily.
“You all right?” someone asked.
Aref glanced up to see a middle-aged man looking down at him. He frantically looked around for the Humvee, then saw it, a good distance ahead. It must have taken off when the light changed. Aref struggled to sit up.
“You’re bleeding,” the man said, pointing.
Aref followed the man’s look and noticed that his ring finger on his right hand was indeed bleeding. What a fiasco, he thought. He glanced up the street. The Humvee was long gone. The opportunity gone, too. But there had been an attack, hadn’t there? He looked at the man standing over him. “What happened?”
“You were going like hell. Then you just fell.” When Aref gave him a puzzled look, the man continued, “I think it was the backfire.” Aref still looked puzzled, so the man explained, “The car next to the Humvee? Backfired. I don’t blame you. I hate driving near one, myself. Always thinking that might be the day, you know?”
Aref shook his head in disgust. He tried to get up and the man quickly got an arm under him. Suddenly a car honked. Aref realized they were blocking one lane of traffic. “Get in my truck, old man. I’ll get the bike.”
“No, no,” Aref said, noticing the truck for the first time. More car horns.
“Get in,” the man insisted. “You’re in no shape to ride, what with that hand.”
Aref looked at his hand again. It was filled with blood now. Maybe the man was right. He watched as the man put his bicycle in the truck bed. Once he knew his bike was secure, he climbed into the passenger seat, careful to cradle his hand in his lap so he didn’t get blood on the interior of the truck.
Jadida, Iraq Wednesday, April 12th 8:44 p.m.
Their evening supper was ruined. And Maaz still had no idea why. He had put the baby in his cradle and turned off the stove, leaving the stew untouched in the pot. Now, he stood over Daneen who was stretched out on the couch, a blanket giving her warmth, her eyes closed. He studied her tear-stained face and suddenly it dawned on him. It was all he could do not to cry out in joy. Instead, he gently moved her feet aside and sat down on the sofa, pulling her feet across his lap. Her eyes opened and she gave him a slight smile. He beamed at her. “You’re pregnant.” When Daneen frowned at him, he continued enthusiastically, “Remember with Faris? You got very, very strange. You’d cry for no reason. No reason at all. Remember?”
Daneen nodded. Of course she remembered. She also remembered all too well the weight of depression that enveloped her after their baby, Badr, had been born just ten months ago now. That is why she would never ever allow herself to get pregnant again. Instead, she had convinced her brother Adnan to get her birth control pills from his pharmacy. Pills that she hid from Maaz, but took faithfully on schedule.
“It’ll be fine,” Maaz said softly. “You’l
l see. With two jobs now, we can afford another baby.”
Daneen couldn’t help but love him. His world was simple, and hers had just been turned upside down. She knew she couldn’t tell him what she had just discovered – that Adnan was part of al Mudtaji’s inner circle of death. Somehow, she’d handle it herself. “Maybe a girl, yes?” Maaz went on. “A girl would be nice, yes?”
Daneen nodded. Finally she said, “Yes.”
“You need to eat,” he chided her gently. “You’re eating for two.” He glanced at the television which was still turned off. “And no more news programs, okay? It’s too hard on you. We can get rid of the television, in fact–”
“No,” Daneen replied, her tone more harsh than she intended. She quickly added, “You’re a journalist. You need to see what is going on.”
“But not if it upsets you. I’ve never seen you like this.” After a minute he said, “It scared me.”
Daneen nodded. She had lost it. But who wouldn’t? Her brother, a person she adored, was a jihadist. Unthinkable, but true. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” He took her hand in his, rubbing it affectionately. Then he gave her a bewildered look and said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Daneen shrugged. “I wanted to wait. Just another month, to be sure.”
“But how can I take care of you if I don’t know?”
“I’m fine.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “It was a terrible thing to see, I know.” He squeezed her hand. “I had already seen it at the office. On their website.”
“What time?” Daneen suddenly asked. “What time did... Did the American die?”
Maaz studied her for a moment, then said, “I don’t know.”
Daneen rose up on her elbows. “But you always take your noon meal at the newspaper office, right? Was it going on then?”
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 5