“Father!” Faris shouted in joy, pulling himself out of his mother’s grasp and leaping into Maaz’s arms as he stepped into the office.
“Thank God,” a deep voice said just outside the office door. Still holding Faris, Maaz heard Dr. Lami say, “I told myself, God willing, you will be okay. Your family will be okay.”
Maaz quickly put Faris down and turned toward his publisher. Upon seeing Maaz’s battered face, Dr. Lami whispered, “Dear God. What happened?”
Maaz shook his head. “They took out their frustration on me, I guess.”
Dr. Lami looked at Daneen. “You are well? They didn’t–”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Daneen answered with a shy smile, one hand on Faris’ shoulder.
“Who did this?” the publisher asked. “Do you know?”
Maaz glanced at Daneen, then said, “Al Mudtaji.”
“No!” Dr. Lami hissed. “Dear God. Your brother-in-law? What of him?”
Maaz shook his head. “We don’t know.” He nodded to the Marines hovering outside the office. “They’re taking us to the Green Zone until...” His words trailed off.
Dr. Lami nodded. “Of course, of course.”
There was a moment of awkward silence and then Daneen spoke up. “Thank you for taking care of Faris.”
Dr. Lami seemed relieved to talk of something other than Iraq’s top terrorist and replied with a smile, “Of course. What else could I do? He’s the oldest son of my best photographer.”
Maaz started to smile even though it hurt greatly, before the words resonated, and he suddenly gave the publisher a surprised double take.
“Well, you’re my only photographer at the moment,” Dr. Lami explained with a laugh. “So that makes you my best too. Ali was hired by the A.P.” He was referring to the paper’s only staff photographer who had not shown up for work the past week, supposedly because he was sick. Dr. Lami gave Maaz a serious look. “I’d like to have you take Ali’s place. I’ll get some stringers, of course, but I’d like you to be on staff.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Maaz stammered.
Dr. Lami looked to Daneen. “I can’t promise he will have regular hours. But his salary should help compensate.”
Maaz quickly looked to Daneen to see her reaction. She smiled and gave him an encouraging nod. Elated, he turned back to Dr. Lami and they shook hands, laughing.
Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 1:52 p.m.
“When?” Heisman asked in Arabic. “When did they leave?”
The waitress shrugged. “Maybe an hour, now?”
Once he had landed on the roof, Heisman had quickly scurried to the back of the building where he had carefully lowered himself off the edge, hanging from the lip of the roof by his hands. Then he had silently dropped to the ground with his knees bent. A clean drop. By the time the helicopters’ powerful engines had faded in the distance, he had slipped through the backdoor, his pistol in hand. Within seconds, he had found himself in a corridor that led to the back room of a bustling commercial kitchen, the workers oblivious to his intrusion. He had remained in place for just another moment, overhearing the cook shout that an order was up.
There were three closed doors off the hallway, and he had noiselessly investigated each one. The first was a bathroom, not very clean, but empty. The second and third doors both led to small offices, both similarly empty.
Stepping back outside, he had removed his helmet and gloves, leaving them under a nearby bush. He had decided it would be best to enter the restaurant looking normal. Or at least as normal as a large black man can look in Iraq.
“Do you know where they went?” Heisman asked.
She shook her head. Still holding the mug shot photograph of Ghaniyah taken at the time of her arrest in England, the woman gave Heisman a critical look. “She came in all upset. Said they had to leave. The child, she was very upset. I had just brought them their food.”
“So she left with the man and the kid?”
“And their food,” the waitress remarked. “I put it in a container. For the girl, yes?”
Heisman nodded. “You ever see them before? Maybe the man?”
Again, she shook her head. “No.”
“He young? Your age?”
“The man?” the waitress asked in surprise. “No. Older. Maybe her father.”
Heisman mulled this over. Could Ghaniyah be traveling with her father? He immediately remembered that Ghaniyah had said her father had lost his legs.
“He in a wheelchair?”
“No.” She gave him a baffled look.
“And you didn’t see how they arrived? Their car?”
Another shrug. “I work inside, not outside.”
“Okay, thanks.” Heisman took the photo and put it in breast pocket and started to leave.
“There is a bus station not too far.”
Heisman instantly turned back to the woman. “Where?”
“Next block.” She pointed west. “Sometimes we get people from there.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
MP-5, The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 2:03 p.m.
“He’s back! He’s answering!”
McKay was the first to Peterson’s side. She saw the website was completely written in Arabic. “Is it going through Andrew?”
“Already running. Takes a minute...”
Just ten minutes ago they had posted a message saying that they might consider selling the ricin to the highest bidder, hoping to draw out the insurgent on the other end. But it was a gamble. They had no way of knowing if the guy on the other end was legitimate or if he was just toying with them. Gonz had reasoned that he was legitimate since he had known about the ricin. The problem was, the guy never chatted for very long before logging out, almost teasing them with bits of information.
“What have we got!?” Gonz shouted as he quickly entered from the back room, peeling a banana.
“Coming up now...” Peterson told them. A pop-up screen appeared on the monitor with a new message: How can you sell something you don’t have?
“He knows,” McKay said staring at the screen.
“Tell him we’re talking to Ghaniyah, he isn’t.” Gonz picked up a pencil from the desk and used it to point at Peterson. “Just like that. ‘We’re talking to Ghaniyah, you aren’t.’”
Peterson typed that exact message, then clicked for Andrew to translate the message. A moment later a dialogue box appeared reading, Send message in Arabic?
“Yep. Send it.” Gonz chewed on the pencil.
Peterson clicked on the send icon.
“Can’t we find him?” McKay asked in frustration. “He’s online right now. We should be able to trace him.”
“Hasn’t worked so far,” Peterson said nodding to another laptop on the next desk that was used primarily for GPS tracking and Internet traces. “He knows what he’s doing. He uses a bunch of servers, routes it all over the world. Plus he never stays on more than a couple minutes. He’s very careful.”
The computer beeped. Another message appeared in Arabic. Peterson clicked the Andrew icon at the bottom of the screen, then glanced at the laptop to see the Internet trace. “Got a different IP this time. Australia.”
“What does that mean?” McKay asked.
“Not much. He’s done this before.” He could see McKay was confused, so he explained, “Normally, you get online, your computer is designated with an IP address. We can trace the IP to an exact street address. Say your home, or your office, wherever that computer is. This guy, the IP keeps changing. Pakistan. Turkey. I’ve traced it with longitude, latitude coordinates, same thing.”
“So we have nothing.”
“Come on,” Gonz grumbled. “Where’s the translation on this?”
Peterson pointed to an hourglass icon on the screen. “It’s working on it.” He then turned back to McKay. “Look, we’re not really talking to him. Not directly. We’re talking to the server that sends the message to this guy. Same in reverse. But he’s got i
t routed all over the place. No way to pin him down. I also tried to do a reverse IM search... Get the guy’s name associated with his IM name, but that’s a joke anyway. He wouldn’t use his real name. I wouldn’t.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Gonz suddenly shouted, moving to the laptop on the other side of Peterson’s desk. “One of the phone’s is on.”
Peterson glanced at it, then looked at his main computer, excited. “How long, sir? It says at the bottom. A running time. How long?”
Gonz stared. “Eh, two minutes and...”
“Sixteen seconds, seventeen,” Peterson called out from his workstation.
Gonz gave Peterson a quizzical look. “How did you…?”
“He’s our IM guy! Using a cell! Wireless!” Peterson explained.
“We need to trace this!” Gonz shouted. “We need to trace this call!”
“It’s already programmed to give us the exact location!”
Another loud computer beep. On Peterson’s desktop computer. They all turned toward the monitor. The new message finally translated by Andrew read, “You can talk to Ghaniyah all you want, but I have her lover. Checkmate, friend.”
The three stared at the monitor in silence.
“Okay,” Gonz calmly responded. “Okay, we’ll tell him –”
A soft chirp from the computer and Peterson thundered, “Shit! He’s gone!” He quickly propelled his chair across the floor to the laptop with the phone trace. “Two minutes, forty-nine.” He looked at McKay and Gonz. “That’s why we never get him to chat for a long time! He’s using a cell connection! He knows it can be traced...!”
Jadida, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 2:06 p.m.
Adnan watched as Sharif, sitting on the crate Adnan had first occupied, closed the laptop. After Sharif had stabbed him lightly in the throat with the sword, he had instructed Adnan to move across the room and sit on the floor. Adnan had complied, using the sleeve of his dishdasha to wipe the blood that seeped from his neck wound. After a few minutes, the bleeding eased. For some reason his injured shoulder had begun to throb again, but he knew that was the least of his problems.
“Talking to al Mudtaji?” Adnan asked.
Sharif gave him a bemused look. “And how would I do that?”
“E-mail. Instant message.”
“Ah, but the wise al Mudtaji has always had a problem reading, did you know that?”
Adnan did, but shook his head no.
“True. He couldn’t read.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
Adnan couldn’t hide his surprise. Sharif laughed.
“Time,” one of Sharif’s men announced.
Sharif ignored the man, still staring at Adnan. “You know who’s idea it was? The ricin? Mine. Not al Mudtaji. Mine. So, I take his life, now I will take his name, since I am now the true ‘One Who Stands Up.’” With that, Sharif slid off the crate, standing up with his arms outstretched. He laughed again and then slowly approached Adnan, his sheathed sword swaying from his belt.
Adnan inadvertently cringed as Sharif neared. But Sharif didn’t reach for his sword. Instead, he pulled his cell phone out of his trouser pocket and offered it to Adnan. “Make the call.”
Adnan knew he couldn’t stall any longer. He took the cell phone and flipped it open. He had memorized the number just this morning.
He prayed now it would work.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jadida, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 2:08 p.m.
Sharif stood over him, studying a wristwatch that he held in his hand. Adnan tried his best to ignore him, cupping the cell phone to his ear with his left hand since his right arm was immobilized. After the second ring, a gruff voice picked up saying, “City desk.”
“It’s Adnan.” He spoke in English, knowing that while Sharif knew the language, the other two men did not. It might give him an advantage.
Nothing but silence.
“Hello?” Adnan said.
“Adnan Hanjour?” the voice asked in Arabic, unsure.
“Where’s Ghaniyah?” he asked gruffly in English. “She’s late.”
“Just a minute. I’m putting you on speaker phone.”
“It’s Adnan!” Duqaq shouted. He motioned to Maaz who was across the room with his family, Dr. Lami and the American journalist, Colonel K.C. Two Marines were standing close by, the third near the front entrance, keeping an eye on the street. Finding his tape recorder in the drawer, Duqaq turned it on to record. Then he pressed the speaker button on the phone.
“You’re on speaker,” Duqaq said in a loud voice as the rest of the room went quiet. Maaz was the first to his side, Daneen right behind him. Dr. Lami and Colonel K.C. squeezed in on the other side of the desk. “Maaz is here.”
“Adnan?” Maaz asked in Arabic. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Where’s Ghaniyah?” Adnan repeated this time in Arabic. “She’s late.”
“Ghaniyah..?” Maaz started.
Daneen, still holding Badr, elbowed past her husband.
“Adnan?” Daneen asked. “We don’t know where Ghaniyah is. She–”
“One minute,” a voice called out on the other end in Arabic.
Adnan suddenly realized that Sharif was timing the call. Running out of time, he looked away. On the far side of the room the large spray painted message stared back at him. “2nd Bn 5th.” Then the date as of two days ago.
“Listen to me. I’m in place.” Adnan spoke with feigned great annoyance. “Tell her. Two days ago, same place, okay? This is the second time I have to tell you. Second. Got it? What do I have to do, tell you five times? Five? I’m in place. She should know this from two days ago. Understand?”
“Adnan, listen –” Daneen began.
The phone suddenly disconnected. All they heard was dead air.
“What was all that?” Maaz asked.
“He’s still being held,” Colonel K.C. explained. He looked at Duqaq. “You got it, right?”
Duqaq nodded, picking up the recorder.
“Play it back.”
Duqaq rewound the tape, then hit the play button. Adnan’s voice, loud and clear. “Listen to me. I’m in place. Tell her. Two days ago, same place, okay? This is the second time I have to tell you. Second. Got it? What do I have to do, tell you five times? Five? I’m in place. She should know this from two days ago. Understand?”
Daneen looked to the colonel for an explanation, but the American just shook his head. Then with a baffled expression, he asked, “Who is Ghaniyah, you know?”
“His girlfriend.”
“He has a girlfriend that’s in with al Mudtaji?” Duqaq questioned bitterly.
“She was kidnapped. By al Mudtaji,” Daneen retorted defensively. “He is her brother. Or half-brother, I should say.”
Maaz stared at his wife with complete astonishment. “Her brother is al Mudtaji?”
“Adnan confided to me that she was taken by al Mudtaji. I’m not sure why.”
“And al Mudtaji thinks she has his ricin,” Colonel K.C. said.
Daneen shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The colonel removed his cell phone from his belt and dialed a number.
MP-5, The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 2:11 p.m.
“Does it make sense to anyone there?” Gonz asked, talking on his cell phone. “His sister, maybe?” He listened for a moment, then said. “Okay. Call you back.”
“Same phone that was used to get online with us,” McKay said.
Gonz nodded, picking up a gnawed pencil. “Which doesn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. Except Adnan’s alive.” He looked at Peterson who was in front of his computer, typing something.
“Okay, here it is,” Peterson announced, a pen poised above a clean piece of paper to take notes.
This time a computerized voice came through the computer speakers in English. “Listen to me. I’m in place. Tell her. Two days ago, same place, okay? This is the second time I have to tell you. Second. Got it? What do I have
to do, tell you five times? Five? I’m in place. She should know this from two days ago. Understand?”
“Again,” Gonz insisted.
They listened to the message again.
“He’s definitely trying to tell us something,” McKay said.
“He’s big with the numbers.” Peterson looked at his notes. “Two, on the ‘two days ago.’ ‘Second,’ which can be another ‘two.’ Says it twice. Then ‘five.’ Repeats the ‘five.’ Then repeats the ‘two days ago.’”
“Five and two is seven,” McKay theorized. “Goes to their ‘seven days from Sunday’ mantra.”
“But he repeats it,” Peterson pointed out. “I’m going to run a whitewash on this. See what the computer can figure out.”
“Play it again,” Gonz said.
Once more they listened to the computerized voice translating Adnan’s words.
“What happened two days ago, that’s the key,” Gonz said.
“Two days ago we picked him up, right?” McKay asked.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to do with him.”
Peterson suddenly noticed something on the screen of laptop tracking the phones and pushed his chair over to check it out. “She’s making a call! Ghaniyah’s making a call!”
McKay quickly pulled her cell phone off her belt, staring at it. Waiting.
Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 2:13 p.m.
Ghaniyah didn’t bother with the driver’s watch this time. Either the Americans would trace the call or not. She just wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. Although she couldn’t help but glance at the truck’s small clock on the dashboard.
“Who are you calling?” Abasah asked. “Is it Papa? I want to talk to him!”
“Shh!” Ghaniyah scolded. “It’s not your father. Quiet, now.”
Abasah looked at the driver to see if he would help, but he kept his eyes on the road. Ignoring both of them.
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 27