Just thirteen days after the ricin had been turned over to the Americans, Adnan and Ghaniyah had gotten married in a small ceremony in Jadida. Daneen, Maaz, and their two young boys had been there, along with Thamer, of course. Maaz had taken countless photographs, and Badr had cried through much of the ceremony, making everyone laugh.
Maaz had confided in him earlier that day that Daneen had lost the baby the day al Mudtaji’s men had raided their house. Although Maaz admitted to being disappointed, all in all, their family was safe and healthy, and that was all that counted. Adnan had then spoken to Daneen privately, telling her what Maaz had related. She had just rolled her eyes, saying that it had been easier to allow Maaz to think she was with child than relate what was really causing her so much anxiety. She had then held him close, telling him how happy she was for him.
Sadly, Ghaniyah didn’t have any family to attend the services. Her mother had long since passed away, her half-brother al Mudtaji had been confirmed dead, and she had nothing to do with her father. Adnan’s family was now her family.
The Iraq National Journal had broken the story about the ricin the day after the Americans had secured the poison and Sharif and his men were either killed or taken into custody at the warehouse. Colonel K.C. had broken the story that same day on the American cable news channel. While Ghaniyah’s name was left out of the stories, Adnan had been mentioned briefly, the media stating that he had been instrumental in helping both the American and Iraqi Security Forces nail al Mudtaji’s cell of terrorists.
Both news outlets had also given extensive coverage to al Mudtaji’s original plan, which was to deposit the ricin in the water main that supplied most of Green Zone with potable water. The sole survivor of Sharif’s debacle had readily confessed that they had a man who worked for the water company. The Americans, along with the Iraqi Security Forces, had promptly found the man and arrested him without incident.
There was much speculation as to what would have happened if al Mudtaji’s plan had come to fruition. While the ricin used in Basra was not very high grade, the ricin intended for the Green Zone had proven to be nearly pure, putting conservative estimates of the death toll at 10,000 – most of them Coalition Forces. The American media had run with the story, leading many partisan Congressional members to call for the immediate withdrawal of American forces – it was simply unthinkable to have American forces remain when they could be so susceptible to such an unspeakable death. However, the U.S. president didn’t waiver. He pledged that the American forces would remain in place, helping secure Iraq so that the Iraqi people could have a viable future.
Adnan’s biggest regret was the death of his friend Aref. Two days after the suicide bomb had killed Hashamed al Jarkari and almost fifty others, Adnan had gone to Aref’s apartment to thank him for his help. Neighbors had said that they hadn’t seen Aref for two days. Adnan had immediately known the truth. He had then gone to the university gymnasium, which had been converted into a makeshift morgue. He had searched among the remains with many other Iraqis, all looking for a clue about the fate of a loved one. Then he found Aref’s body. It was really only half of his body, but he identified Aref from the stitches he himself had sewn in the old man’s hand. Just five days before.
He and Ghaniyah had then made arrangements, burying what was left of Aref next to his beloved wife, Rafia. Adnan felt it was the least he could do. He only wished his friend could have seen the newspapers the next morning – they all carried an A.P. photo of Aref’s blood-splattered poster which had come to rest on the grassy quad. Aref’s Arabic writing had survived, the message clear: “The new Iraq is a government of the people, by the people and for the people.”
Adnan glanced at Ghaniyah as she stirred slightly. They had honeymooned in Jordan, staying at a wonderful resort where they indulged themselves in luxurious accommodations and magnificent dining. Ghaniyah had taken her husband on a tour of the Jordan of her youth, showing him the school that she had graduated from, the home she had shared with her mother, and her favorite park where she had played as a teenager.
She had told him of her escape from Basra, when Saddam’s sadistic son, Uday, had spotted her and made it clear he wanted the young teen for himself. Her stepfather had arranged for her and her mother to escape to Jordan. Weeks later, when Uday and his thugs had come for her, her stepfather had taken his own life rather than divulge where she was hiding.
She had explained that both she and her mother had always longed to return to their own country, and they were finally able to do so after both Saddam’s sons were confirmed dead. Sadly, her mother took ill soon after they had started life over in Baghdad. Ghaniyah’s saving grace was meeting Adnan not long after her mother’s death.
Ghaniyah had also explained to both the Americans and Adnan how it was that she had been arrested in England. She had been dating a young Jordanian who had gone to the U.K. to further his education. Or so she had thought. She had gone to visit him there and had only been in the country three days when the British police stormed the man’s small apartment, arresting her, the boyfriend, and four others. She had had no idea that the man and his colleagues were jihadists, let alone that they were stockpiling ricin. It made her sick.
Of course, the coincidence of being linked to two deadly ricin plots hadn’t set well with the Americans, especially Gonz. But Ghaniyah had explained that al Mudtaji had heard of what her ex-boyfriend had attempted to do with the poison and had always been intrigued by the idea of killing so many so easily. She insisted that she would have never given her half-brother the ricin. Proof of this was that she hadn’t taken the ricin to the warehouse. Instead, she had given it to Thamer with the strict instructions that he hand it over to the Americans if she didn’t return by nightfall.
Ghaniyah had further proven her allegiance when she had given the American agents the address of a man her half-brother had been dealing with in Fallujah. When the Iraqi Security Forces raided the man’s small office, they had found paperwork that implicated a farmer in North Africa who cultivated castor plants, the beans from which ricin could be produced.
Extensively questioning Ghaniyah, Adnan, Daneen, and Maaz about al Mudtaji’s cell, the American agents had finally determined that Sharif must have been watching the Green Zone checkpoint when Ghaniyah had delivered Quizby’s head to the Marines. Although they would never know for sure, it was agreed that Sharif had probably then told al Mudtaji, warning him that Ghaniyah may have been compromised. However, al Mudtaji most likely didn’t believe it. So Sharif had killed him, rather than risk Ghaniyah getting a hold of the ricin. No one was sure why the goat rancher had stolen the ricin, or how he even knew it was hidden in the chest. Nor would they ever know.
In thanks for their cooperation, Adnan and Ghaniyah were given the use of the private plane to fly to and from Jordan for their honeymoon, providing they go when the plane was already scheduled to make the trip. They had readily agreed.
As Ghaniyah had eagerly shown Adnan her adopted country of Jordan, she had also purchased numerous gifts for Abasah that she had mailed to the girl’s home near Ash Shatrah. The bodies of the young girl’s father, grandmother, and the veterinarian had been found at the ranch. The Iraqi police had then found Abasah’s only living relatives – an aunt and uncle who lived in the same area. Both Ghaniyah and McKay had flown with Abasah in a military helicopter to the rural area where she was reunited with her family. Both Ghaniyah and the girl had cried when they had to say goodbye, but Ghaniyah had promised to visit. It was a promise she fully intended to keep.
The pilot’s voice came over the speaker, announcing that they were just twenty minutes from landing in Baghdad. He told them to make sure their seats were upright, their seat belts fastened. Adnan looked at his wife. The pilot’s announcement had awoken her. He kissed her gently and was rewarded with a beautiful smile. He helped her return her seat up to its normal position.
“I wish we could travel like this all the time,” Ghaniyah said with a sleepy
grin.
“I think this was our once-in-a-lifetime treat.”
“You never know,” she teased. “We might help the Americans again and be given another nice trip.”
Adnan smiled. She was speaking not only of the use of the private jet, but also the all-expenses-paid stay at the luxurious resort. However, he simply replied, “I got my reward the day you married me.”
Ghaniyah smiled. “Me too.”
Basra, Iraq ~ The Same Day
Gonz sat at an outside table of an eatery that had been renamed “The Scottish Highland Inn.” Since Basra was essentially a city controlled by the Brits, it was hardly surprising to find that they had renamed the popular café. With all the British voices surrounding him at adjacent tables, Gonz knew that if he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine that he was in some warm coastal town in the U.K., far from Iraq. Laughter erupted behind him. He looked over. Five British soldiers had squeezed themselves around a small round table, drinking the tap beer and laughing loudly.
He turned his attention back to his laptop on the table in front of him. Even with his sunglasses on, he had to squint to read, the bright sun nearly washing out the screen. He adjusted the monitor’s brightness until he could read the screen. Peterson had forwarded two e-mails. The first detailed efforts to track down the terrorist known as Yusuf, but so far no luck. The man had simply vanished. The second was from Langley notifying Peterson that he was now officially, yet temporarily, assigned to Marco Polo 5. Within 30 days, he would have to undergo extensive training in their computer engineering program in order to remain with MP-5. Even then, a lot of corners were being cut to allow Peterson to remain with Gonz’s team.
Peterson had written “Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir!! :)” in the e-mail. Gonz knew the director was cutting him a lot of slack in keeping Peterson for one simple reason – his team was good. Even the director knew better than to try to fix something that wasn’t broken.
Somehow, the symbol of a smiley face didn’t fit Peterson. But Gonz was relieved to see that the paperwork had gone through. He certainly didn’t want to lose Peterson.
“What? No beer?”
Gonz looked up. McKay pulled out a chair opposite him and sat down. Her blonde hair loosely falling over her shoulders, he thought she had never looked so beautiful. He noticed that a few Brits at the adjacent table had similar thoughts.
“I was waiting for my doctor to give me the okay,” he said with a grin.
“Yeah, right.” McKay laughed.
A waitress appeared and Gonz ordered two beers. After she left, he looked at McKay. “So?”
“Still touch and go on the little boy. He may need kidney treatment for some time to come.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
McKay nodded. “Still, no one died. That’s amazing. I mean Ghaniyah’s aunt is no spring chicken.”
“You did good work, McKay.”
The waitress brought their beers as the next table exploded with laughter. McKay nodded to the laptop. “Anything important?”
“Still have no sign of the guy called Yusuf. And we got guys watching Ghaniyah’s father. Nothing yet, but I have a hunch he’ll help us out at some point.” Gonz was referring to the decision by Langley to watch Ghaniyah’s father, rather than arrest him. The consensus was that he would probably find another terrorist cell to work with, which they could then exploit.
McKay nodded, sipping her beer. Gonz reached into his breast pocket and removed a piece of paper. “This just came in.”
McKay unfolded the paper and read it. Twice.
“You’re a free woman, McKay.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“Obligations fulfilled.”
McKay slowly nodded in acknowledgment.
“What? I thought that’s what you wanted. Go back to Philly. Be a real doctor. On staff at a hospital.”
“Yeah,” she replied vaguely. She noticed him watching her and she added, “I was just thinking. About the ricin and everything. I mean, it was important. Being here.”
“Are you kidding? We couldn’t have done it without you. You’re the one who figured out the old lady was poisoned. That was key.”
She hesitated. Measuring her words carefully. “I was thinking of extending it. Six months, maybe.”
“I already put in your paperwork. Electronically filed last night.”
Feeling awkward, McKay nodded.
“But if you want to stay on...” His words trailed off.
“I’d stay with you?” she eagerly asked. “I mean, MP-5?”
“Yeah.” Gonz looked at her. He had hated the idea of losing her. “There is one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
Gonz shrugged. “You know how it is. We can’t... well, we shouldn’t... well, not if we’re both in MP-5. I’m your superior.”
McKay waited. Not sure where he was going.
“I thought since it’s official, you’re out, we could see what happens.” Gonz suddenly leaned across the table and took her hand, caressing it softly. “I’ve heard of a great place for dinner. Taken over by the Brits of course, but great food. Dancing. Right on the water.” He looked into her eyes. “We could see where it leads.”
McKay couldn’t believe her ears. Or the way his hand felt touching hers. She didn’t trust her own voice, but finally managed, “And then what?”
“Then we’ll send notice that you’re still in MP-5. If that’s what you still want.”
“Might be awkward.”
Gonz gave her a steady look. “No harder than it’s been to ignore what I’ve been feeling for so long.”
McKay smiled.
“Okay with you?”
McKay nodded. “Okay with me.”
~
Read The Next Book In The Series
Still based in Baghdad, our favorite CIA team must contend with an elite and powerful foreign terrorist group on a secret mission in the new M.H. Sargent novel, The Shot To Die For.
The mutilated body of Marine Corporal Jason Briggs, missing for two days, has been found in a Baghdad field. Investigating the death are Rick Gonzalez (Gonz) and Dr. McKay, two experienced CIA operatives. Even though they have seen their fair share of dismembered bodies before, this one is different – embedded in an amputated testicle is a pen that houses a computer flash drive.
Meanwhile, Maaz, a photographer with The Iraq National Journal has been kidnapped. The owner of the newspaper and the man’s family, all of whom had worked with the CIA operatives a few months before to stop a major terrorist attack, appeal to Gonz to help find him. Soon, Gonz finds that Corporal Briggs’ death and the missing photographer are tied to the same terrorist group – a Palestinian terrorist cell that is desperate to recover the memory card from the photographer’s camera.
But what is on the memory card? And does it have anything to do with the sudden collapse of Iraq’s major banks?
Once again, Sargent delivers a fast-paced thriller you won’t be able to put down.
An excerpt of The Shot To Die For is available at the end of this book.
Seven Days from Sunday is the first in M.H. Sargent’s thriller series featuring this CIA team. The next four, along with a World War II novel published in 2011, are listed below.
CIA MP-5 Series
Seven Days From Sunday, Book One
The Shot To Die For, Book Two
Operation Spider Web, Book Three
The Yemen Connection, Book Four
Alliance of Evil, Book Five
Also by M.H. Sargent:
Toward Night’s End
M.H. Sargent would love to hear your comments on this book.
You can write to the author at [email protected]
Acknowledgements
Every writer needs a top-notch editor and thank you is not enough for Shelley Holloway at Holloway House. You are a joy to work with, and you’ve made each book that much better.
To Angie Seeley for always being there and giving me th
e insight and courage to see things through.
To June Grgurich for not only being the ideal Godmother, but also taking the time to read this manuscript and offer suggestions.
To Joy Moeller for sharing your brilliant mind and your love of books with me. And of course, your encouragement with this book.
To Laurel Mallory for your wisdom and most of all, for your faith in me. And of course, making me laugh.
To the other Shelley, Shelley Pelle who has been there from day one, reading drafts of this manuscript and giving me great feedback.
An Excerpt from The Shot To Die For
Prologue
Al-Anbar Province, Iraq
Maaz awoke with a start and immediately realized he couldn’t breathe.
Panic set in as he struggled to gulp air, but only inhaled some sort of foul smelling cloth that was wedged in his mouth. Instinctively, he drew air through his nostrils, the appalling odor almost overwhelming him. Lying on his right side, curled up in the fetal position, he frantically tried to move inside the dark, cramped space and soon realized his hands were firmly tied behind his back. One shoulder ached in protest and his head throbbed with pain. He tried to look around, but it was dark, too dark to adequately see anything.
Fighting off the rising panic, he suddenly realized that he was in the trunk of a car. It was idling. He could feel the vibration. Then the driver put it in gear, let the clutch out too soon and the vehicle lurched forward, rocking Maaz back against the trunk compartment.
Who were these people and what did they want? He tried to take deep breaths through his nose, telling himself to calm down. He was alive. He had a chance.
Another wave of panic rolled over him as he inhaled the stale air. How much fresh air was in the car trunk? How much time was left before he would be gulping in carbon monoxide instead of oxygen? He tried to move again and his head screamed in pain. Ignoring the agonizing ache, he rolled onto his back, his arms painfully pinned under him as he tilted his head upright. He could see a glimpse of light along the seams of the trunk. But did that bring in any air? He had no way of knowing, but he doubted it.
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