Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1)

by M. H. Sargent

  “Oh my God.”

  “So I helped him, yes. Not because I believe in what he’s doing! No! But to find Ghaniyah!” He took a deep breath. “I love her, Daneen. I love her more than anything in this world. I was there for her.”

  Daneen took a moment to take in all his words. Then, “Did you find her?”

  Adnan nodded. “But we never spoke. It was too dangerous. But at least I know she’s alive.”

  “My God,” Daneen murmured quietly.

  “Her brother… half-brother… trusted me because I kept the American alive. That’s why he put me in the Ring of Allah. I had no choice. You see, don’t you? I had no choice!”

  “I’m so sorry...” Daneen whispered.

  “I love her, Daneen,” Adnan said softly. “I love her so much.”

  “Shh…” Daneen said quietly. “Shh...” She embraced her brother, holding him tight. Then suddenly she pulled away, a frantic look on her face. “Who else knows? Who saw your pants? Thamer?”

  Adnan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I went to the bathroom, did as you said. I used cold water. Just cold water. He never even looked at my pants, I’m sure.”

  “Dear God,” she replied.

  “Maaz?” Adnan abruptly asked. “Did you tell him?”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  “Good,” he said, relaxing a bit. Then he saw the frightened look on his sister’s face. “What? What is it?”

  “Maaz was there! When the Americans found the head!” When Adnan just stared dumbly at her, she added, “At the checkpoint! Maaz was there! For the newspaper!”

  Adnan just shrugged. “So?”

  “He said a young woman was there too. She was handcuffed.” Adnan recoiled from her. Horrified by her words. Daneen persisted. “Was that Ghaniyah? Was she there? Is she the one that took the head to the Americans?”

  “I dunno,” Adnan replied in a barely audible voice.

  “Think!” she chided him. “How was al Mudtaji getting the head to the checkpoint?”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated. Then looking at her with tears in his eyes he said, “I just wanted to leave... I just wanted to leave so bad... I don’t know... I don’t know...”

  MP-5, The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 2:03 p.m.

  Gonz carefully peeled off a single sheet of paper from the back of the notepad. He wore latex gloves in order to avoid adding his fingerprints to whatever fingerprints might already exist. However, he doubted they would find al Mudtaji’s prints on the notepad. Instead they would find prints from the pharmacy owner, Thamer Rayhan, and whoever might also work at the pharmacy. If they were lucky, fingerprints belonging to the man they only knew as Aref – the handwritten name seen on the backside of the note – would reveal the man’s full name. Peterson had already run the name through their vast terrorist database and found no connection. Gonz hadn’t been surprised.

  “You know some men came in?” Peterson said, standing close and watching Gonz carefully. “When we were there?”

  “I heard.”

  Peterson nodded, not sure what else to say. Gonz reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and removed a copy of the note that had been stuffed into the late Quizby’s mouth. It had been cut to the exact size of the original note with the Arabic letterhead enhanced. He laid it next to a page taken from the notepad. “They match,” Peterson declared excitedly.

  “They do indeed,” Gonz concurred.

  “So that pharmacist, he’s one of the idiots?” Peterson asked, using the word “idiot” to refer to the terrorists.

  Gonz finally looked at Peterson. “You have evidence of that?”

  “Yeah,” the young man said, pointing to the papers. “That.”

  “We got in there and took the notepad without anyone knowing, right?” Gonz asked. Peterson nodded. “So if I take one of these sheets, write something on it, that makes the pharmacy complicit in what I do with their paper?”

  “Gonz?” Heisman called out from across the room.

  Gonz put the notepad in a clear plastic bag already tagged with an I.D. number. He handed it to Peterson. “Overnight it to the lab.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Cross reference the idiots to pharmacies, any that may have pharmaceutical training. Long shot, but you never know.”

  Walking through the Marco Polo 5's main area which was filled with computers and other high-tech equipment, Gonz caught Heisman’s eye. The ex-jock was sitting at a desk, cradling a phone to one ear as he motioned toward the door. Gonz nodded. Since only members of his CIA team were allowed inside Marco Polo 5 – and Peterson who been given a temporary classified waiver – whoever wanted to speak to him was not with the agency.

  Stepping outside, he was surprised to see the beginnings of a dust storm on the horizon. Just another reason he sometimes hated the country. A Marine staff sergeant was waiting outside carrying a slim attaché case. “Lt. Collins?” the man asked, using Gonz’s cover name.

  “Staff Sergeant,” Gonz replied by way of a greeting. He knew the man was the Marine’s top media liaison, and he also knew the man thought Gonz was simply Military Intelligence.

  “Staff Sergeant Michaels with the Communications and Information Division.”

  “What can I do for you?” Gonz asked in a gruff voice. He seldom had to deal with the media wonks, and he preferred it stayed that way.

  “Ran into a problem. Or I guess, what maybe could be a problem,” the staff sergeant explained, clearly apprehensive.

  Gonz figured it had to do with the beheading and the fact that the head was deposited at a Green Zone checkpoint. He nodded. “I’m all ears,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “For another two minutes anyway.”

  “Just take one minute, sir.” He opened his slender case and removed a small document. He handed it to Gonz and said, “I need to know her name and connection to the American head.”

  Gonz found himself staring at a photo of Ghaniyah, fairly close-up. The picture showed her handcuffed hands. His head reeled. Someone at the checkpoint was taking pictures? If the picture got out, the whole operation would be in jeopardy. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Reporter.”

  “For who?” Gonz demanded. “U.S.?”

  “Yes, sir. MacMillan International,” he answered, referring to a huge conglomerate that had numerous newspapers throughout the U.S., Australia and the U.K. They also owned a television network and cable news channel in the U.S.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Colonel K.C.” When Gonz reacted with a puzzled look, the Marine continued saying, “He was in the first Gulf War. Retired Army colonel. Did a book. Then started writing for MacMillan’s newspaper in New York. Now he does that and appears on their cable news shows. One of their military analysts.”

  Gonz finally nodded in comprehension. He thought he knew the man the staff sergeant was talking about. A good-looking guy in his 50s who actually made sense when he talked. Gonz turned his attention back to the photograph. “This published yet?”

  “Not that I’m aware. I think they want a name. Get confirmation she had something to do with the head. You know, the head showing up here.”

  “I need to speak to this Colonel K.C.”

  “Did she bring –”

  “Where do I find him?” Gonz said, cutting him off.

  “Probably at the Palestine Hotel. I know he stays there.”

  “He say where he got this?” Gonz asked waving the photo in the air.

  “No sir. He just wants to know who she is. What her connection is–”

  “Right,” Gonz said, turned on his heel and went back into the MP-5 building.

  It took a moment for the Marine to realize that he no longer had the photograph in his possession.

  Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 2:06 p.m.

  “But why?” Maaz asked with irritation.

  Duqaq sat at his desk, typing in a story and not missing a beat. “Welcome to the newspaper business.”

  “B
ut he said they were good.”

  “Like I said, welcome to the newspaper business.” He glanced up from the computer and saw that Maaz was still upset so he added, “Look, I can’t tell you how many stories I’ve written that get bumped, or edited so much they don’t look like anything I originally wrote, or they never get published at all. It happens.”

  Maaz was not pacified. Half-sitting on a nearby desk, his arms folded in front of him, he groused, “He printed your story on finding the head, so why just one lousy photograph?”

  “Because I’m saving the rest for later,” a voice said from nearby. Both men turned in surprise to find the newspaper owner standing close. He put some papers that had corrections marked in red on Duqaq’s desk. Unlike most editors, Dr. Lami preferred to read hard copies of articles and make corrections with pen, rather than using a computer to edit on-screen. Maaz immediately straightened, embarrassed that he had been overheard. “They’ll be published,” he told Maaz. “But on my schedule, okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Maaz replied.

  Dr. Lami studied the fledgling photojournalist for a moment. “I talked to the police. They aren’t going to release the camera anytime soon.” A look of dejection spread across Maaz’s face. Before he could say a word though, Dr. Lami asked, “You free this afternoon?”

  “I have to reseal some windows on the north side. On the second floor,” Maaz answered solemnly.

  “Yes, I suppose that needs to be addressed if the dust storm comes here as advertised,” Dr. Lami responded. “Maybe you should attend to that right now.”

  Maaz just gave him a blank look. Was the publisher kicking him out? He had been too outspoken. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. One photo, on the front page above the fold, was phenomenal. Why did he have to complain so much? Stupid!

  “I’d like to check a couple shops that carry digital cameras. You might as well accompany me. I don’t know anything about cameras.”

  Maaz’s face lit up. He glanced at Duqaq who grinned at him. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll be back in an hour.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  As he left the newspaper offices, he grabbed an extra copy of the day’s paper from a nearby kiosk. He had already purchased one near his house, but this was such a great achievement he felt he needed a couple of copies, at least.

  Baghdad, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 2:18 p.m.

  Gonz hadn’t wasted any time. In a matter of minutes he was behind the wheel of an old Jeep that had never actually been taken outside of the Green Zone. And for good reason – the Jeep did not have any reinforced armor panels. It was the equivalent of riding around in a motorized tin can. But Gonz wasn’t worried about his own safety. Instead, he was greatly concerned about having Ghaniyah’s face splashed across the world’s newspapers and television news shows.

  He found a small parking place on the street behind the hotel, and it took several parallel parking attempts before he was able to squeeze the Jeep into the tight slot. Strong winds swirled around him as he exited the Jeep, kicking up dirt and sand. Keeping his head down, Gonz jogged around the corner, quickly hopped over the three-foot high concrete barriers protecting the hotel, and made his way to the entrance.

  Entering the hotel which was frequented by Western journalists, Gonz had a clear picture of Colonel K.C. in his mind. Peterson had downloaded a photo of the retired Army man from the MacMillan International website which featured biographies on their top journalists. It showed Colonel K.C. wearing an open-collared shirt and a jaunty smile.

  Dressed in regulation Army fatigues with the name tape of “Collins” applied above his chest pocket, Gonz now had the nondescript appearance of a U.S. Army lieutenant, which was perfect since the hotel was filled with many Western journalists and a few military personnel of various ranks who were frequent visitors. As he entered the hotel, no one even gave him a second look.

  He waited a moment at the large reservation desk until the small Iraqi man working behind the counter hung up the phone. “May I help you?” the man said in perfect English.

  “I’m here to see Colonel K.C. He’s a reporter for–”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the little man said. “I think he’s still in the bar.” He pointed across the lobby to a wide corridor. “He was just there a few minutes ago.”

  “Thank you,” Gonz replied. As soon as he entered the bar he spotted the retired Army colonel at a small table, talking with a middle-aged blonde woman. She didn’t look like a natural blonde and for some reason this annoyed Gonz. Taking a deep breath, he approached the table. He could see that they were drinking espressos. “Colonel K.C.?” Gonz asked. “Have a minute?”

  “For a lieutenant of the U.S. Army?” Colonel K.C. replied with a charming smile.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel K.C. nodded to the vacant chairs at a nearby empty table stacked with newspapers. “Pull up a chair.”

  “I’d rather speak in confidence, sir.” Gonz then turned to the woman. “If you’ll pardon me, ma’am.”

  “I can take the hint,” the woman said, rising. She took her small espresso cup and made her way to another group of journalists across the room. Gonz took her vacated seat.

  “Been in-country long?” the colonel asked.

  “Going on two years,” Gonz answered truthfully.

  Colonel K.C. gave a low whistle. “What division?”

  “Classified, sir,” Gonz answered respectfully.

  Surprised, the retired colonel studied him for a moment. “That right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How about that?” He sipped his espresso, clearly uncomfortable.

  “I’d like to know where you got the picture of the woman that you gave to Staff Sergeant Michaels this morning.”

  The retired Army man couldn’t hide his surprise. It was clearly written on his face. “The woman?” he repeated, stalling for time.

  “Don’t play games, Colonel.”

  “Who says I am?”

  “I am. And I can have you kicked out of the country. Persona non grata.”

  The two men studied each other for a moment. Finally the journalist said, “I didn’t know I stepped on some toes.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’d appreciate an answer. Where’d you get the photograph?”

  “I want quid pro quo.”

  Gonz stared at him for a moment. Then he removed a business card from his breast pocket. It had the name “Collins” and two phone numbers. Nothing more. He handed it to Colonel K.C. “You help me, I’ll help you,” Gonz promised.

  Colonel K.C. studied the card for a moment. Then he leaned across to the adjacent table, grabbing a newspaper. He tossed it in front of Gonz. It was the English edition of the Iraq National Journal with the headline, “American Contractor Slain By al Mudtaji.” Above the fold were two photographs. The first showing Timothy Quizby as he kneeled in front of the camera, the masked terrorists behind him. Gonz knew the photo was downloaded from the Internet broadcast. The next picture however, showed the Marine captain poking the severed head with a pole.

  In the background he could see a blurry Ghaniyah.

  Chapter Seven

  Basra, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 3:49 p.m.

  “Want to close, doctor?”

  “Sure,” McKay answered through her surgical mask. They had been in the operating room for over an hour repairing the patient’s arm which had nearly been severed at the shoulder by a rocket-propelled grenade that had struck the man’s car. He also had lacerations to the face, neck, and chest, but those were minor.

  “Chalk one up for our side,” Dr. Nichols said watching her deftly suture the arm.

  “Who is he? You know?” McKay asked.

  “Some chief mucky-muck for the Ministry of Oil. Usually those guys aren’t targets, but I guess you never know.”

  “Lot of nerve damage,” McKay noted.

  “If he’s lucky, he’ll have a good forty-percent range of motion.”

&
nbsp; “And a hell of a lot of pain.”

  “We might have cut enough of the peripheral nerve network. We’ll just have to see. I’d rather be conservative at this point. We can go in again if necessary.”

  McKay concentrated on the task at hand. It felt wonderful to be back in a hospital putting all her years of training to work. What didn’t feel good was wearing the stupid hijab head covering. In fact, McKay felt she would never get used to wearing the thing. The only redeeming feature of such an annoying piece of cloth was that it didn’t matter if she was having a good hair day or not. She suddenly felt the vibration of her cell phone in her skirt pocket and flinched involuntarily. Dr. Nichols saw it and gave her a puzzled look. “Sorry,” McKay said, not bothering to explain.

  It was more than twenty minutes later that McKay had finished in the operating room and gone to a single toilet bathroom located on the second floor’s east wing where she locked herself inside and checked her phone. The secure phone had a text message from Gonz: G. pic in Iraq Natl J. More may follow. Stay close.

  McKay pulled off the aggravating hijab with a heavy sigh and massaged her scalp with her fingers. What did Gonz mean? What kind of pictures? Taken where? When? And now that she was actually a practicing physician again, the first time since her second year of residency, was she about to be pulled out? She thought about Dr. Nichols, and knew he would be greatly disappointed. Working for the charitable organization Doctors Without Borders, he had welcomed his fellow American with open arms. McKay had been given a very plausible false background with the organization, including fictional postings in Haiti and Kenya.

  Tempting though it was to text Gonz back or even try to call him, she had been given strict instructions that she was only to contact Marco Polo 5 in the event of an emergency. She knew the priority was to help Ghaniyah follow her half-brother’s orders, as well as find out what was in the family chest.

  The door knob suddenly rattled. Someone was trying to come in. “Just a minute,” McKay called out in a loud voice. She cleared the text message and slipped the phone in the deep pocket of her full skirt. She used the small mirror over the basin to affix her headdress, smoothing it out over her head. God, how she hated the stupid thing.