Gonz nodded. “Go on.”
“Sometimes Thamer likes to do, sometimes I do. Depends who the customer is, yes?” He waited for Gonz to nod, then continued. “Sometimes Aref, he can be, how you say? Pain?”
“The old man who lives near the pharmacy?” Gonz said more for those listening in Langley than for Adnan.
Adnan nodded. “Yes. He’s always wanting something. Won’t go to the doctor. Thinks doctors killed his wife. They didn’t. She had cancer. There was nothing anyone could do.”
“So what are you saying?”
Adnan shrugged. “Maybe two, three times a week, Aref wants something. He would have a sore throat. Ear ache. Something. Most times, he’s fine. I think he likes attention.”
“Okay...”
“I wrote his name on a pad. As reminder to myself to go by his home.”
“And you gave that pad to al Mudtaji?”
“No!” Adnan insisted. “No. But notepad was in the satchel. Along with some other medications for other customers.” Adnan traced the top of the mug with a finger now. “I think it was taken.” He glanced up at Gonz. “Taken from my satchel. The day before, before the American was killed.”
“Without your knowledge?” Gonz asked.
Adnan glared at Gonz. “You think I willingly give it to him? So what? You can knock on our door as you did? Bring me here? You think I want that?”
“So who took it?”
“I think Sharif.”
“Why him?”
“As I said, I don’t know for certain.”
“But you think Sharif. So why?”
Adnan hesitated. Again he glanced at the video camera. With a heavy sigh, he admitted, “He didn’t like me, I think.”
“Sharif?”
Adnan nodded.
“Why?”
“I think because of Ghaniyah...” Adnan saw Gonz’s puzzled look. “He saw us once. We were, maybe 10 meters from each other, but he saw...”
“Saw what?”
“The way she was looking at me. I can’t describe...”
“So what? He took the notepaper?”
Adnan nodded. “I think so, yes. I never noticed it was even gone.”
“Okay, but I still have a problem with that,” Gonz said. “Why would al Mudtaji allow that paper to be used? He would’ve known that we’d analyze it. Looking for any clue we could find. Why would he want us to find you?”
Adnan shook his head, puzzled. “He wouldn’t.”
“Right, so why use the notepad? It has the pharmacy name right across–”
“Al Mudtaji wouldn’t see it,” Adnan interrupted.
“What do you mean? It’s right there. Right across the top of the page.”
Adnan smiled. “Al Mudtaji wouldn’t know what it says –”
“What? He’s blind now?” Gonz scoffed.
“No, no. He can see. But written words are meaningless to him.” Adnan looked at Gonz with a grin. “He’s illiterate.”
MP-5, The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 10:28 a.m.
“I wish Dr. McKay was here.”
“Well, she’s not,” Heisman snapped. “Let’s have it. What’ve you got?”
“It’s considered a Weapon of Mass Destruction,” Peterson said nervously studying his computer screen. “No treatment, no vaccine.”
“For God’s sake, I know that much!” Heisman bellowed, as he stood over Peterson’s left shoulder, concentrating on the data on the screen.
“The guys in Kuwait are running more tests, but all they can say for sure is that the water had substantial levels of ricin.”
“Can they say from where?” Heisman demanded. “Where the stuff originated? Did it come from inside Iraq?”
“Best guess is warm climates. Mostly Africa.”
“But could be right here too.”
“I already asked. They can’t trace it like that. Just gave us the most likely place of origin and that’s Africa. See, ricin is the waste byproduct from processing castor beans for oil. And this stuff is used all over the world to make castor oil.” Peterson shook his head. “The guy I talked to in Kuwait said you can’t make ricin by accident. You have to want to make it.”
Heisman nodded. “So no way it was an accident.”
“Bad thing is, amateurs can make this stuff. Use it as a powder, spray it in a mist, aerosol delivery, or just dissolve it in water.”
“Which is what happened to the old lady’s well.”
“Right. Kuwait says the symptoms Dr. McKay listed fit with ingestion of ricin. Vomiting, bloody diarrhea, maybe kidney and liver failure if it’s a high enough dose.”
“Okay, what have we got on who has used the stuff in the past?”
“Not a whole lot,” Peterson continued, calling up another screen with a click of the mouse. “Ricin has been used as a toxic agent several times. In the U.S., November of 2003, Secret Service found it at a White House mail center. October that year, they found ricin in a post office in Greenville, South Carolina. Looks like it was poor quality, thankfully.”
Heisman frowned. “There’s got to be more than that.”
Peterson brought up another window on the screen. “December 2002, six terrorists in Manchester, England arrested with it. One of the guy’s was a chemist.”
“And we got a pharmacist–”
“Then January of 2003, again in England, this time London, police raided two apartments of suspected terrorists...” Peterson scrolled down the story. “Traces of ricin found in the apartments, but it looks like they were Chechen.” He turned and looked up at Heisman. “You know? Russians?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Heisman mumbled impatiently.
“Theory is they were going to attack the Russian embassy in London.”
“All these guys, from both arrests, they still locked up?”
Peterson entered a quick search, and another screen appeared. “All but one.”
“Where’s he?”
“She.”
Heisman gave Peterson a double take. “She?”
“Jordanian. A woman named Ezzah Shukir. Released five months after her arrest. Looks like she wasn’t a part of it.”
“Got a picture?”
“Just a minute...” Peterson clicked through a few more links. “Here we go...”
A picture of Ghaniyah appeared on the screen. She looked a few years younger, but it was undoubtedly Ghaniyah.
“Holy shit,” Heisman mumbled.
The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 10:39 a.m.
“You know of any of al Mudtaji’s hiding places?” Gonz asked as he sipped a fresh cup of coffee.
“Only from the last day,” Adnan answered.
“The day Quizby was killed?”
Adnan nodded. “Always, two men take me to where they hide. They make me lie down in the back of the car, blindfold me.” He shook his head. “I never saw where we were, but last day. After the American... after it was over, al Mudtaji said I could walk. Not far. Then I knew. It’s –”
“An old warehouse in Jadida.” Gonz interrupted. Adnan looked up with surprise. He didn’t know it, but the Marines had gone into the building on a routine patrol just the day before and had found a great deal of blood on the second floor. “The Marines found it. Thought someone was killed there. A lot of blood. So, they’re checking it regularly.”
“He won’t come back,” Adnan scoffed. “Every two, three days, it changes. New place.” Adnan gave Gonz a penetrating look. “He takes what he wants, yes? His men pick a house. Take it. Sometimes the owners are there. No matter. Tie them up. He leaves like I say, one, two days later. You understand, yes?”
Gonz nodded, staring at his coffee cup.
“This why sometimes you bomb a home, and all you accomplish is the killing of an innocent family. Al Mudtaji has not been there for days. Your information is old.”
Gonz sighed. He didn’t need Adnan to tell them they were usually two steps behind. Without eyes and ears inside al Qaeda. they we
re continually fumbling in the dark. There was a sharp knock on the door and then Heisman burst in, his hefty bulk filling the door frame. He glared at Adnan. “You fucking weasel.”
Adnan instinctively recoiled as Gonz came to his feet in surprise. Heisman slammed the door behind him and tossed an 8x10 color photograph of Ghaniyah on the table. The glossy wasn’t exactly complimentary, her face stern as she held a prisoner identification number in front of her. Gonz studied the photo for a moment then asked Heisman, “What’s going on?”
“Ask him.” Heisman was still glaring at Adnan.
Adnan gently pulled the photograph across the table, looking closely. Then he turned to Gonz. “You said she not in prison.”
“She’s not,” Heisman said.
Adnan nodded at the photo again, angry now. “Ghaniyah’s –”
“That was in the U.K. Manchester, England. Four years ago.”
Adnan picked up the photograph, gazing at it as if it could talk to him.
“She was arrested with other terrorists. Used the name Ezzah Shukir. Had a Jordanian passport.”
Adnan was clearly surprised. Finally he shook his head. “No. No, Ghaniyah–”
“Ghaniyah? Or is it Ezzah?” Heisman’s tone was harsh.
“What was the arrest warrant?” Gonz asked.
“Terrorism, what else?” Still glaring at Adnan, he went on. “She was arrested with five other Islamic fundamentalists. And guess what? One was a chemist. That’s the same as you, right? Chemist? Pharmacist?”
Adnan looked truly frightened now. “I don’t understand–”
“You don’t? Then let me spell it out for you. Ghaniyah, or Ezzah, or whatever the hell her real name is, she was arrested with these other kooks and guess what they were making? Ricin. You know what ricin is?”
Adnan just stared at Heisman, clearly aghast.
“My God,” Gonz muttered.
“And guess what? The Brits, God bless ‘em, they let her go four and a half months later. Thought she wasn’t connected. She claimed she didn’t know what the men, including the chemist, were making. But guess what we know now?”
“Oh, shit,” Gonz grumbled.
Heisman turned to him for the first time. “Yep.” Looking at Adnan, he explained, “The aunt of your dear old girlfriend, she’s fighting for her life. Know why? Ricin. Ricin was put in her well water. Hers and her neighbors’. Just a little test run. See if they got the right PPM – parts per million.” Heisman took a breath, clearly agitated. “But then, they had a good teacher. You’re a pharmacist. A chemist–”
“No, I promise you–”
“Yeah, dude. You’re a chemist. So was the guy in England. But he’s still in prison, so voilà, we get you. You were the one to figure out the ratios. How much it would take to make someone ill, really ill or what the hell, just kill them off. So you told them about how much they’d need to–”
“No!” Adnan interrupted, horrified by the accusation. “No!”
“Then al Mudtaji has it sent down to his aunt’s for a little test run. Later he sends Ghaniyah to monitor how the old lady’s doing. Report back. Now I don’t know about you, but I’d say having victims bleeding internally, massive vomiting, diarrhea, and kidney failure just a stone’s throw away – I’d say it was a good test run.” He stepped close to the table, his burly physique intimidating as he peered down at Adnan. “So what’s al Mudtaji’s target? Who is getting the ricin?”
Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 11:32 a.m.
Focusing the powerful zoom lens on the former Presidential Palace which once housed Saddam’s government and now sat just inside the Green Zone, Maaz felt a pang of guilt. What if it was true? What if the Republican Palace, as it had been renamed after the U.S. invasion, was about to get hit? While people inside were about to suffer horrible deaths, he had done nothing but scurry around trying to find the best vantage point to get pictures should it happen. He had finally settled for the tree-lined pathway along the Tigris River where he could easily see the sprawling old palace and its lush green lawn across the river.
Fortunately, the elaborate Presidential Palace compound was always an attraction to onlookers, so he didn’t look out of place pointing his camera in that direction. While this angle was scenic, it wouldn’t do him much good if the insurgents struck from inside the Green Zone. But what were the chances of that? Most likely, it would be a mortar attack on this side of the building. He took a few pictures. This would provide up-to-the-minute “before” pictures should an attack occur.
Maaz couldn’t help but wonder about the people inside. Not just the Americans – every day he felt something different about them – but what about the Iraqis? Surely there were hundreds of Iraqis in the enormous building, those in power or close to those in power, who were shaping the country’s fledgling democracy. He thought of his two children. What if they were to grow up without a father because someone knew a building Maaz was in was about to blow up, yet they did nothing to stop it?
He consoled himself that he was simply doing his job. The call had come into the newspaper early that morning, the caller asking to speak to Duqaq, the paper’s top reporter covering the new Iraqi government. An anonymous voice had said that the Presidential Palace would be attacked at noon. They should have a photographer there. Duqaq had pressed for more information, but the caller had hung up.
Advised of the call, Dr. Lami had hesitated to act on it. While suicide bombings were an everyday occurrence, in many cases print or television journalists were on the scene before it happened. Sometimes it would be an anonymous call such as this one. Sometimes an individual reporter, photographer or especially a television cameraman, would be given the heads-up of where and when an attack would happen.
This served two purposes: it gave the journalists salacious coverage of blood and mayhem and for the owners of the newspaper or television station, a good deal of money when the footage was picked up by the wires or other television stations; secondly, when the Iraqi people saw blood and chaos across the morning paper or on the nightly television, it shattered any assurances they might have that the new government was stable. This doubt led to a distrust of the foreign idea of democracy, and made the people wonder if there weren’t a better, safer alternative.
Fully aware of all this, Dr. Lami didn’t like the idea of the insurgents directing his resources. However he was also a newspaper man. So he had done the only prudent thing – he had called someone he knew high in the government and passed on the warning. Then he had sent Maaz to cover the impending attack.
Maaz looked at his watch. It was half past eleven now.
“Nice camera,” a deep voice said just behind him.
Startled, Maaz turned to see a young man with a light beard smoking a cigarette. He wore faded blue jeans, a light jacket and an easy smile.
“You like it?” the man inquired.
For some reason, Maaz felt uncomfortable. “Yes.”
“What happened to the old one?”
Surprised, Maaz just stared at the man.
“Never got it back, eh?” the young stranger asked with a laugh.
“Who are you?” Maaz asked in surprise. “How do you know–”
“Tell me something,” the man said, taking another puff of the cigarette and blowing out the smoke directly toward Maaz. “You figure out what was in the dead infidel’s mouth?”
Maaz could only stare at the man, at a loss for words. All he could think was that the man in front of him was a terrorist. He was standing along the scenic Tigris talking to a terrorist.
The young man laughed again. “I’ll help you.” He now removed a small piece of paper from his pants pocket. “It was a note from al Mudtaji. Here is what it said.”
Maaz took the folded paper and quickly opened it. The typed note read, Islam is the only true religion. Now you have an American who speaks the truth of Islam. Before now, he and all other Americans never spoke the truth of Islam. He had to have his head removed. Now he can spea
k the truth. Understand. This is the first of many American heads that will come to speak the truth Sunday.
Anxiously glancing up, Maaz saw that the young man was casually walking away. He looked over his shoulder toward Maaz, then turned so that he was walking backward. “Don’t worry about what you were told earlier,” the man shouted. “Just wanted to see you again.” He pointed at the paper in Maaz’s hand. “Share that with everyone, huh?”
He laughed again, then turned around and walked away briskly.
Maaz hesitated, then focused his camera on the stranger. Using the zoom, he brought the man’s image in close, rapidly taking several pictures. He waited for the man to turn around again. But he didn’t.
A moment later the terrorist’s image was blocked by a group of people walking toward Maaz.
Chapter Fifteen
Basra, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 11:41 a.m.
She now sat on the front steps of her aunt’s house, waiting.
The small suitcase the Americans had provided prior to her arrival at Basra sat beside her, filled with a few clothes and toiletries. Hidden inside, along the spine of the special valise was the satellite cell phone with which she could call the Americans – either Dr. McKay or her boss. She had never made a call with it, having only received text messages from the woman doctor and had almost thrown it away when she had packed her clothes. Why not? She certainly wasn’t going to call the Americans now. She had made her decision. But at the last minute she had tucked it inside the suitcase’s hiding place.
In the end, her decision came down to Adnan. She not only wanted to see him again, she wanted a future with him. Although she wasn’t all that sure the country had a solid future, at least as a democracy, she believed in Adnan and she believed in herself. They would prevail. If she did this one thing, and somehow managed to do it right, she would hold the key to their future. They could then both be free, and nothing, not al Mudtaji, nor the Americans, could keep them apart again.
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 16