His knee ached as he now squatted behind a free-standing display case near the front of the building. When the lights had come on, Heisman had scrambled toward the front of the store, further away from the two men. The problem was that with the interior lights on, he was now exposed to anyone on the street.
He wouldn’t be able to keep his position long.
Sitting in the passenger seat of an old Toyota, Peterson used powerful night vision binoculars to scan the street. It was quiet. As it should be. It was after one in the morning. “No signs of traffic. Repeat, no signs of traffic,” he said into the tiny microphone on his wireless headset. Since the lights were on inside the pharmacy, he picked up a regular pair of binoculars to look inside the shop. Heisman could clearly be seen, and Peterson thought he saw some activity behind the long counter in the back. Peterson’s heart raced. What was he to do if the men caught Heisman? Was he to somehow intervene? Or go back to the base? It hadn’t been discussed.
It was the second time in twenty-four hours Adnan had seen blood run free in the sink basin. He kept Aref’s hand under the water, cleaning it thoroughly with soap.
“Remember the ink?” Aref asked with a laugh.
Adnan nodded. The old man had voted in Iraq’s first democratic election, dipped his index finger in the well of ink, and then became panicked several hours later when he discovered that he couldn’t easily wash it off. While many people in Jadida had voted that day, all the residents knew that the sight of the ink stain could infuriate Sunni radicals who insisted the election was American propaganda. Aref didn’t want to quarrel with anyone and had come to the pharmacy asking for help in getting rid of the stain. Adnan had taken him to the bathroom and using a powerful cleanser, removed the ink stain.
Now that the finger was clean, Adnan could better see the wound. He led Aref to the toilet and put down the seat lid with his foot so he kept his hands clean. “Sit.” The old man complied and Adnan started stitching.
Peterson couldn’t believe it. Someone was walking down the sidewalk toward the pharmacy! It was way past curfew. The person was taking a huge risk. “Someone’s coming!” he blurted out. “Someone’s coming!”
From which direction!? East or west? Heisman wanted to scream into his wireless headset. Exposed in the lights, he silently moved around the end of the wooden display case. He was now hidden from anyone looking in from the front, but completely exposed to the men inside the pharmacy should they look his way. He heard laughter now and surmised that the men were still in the back somewhere. He crept forward, staying low until he was crouched between the pharmacist’s counter and another free-standing product display case. Now the men would only see him if they came down the steps from the back and made an immediate left turn.
“Okay, I can’t see you, that’s good,” Heisman heard in his ear. “Man still approaching. From the west... I think it’s the west, anyway.”
Great, the ex-football jock thought. Just great. He didn’t like being stuck with the computer geek, but he had no choice. With Gonz and McKay in Kuwait, the choice had come down to bringing Peterson along or going solo.
Suddenly the men’s voices from the back grew louder. They were getting closer.
“Man still coming... Walking fast... Almost there,” Peterson told him.
“Thank you, my dear friend.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“How long do they stay in?”
“I’ll check it in a week or so,” Adnan said. He opened the side door and turned off the overhead lights.
Peterson watched through the night scope. The man briskly walked past the pharmacy, paying no attention to the fact the lights had just gone out. When he was a good thirty feet past, Peterson said, “The man’s almost gone. Repeat, the man’s gone. Street is clear. Street is clear.”
Heisman collapsed on the floor, his back against the counter. He breathed deeply, for the first time realizing he must have been holding his breath ever since the two men had entered the shop. He looked at his watch. He’d wait a good ten minutes at least before moving.
The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 5:48 a.m.
Marine Staff Sergeant Michaels was meticulously cutting his large stack of pancakes with a fork and knife when a DVD suddenly slid across the table, stopping at his plate. He looked up. Colonel K.C. stood on the other side of the table with a big grin, holding a food tray in hand.
“What’s this?” the Marine asked.
“Early Christmas,” Colonel K.C. said with a smile. Not yet six in the morning, the mess hall was full. Most were military of some sort, although there were a good number of American and British civilians mixed in.
The colonel took a seat opposite the staff sergeant as the young man turned the DVD over, reading the back.
“Sneak peek for you,” Colonel K.C. explained. “It won’t be released in the theaters until next month.”
“You serious?” Michaels asked. “How did you–?”
The colonel smiled again. “It’s the real deal, I promise. And it’s all yours.”
“Geez, thanks.”
The DVD was Tom Cruise’s latest Mission Impossible movie. The colonel stabbed his lukewarm scrambled eggs with a fork. “Open it.” Michaels did so and then looked up sharply at the colonel who laughed, saying, “Attractive, huh?”
Michaels studied the picture fastened to the inside of the DVD cover. It was a close-up picture of a young woman. Certainly Iraqi. “Looks a little young for you, but what the hell,” he said with a grin.
“I’d like to know who she is.”
The Marine laughed. “So would I, believe me.”
Colonel K.C. looked around. While the room was crowded, they sat alone at the table and no one was paying any attention to them. “She brought Timothy Quizby’s head to Checkpoint 2 yesterday.” This got the staff sergeant’s attention. He just stared at the colonel, unsure. A group of Marines approached, carrying their food trays and laughing loudly. Colonel K.C. looked at the Marines and said quietly, “Close it.”
The staff sergeant did as he was told and a moment later the Marines passed. Finally he asked, “What’s going on?”
“You tell me. You’re the media liaison for the Marine Corps. Your boys were working Checkpoint 2.” Colonel K.C. nodded toward the DVD. “She brought them the head.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Michaels protested.
“Then someone’s not telling you everything.”
“Look, if what you say is true, you know the drill. I probably won’t be able to tell you anything anyway. If it’s true.”
“It is.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“Come on,” Colonel K.C. chided him.
Michaels shook his head, digging into his pancakes. “Thanks, but no thanks, okay?”
“Just ask around. That’s all I’m asking.” The colonel smiled. “Throw it away, if you want and just watch the movie. But it’s just a matter of time before her picture makes headlines all over the world.” He could see the staff sergeant’s look of hesitation and pushed on. “You remember the news when a Palestinian woman became the first female suicide bomber? This will make news and I guarantee you, you better be on top of it.”
Somewhere Over Iraq Thursday, April 13th 9:22 a.m.
“You must wear it all the time.”
McKay glanced up at Ghaniyah who sat across from her. She had the embroidered scarf, or hijab, in her lap, fingering the silk fabric.
“It is to show respect,” Ghaniyah explained.
“I’ve seen some women without them,” McKay pointed out.
“Yes,” Ghaniyah allowed. “But not a good idea.”
“She’s right,” they heard Gonz say through the No. 2 pencil in his mouth, which he had been gnawing on since the Gulfstream V had taken off. He sat across the aisle from them, papers piled on his lap.
The executive jet suddenly jolted as it hit a pocket of turbulence, and Ghaniyah gripped the armrests tightly in f
ear. She saw McKay smiling at her. The American woman asked, “First time flying?”
“No,” Ghaniyah replied evenly. “Second.” McKay laughed out loud and Ghaniyah smiled.
Gonz tapped the pencil on the papers and asked Ghaniyah, “Your brother, half-brother, whatever, he speak English?”
“Very little. A few words, maybe. I learned in school. He hated school, he didn’t finish.”
“Could he have written the note?”
“No,” she answered. “No, I think not him.”
“Any idea of who it might be? One of his men, maybe?”
She mulled this over for a moment. “Perhaps Sharif–”
Gonz sat forward, eager. “Sharif?”
“Not his birth name. Just name al Mudtaji gave him.”
“Okay. But he speaks English?”
She nodded. “He lived in...” her voice trailed off as she thought for a moment. Then she looked at him enthusiastically. “Minnesota. State of Minnesota.”
“Minnesota?” Gonz repeated. “When? Do you know when?”
“He went to college. Two years. Then he came back. That was before the attack in New York, yes?”
“Before 9/11?”
She nodded. “He said he knew it was going to happen. But I don’t believe him. He just wanted to seem important.”
“What college, do you know? A university?”
She just gave a shrug. “I think, yes.”
“No, I mean was it what we call a community college? Or a big university?”
“I’m sorry,” she answered clearly frustrated.
“You remember the city? Minneapolis?”
Another shrug. Gonz decided to drop it. The lab technician would be happy to know he had been right – the note writer had been educated in the West.
A part of him felt like grilling the beautiful young woman. What else might she know that could be useful? Langley was checking on al Mudtaji’s real name, Mohammed Monla, but so far the name was drawing blanks. The question was, what else did she know? Under normal circumstances he would’ve had days to question her. Instead, they were scrambling to keep her on schedule, crossing their fingers that her half-brother hadn’t learned of her defection. He knew that if al Mudtaji did know of her duplicity, she would be killed immediately. He briefly wondered if she realized that.
At that moment, as Ghaniyah looked out the window, she was wondering if the Americans knew what would happen if she failed. But it simply wasn’t an option. Not if she wanted to see Adnan again. And that’s what she wanted more than anything in the world. In fact, for all the Americans’ questioning, she had only lied once. That was in reference to al Mudtaji’s men. She would never tell them about Adnan. Simply because he was not a terrorist. Although she had been astonished to see him in their safe house in Baghdad, thrilled and frightened at the same time, the two had not spoken a word to each other. But his eyes had found hers more than once. And she could see the love and concern for her in his face which spoke volumes.
That was why she had taken the head to the checkpoint. While it is true she wanted her brother stopped, she had expected that her delivery of the severed head would make the news. Adnan would then realize that she was now a prisoner of the Americans and have no reason to jeopardize his own future by ever dealing with al Mudtaji again.
But her plan had backfired.
Chapter Six
Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 9:40 a.m.
As the front door opened, Adnan looked up from his elevated position behind the pharmacy counter. He nodded in recognition, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “We have no record for a refill,” he said, frantically looking around his workstation. “That’s right...”
Daneen studied her brother as she walked toward him. He was still looking for something. Finally she heard him say, “Okay. The dosage?” Still cupping the phone with his shoulder, he used his right hand to write on his left hand. “Okay. Thank you.” He hung up and let out a disgruntled sigh. He caught his sister’s curious look and explained, “Nothing to write on. We always have a pad of paper right here. I don’t understand.” He disappeared in the back for a moment and returned carrying several small pads of paper.
“Where’s Thamer?”
“Home delivery. A young mother. Always worried about her baby.”
Daneen nodded, watching him as he glanced at the notations on his hand and wrote the same data on the notepad. If she hadn’t seen the news the previous night, she would be extremely proud of her younger brother. She knew that as Thamer had gotten older, he had turned more and more to Adnan to fill orders, keep in touch with both customers and their doctors, and order new supplies. When Thamer had gone to live with his daughter, he had even given Adnan the upstairs apartment for very little money. Soon he would be buying the business from Thamer. She tried to reconcile in her mind how that Adnan, the Adnan she knew and loved – always a responsible, trustworthy man, could so eagerly participate in an another man’s murder. It didn’t make sense. After making a few more notes, he finally glanced up. “What’s going on?”
“Not much,” she replied, deflecting the question. Daneen hadn’t slept the night before, knowing she would have to talk to him this morning. She wouldn’t let it wait. She couldn’t let it wait. Yet now that he was standing there in his white lab coat, busy doing his job, she wasn’t so sure.
“Why aren’t you at school?” Adnan asked.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” Daneen answered. “Another teacher will fill in.”
A look of concern crossed Adnan’s face. His sister loved teaching the teenage boys and girls at the school near her house. She rarely missed a day. Even when she had been so depressed after Badr’s birth, she had somehow managed to keep teaching. “Anything I can help with?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Daneen glanced toward the front of the store. But they were alone. She noticed that her brother followed her troubled look. Finally she blurted out, “I saw it. Last night. I saw it.” Her brother just frowned and she continued with emotion in her voice, “You were there, Adnan! With al Mudtaji and his thugs!”
Adnan blanched, stepping backward involuntarily. “No, I–”
“Don’t you lie to me again! I saw it! I saw it on the television! I saw your pants yesterday, remember? Don’t take me for a fool!”
“No, Daneen, no, I–”
“You do this for God, you think?” she asked with a bitter tone. “No, I’ll tell you, Adnan, you disgraced God by doing what you did. Disgraced Him!”
“No, no,” Adnan cried out as he collapsed, supporting himself by the counter.
“How could you? It’s reprehensible!” She watched as he sobbed and added fiercely, “I thought you wanted this country to have a chance!”
“Please..!” Adnan protested, his head in his hands, his elbows planted on the counter top.
“I will not turn you in,” Daneen said calmly, causing Adnan to look up at her. Tears ran down his face. “But I will never speak to you again either.”
“No, no, no!” her brother protested. “I had no choice! No choice!”
Daneen was about to berate him when the front door suddenly opened. They both turned their attention to a young woman holding the hand of a toddler as they entered. Adnan frantically wiped his eyes, adverted his sister’s look of anger, and straightened himself so he stood erect. “Can I help you?”
The woman didn’t answer. She took some bandages off a shelf and approached the cashier area. Adnan quickly left the workstation, came down the two steps to the main floor and headed toward the cashier’s stand. “Anything else?” Adnan asked.
“Candy!” the youngster eagerly chirped.
“No. No candy,” the mother admonished him.
“Three dinars,” Adnan said. The woman gave him the exact amount in the new Iraqi currency which was now embossed with traditional Iraqi symbols instead of pictures of Saddam. A moment later both the woman and her child were gone. Adnan turned to Daneen. “Please.
.!”
“No, Adnan. This is... This is the worst thing you ever could’ve done. I can’t talk to you anymore about it. It upsets me too much.”
“Listen!” Adnan cried out in anger. “Listen! I hate al Mudtaji! He scares the hell out of me! But I had to do it!”
“No one has to do something like that! No one!” She fervently argued.
“You don’t understand!”
“You think that will help Iraq? Help our own self-government? Have people like you killing people? Taking their heads off, for God’s sake!”
“Daneen, listen–”
“No, you listen,” she replied firmly. “I–”
“I did it for Ghaniyah!” Adnan blurted out. “I did it for Ghaniyah!” As Daneen just stared at her brother, stunned by his words, he nodded his head and repeated softly, “I did it for Ghaniyah.”
“Ghaniyah?” Daneen inquired in bewilderment.
Adnan nodded his head, tears welling in his eyes. “Al Mudtaji is her half-brother.”
Daneen was shocked. “What?”
“He took her. He uses her. For odd jobs. To move more easily. They pose as man and wife,” Adnan explained. When he saw the look of confusion on his sister’s face, he continued tearfully, “Why do you think they bombed the café? Her café!? He did it because she refused to go with him and he wanted to scare her into joining him. So he bombed it when he knew she wouldn’t be there. Now she’s gone, and no one thinks twice about it. She probably just has another job somewhere else, right?”
“Oh, my God,” Daneen mumbled.
“The American?” Adnan explained rapidly. “The American that was kidnapped? He had a bad heart. Al Mudtaji came in here.” His sister’s face showed alarm. “Yes, right here. He walked in. He needed medication for the American. Medication so he could keep the man alive, all so he could kill him!”
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 7