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

by M. H. Sargent

  Adnan didn’t reply. He couldn’t have if his life depended upon it. He was too frightened.

  “I call it a coincidence,” Gonz continued, glaring at Adnan. “And you know what? I don’t like coincidences.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Baghdad, Iraq Friday, April 14th 3:54 p.m.

  The boy had been paid well and now pointed to a group of men forming a straggly line outside the ticket office at the Al Sh’ab Stadium. Gonz just stared. All the men were young, none looking more than thirty years of age, except for one old man wearing a short red jacket. Gonz glanced at Heisman who was warily checking out the scene.

  “The old man?” Gonz asked. “In the red jacket?”

  “Yes, yes,” the boy replied in perfect English, his accent slightly British. “That is him.”

  “It’s a recruiting station,” Heisman announced. “For policeman.”

  “He’s here every Friday,” the boy said. “Between prayer times.”

  Gonz knew the boy was referring to the fact that Friday is the Islamic holy day. As he watched the old man he asked, “What’s he doing? He can’t possibly think he can be a policeman.”

  The boy gave a sheepish shrug. “He’s hoping, yes?”

  “Hoping,” Heisman said gruffly. “For what?”

  “For the day.” The Americans gave him a puzzled look and he said, “Maybe it will be today. No one knows, yes?”

  “The day for what?” Heisman responded impatiently.

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” the boy suddenly announced. “My mother would be very angry.”

  Heisman and Gonz exchanged looks. Gonz said, “What’s he waiting for? He meet someone here? Every Friday?”

  “No. Well, I don’t think so,” the boy said. “He just hoping, yes?”

  “For what?” Gonz asked gently. “Tell us what he’s hoping for.”

  “For a bomb.”

  Gonz and Heisman exchanged startled looks.

  “How you say?” the boy continued. “Someone brings bomb. Kills everyone. Especially new policemen.”

  “A suicide bomber, you mean?” Gonz asked in surprise.

  “Yes, yes! That is the word. Suicide. Suicide bomb.” The Americans were silent, digesting this news so the boy said again, “I really shouldn’t be here. My mother doesn’t allow it.”

  “She’s worried about a suicide bomber showing up?” Heisman asked.

  The boy nodded. “Can we go?”

  “So, Aref, your neighbor, what? He’s just looking to die or something?” Gonz inquired softly.

  Another nod of the head. “He told my father one night. He was very upset. Said he just wants to die, but he won’t get to see Rafia if he kills himself, so he just has to hope he dies.”

  “Wait,” Heisman interrupted. “Who’s Rafia?”

  “His wife,” the boy responded simply. “She’s in heaven.”

  “So his wife’s dead and he’s looking for a quick ticket for himself, huh?” Heisman said in disgust. “Seems to me it’s still killing yourself if you purposely place yourself where you think you’ll get killed.”

  The boy didn’t say a word as he cautiously looked around. It was obvious he wasn’t comfortable. Gonz turned to Heisman. “Find out what you can. We’ll wait here.” Heisman left them and they watched as he approached the waiting men. Gonz turned to the boy. “It’s safe. We’re far enough away.”

  The boy just looked at Gonz as if he was crazy. “Some day he’s going to be right. It will be his day.”

  “Maybe,” Gonz allowed. “But not today.” Changing the subject he asked, “How’d you learn such good English?”

  “My father.”

  “Where did he learn?”

  “London.”

  Which explained the faint British accent. “How about that?”

  The boy nodded. “He’s going to take me some day,” he declared proudly.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Aref just stared at the black American, startled by his command of Arabic. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Stubbs,” Heisman answered. “Lieutenant Stubbs, U.S. Army.” He noticed all the men nearby were silent now, listening. “It’s important.”

  “What’s this about?” a young man behind Aref asked bitterly.

  “It’s about Rafia,” Heisman said quietly to Aref, ignoring the others.

  “Rafia – ?”

  “That’s right.”

  Aref looked around. All the men were staring at him. Aref glanced at Heisman, then turned toward a small group of young men squatting on the ground, playing chess. He whistled and one of the men leaped up and came over.

  “I’m taking a break. Hold my spot,” Aref told the man.

  Heisman led Aref away from the crowd. “Sorry about your wife.”

  “You knew her?” the old man asked with great curiosity.

  “No, sir, I did not.” They were now a good fifty meters from the line of men and Heisman stopped. “But I know why you stand here every Friday.”

  “I make money,” Aref answered defensively. “The young ones, they are impatient. Don’t want to wait. Or others, they want to go back to the mosque. They pay me to hold their place in line.”

  “Kind of dangerous, don’t you think?” Aref just stared at Heisman, so he continued, “Sometimes the Sunni, they like to bomb these places.” Aref suddenly looked uncomfortable and Heisman pressed on. “But then, you know that. Everyone knows that. Of course, maybe you think it would be a blessing, right? You die, it would be okay, right?”

  “I don’t understand,” Aref lamely protested.

  “You want to die and you know what? I don’t care. I don’t. You want to die, fine by me. But I want to live, and most people in this country want to live, right?” Aref didn’t say a word. Heisman pulled out the plastic bag holding the yellow carbon from Thamer’s pharmacy. “See this? Has your name on it.” Aref studied the paper briefly, then shrugged. “Remember the American that al Mudtaji killed a few days ago? Cut off his head?” Aref didn’t react, so Heisman asked harshly. “You remember that or not?”

  “Yes,” Aref answered nervously.

  “This was placed in his mouth. It’s from Thamer’s Pharmacy. A pharmacy where you get your medications. A pharmacy two blocks from your home. And it has your name on it.”

  Aref looked aghast as the American’s words sank in. “Al Mudtaji?”

  “Right. The one and only. Your friend.”

  “My..? No. I don’t know al Mudtaji.”

  “Who does? Adnan? The young Sunni who works there?”

  “No.”

  “You know what I think? I think you both work for al Mudtaji.”

  “No!”

  “And you gave this paper to al Mudtaji so he could write us a little note.”

  “No, I swear!”

  “You just didn’t realize that it had your name, handwritten on it.”

  “No!”

  “Which now connects you to al Mudtaji’s terrorist group.”

  “No! I swear! It’s not mine! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Heisman studied him for a moment. Both he and Gonz believed that Aref was probably a dead-end, but every lead had to be checked out. “Tell you what. Let’s go for a little ride.”

  “What? No!” Aref protested. “You’ll put me in jail!”

  “Nah,” Heisman responded with the wave of his hand. “Just a double-ply standard Army tent.” Then he gave the old man a hard look. “Hey, guess what? It sits right next to an arms depot. Something goes wrong and kaboom!”

  Aref stared at the black American.

  Heisman grinned. “Might be your lucky day after all.”

  Basra, Iraq Friday, April 14th 4:01 p.m.

  They rode in tense silence as the taxi threaded its way through the outskirts of the city. McKay glanced at Ghaniyah who sat near the door, looking out the window. While she desperately wanted to ask Ghaniyah what was troubling her, she couldn’t for the very simple reason that
she couldn’t speak more than two words in Arabic, and they didn’t dare speak English in front of the taxi driver. The man had presumed he was transporting two Iraqi women to the hospital to visit their ailing relative. The last thing he needed to know was that an American woman was in his car.

  As the traffic increased around them, the driver looked through the rearview mirror and said something to Ghaniyah in Arabic. McKay watched as Ghaniyah simply shrugged, mumbling something. The driver nodded and quickly navigated to the right lane. McKay hated the language barrier. That and the stupid hijab that was back on her head, bothering her to no end.

  A moment later the driver pulled into a gas station. He said something to Ghaniyah again, then hopped out. McKay watched as he started to fill the tank just outside her door. She turned to Ghaniyah and whispered, “What’s wrong?”

  Ghaniyah shot her a nasty look. She glanced at the driver, then shrugged.

  “You’ve been upset since we left the house. What is it?”

  “Why are we doing this?” Ghaniyah asked, visibly distraught.

  “Doing what?” McKay asked, baffled.

  Ghaniyah gestured wildly with her arms. “This! Coming to Basra. Waste of time, yes? I gave you al Mudtaji –”

  “Keep your voice down,” McKay hissed.

  “I gave you al Mudtaji and what?” Ghaniyah whispered. “What do you do? You get him? You arrest him? No. You play games.”

  “We need to know what he’s up to.”

  “He wouldn’t be up to anything if you’d arrest him. You should’ve arrested him. It would be over now.”

  “Okay,” McKay said carefully. “Maybe. Maybe we could’ve caught him. But there has been a lot of evidence indicating he and his men are planning something big.” Ghaniyah just grunted in response, so McKay pressed on. “And if we caught him, the plan could still go through. And we’d be nowhere.”

  Ghaniyah glared at her. “Maybe it will fail. This plan of yours.”

  “Could be,” McKay allowed. “It’s a gamble.”

  Ghaniyah seemed to ponder this for a moment before suddenly blurting out, “How do you know I won’t just run off?”

  “I don’t,” McKay answered, startled by Ghaniyah’s anger. “That’s a gamble too.” Of course, she couldn’t tell the Iraqi woman what Gonz had told her – two men would be watching Ghaniyah at all times whenever possible. She wondered if the men were nearby now. Even though she had undergone extensive CIA surveillance training, which included spotting trackers, McKay had not yet detected anyone suspicious whenever she was with Ghaniyah. Which didn’t mean they weren’t there – it just meant McKay was a marginal covert agent at best.

  “Sometimes you gamble, you lose... Is that not so?” Ghaniyah asked.

  “You think that’s what’s happening?”

  She whipped her head around, facing McKay with fury. “I gave you al Mudtaji. I gave him up. Do you say, thank you? No. No. You want more.”

  The driver’s door suddenly opened, the driver peeked in and asked Ghaniyah a question in Arabic. She shook her head no. He shut the door and walked off. When McKay gave her a quizzical look, she explained, “He’s getting cigarettes.”

  “Look, maybe it was the wrong choice. I don’t know. It’s not my call. But let me ask you one thing.” Ghaniyah turned to her and McKay said, “Aren’t you just a little bit curious about your aunt? Why she was poisoned?”

  Ghaniyah looked away.

  McKay continued. “Because I am. I’m very curious as to why someone would poison that well. And I could be wrong, but I think it has everything to do with al Mudtaji.”

  Ghaniyah gave her a startled glance. She was about to speak, but suddenly stopped herself.

  “And I think you know it too.” McKay saw the driver approaching and quickly added, “So yeah, maybe this is a waste of time. But if we find out exactly what your aunt was poisoned with, we stand a chance of saving her. Her and her neighbors. So you tell me, is this just a waste of time?”

  The driver opened the door and slid into the seat before Ghaniyah could respond. The car started up, backfired once and they drove off.

  Jadida, Iraq Friday, April 14th 7:13 p.m.

  As Daneen rocked the baby in her arms, she moved into the narrow hallway to better hear what was being said in their dining room.

  “It was the CIA,” she heard the attractive American journalist announce in his accented Arabic.

  “How do you know?” Maaz quickly asked.

  “You guys had the photos on a network server. They found it. They destroyed it. Not just erased it, they made sure there was no way it could be retrieved. Only the CIA would do that.”

  “And erase the backup discs I had,” she heard Fadhil complain.

  “Exactly,” the American continued. “So the question is, why?”

  “That’s what I’ve been asking myself all day,” Maaz lamented.

  Daneen looked at baby Badr in her arms. He was asleep. She silently went back to their bedroom and put him in the crib near their bed. As she tucked the blanket around him, she had to smile to herself. Maaz was sitting in their dining room talking business with an American journalist who she had actually seen on television. The man had been introduced as Colonel K.C., and she had found him to be quite charming. Also present were Fadhil, the young computer whiz they had befriended before and Duqaq, a very well respected Iraqi journalist.

  She would have never imagined such a sight. Two well-established journalists in her home, discussing important issues with her husband. It boggled her mind. After all, Maaz was simply a building superintendent. Nothing more. He was not a man of great education, part of the reason she believed that her brother Adnan had never really taken to him. However, Maaz had been lucky. Saddam’s Baathist Party had occupied the large building, and Maaz had kept everything running smoothly, so he was very well compensated. Which explained their modest, but very respectable home. When the Americans had brought war on the country and then soon taken over the very same building, Maaz had lucked out again – the Americans paid him more than the Baathists.

  But now, as he sat at their dining room table discussing the plight of the missing photographs with the others, she knew that he wasn’t just lucky anymore. He had a talent. A talent for taking photographs and these men respected him. It was amazing. Truly amazing.

  They had fought earlier that afternoon when she had berated Maaz for taking both boys to see the remains of the dead American hanging from the bridge. Instead of matching her anger, Maaz had been truly contrite, explaining that Dr. Lami had called him, asked him to meet at the bridge immediately, and he had had no choice but to take the children. When she bemoaned the effects that such a horrible sight might have on Faris, Maaz had assured her that they had been too far away to see much. She argued that they must’ve been very close – she could tell from the picture he had taken which had been published in the paper.

  Maaz had calmly explained that it was his zoom lens which had made it appear close. He went on to say that since the school children were probably talking about it, Faris did what any boy would – he boasted about seeing the body himself. This explained the children building a model replica using the toy doll to reproduce the scene.

  Maaz had then promised it would never happen again and had asked if they could have some people from the newspaper over for dinner, including the famous American. Surprised to be entertaining such an established journalist, she had readily agreed. Maaz had then gone to the market for some chicken and fresh vegetables with which she made a Pakistani curry dish that everyone had raved about.

  “What was in the mouth?” the American journalist asked Maaz as Daneen reentered the room. “Any idea?”

  Maaz looked to Duqaq. “It was small. Yellow.”

  “How small?” Colonel K.C. questioned.

  “Hard to say.” Maaz looked at Duqaq again. “Maybe a golf ball?”

  “Yes, yes,” Duqaq piped in. “About that size.”

  “And what exactly did they do
with it?”

  “They used very long tweezers, very long, and put the yellow thing in a plastic bag.”

  “Marines?” Colonel K.C. asked.

  “No,” Duqaq responded. “They were Army. Three of them.”

  “Ranks?”

  Duqaq shook his head. “We were pretty far away. On top of the building.”

  Colonel K.C. sipped his tea, pondering this. Daneen checked the teapot, saw that it was low, and quickly went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  “You think it’s important?” Fadhil asked the American.

  Colonel K.C. looked up to the ceiling and was quiet for a moment. Finally, he allowed, “I think the real reason the photographs were stolen has to do with either what was found in the mouth, or the Iraqi woman.”

  “The woman?” Daneen suddenly asked, her voice sounding more alarmed than she intended. Women had no place speaking when men were conversing, and she immediately regretted the outburst.

  However, the colonel thought nothing of her interruption, since he was a Westerner. “The woman who brought the head to the checkpoint,” he clarified politely.

  “You think she works for al Mudtaji?” Fadhil asked the American.

  “How else would she have the head?” Duqaq challenged him.

  “She may have had no choice,” Daneen abruptly theorized as the kettle started to whistle. She saw all the men looking at her so she quickly explained, “She could’ve been coerced, is all.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Maaz injected.

  “No, no,” Colonel K.C. said to Maaz, scolding him. Turning to Daneen who brought the kettle to the table, he said, “Go on. Please.”