Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (11 page)

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.

“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.”

“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.

Daneen was glad that her husband had such a likable personality. Now she just had to adopt that same good nature and easy smile. She opened the glass entrance door, which was stenciled with the words
Iraq National Journal
in a crescent shape, and entered. She stood there, transfixed. Daneen hadn’t been inside the newspaper offices since the week they had moved in, and she was astonished to see the changes. There were flat-panel monitors on many desks in the main room, larger electronic equipment she didn’t recognize in a glass-enclosed area marked “Graphics,” and some sort of conference room on the opposite side.

The biggest change was the number of employees. She knew that when Dr. Lami invested his own money into starting the newspaper just a few years ago, he had only two employees. Now how many were there? She actually started counting. She had just gotten to twelve when she heard, “You just missed him, Daneen.” She looked to see Fadhil, the young man Maaz had brought to the house for dinner several times, talking to her. “Went to get a new camera.”

“That’s wonderful,” she replied, secretly happy he wasn’t there. “I saw the picture he took in today’s newspaper.”

“Did you see his photo credit?”

“His photo credit?” she asked, clearly puzzled.

Fadhil led her to the nearby kiosk where he grabbed a paper. He pointed to Maaz’s full name in tiny font just below the picture. “Not bad, eh?”

“Wow,” she marveled. It seemed so strange to see her husband’s name in a newspaper.

“He’s doing very well. That’s why Dr. Lami’s getting him a good camera.”

“He takes good pictures?”

“Really good. Would you like to see?”

“Yes, please,” she answered. This was the exact reason she had come to the newspaper after leaving Adnan. She followed Fadhil to his desk, which sat fairly close to the entrance. The monitor was pitch black, but he moved the mouse and it came to life. “This is yours?” she asked.

“Yep. I do a lot of the paste-up, copy editing, cropping photos and all the computer stuff that anyone needs here,” he explained with an easy smile. He sat down and clicked on one program, then another. “Here it is.”

Daneen watched the slide show of Maaz’s pictures taken of the American two-star general at a podium, then the severed head, which she still found gruesome to watch, and finally two pictures of Ghaniyah. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she stepped closer to the monitor for a better look. Both photos were fairly close-up, one with her hands handcuffed as she sat on the ground cross-legged, and another of her walking away from the camera, but turning to look back at something. The slide show stopped on that photo– a photo which clearly showed her beautiful face. There was no doubt. It was Ghaniyah.

Finding her voice, Daneen asked, “Who is the woman?”

“Don’t know. We’re working on it. Probably be in tomorrow’s paper, maybe the day after.”

She could only stare at the screen, grateful that Maaz had never met Ghaniyah. In fact, the only time Adnan had brought Ghaniyah to the house was one time last summer – a day when Maaz was busy at work. The truth was that her brother and husband had nothing in common. While Adnan had gone to university, Maaz had been content to work odd labor jobs. Whenever they were together, there seemed to be a chasm that only Daneen could fill, bridging the gap. It was awkward, but she loved both men.

“Are you all right?” she heard. Then again in a louder voice, “Daneen, are you all right?”

Daneen tore her eyes away from Ghaniyah’s image and said, “Yes.” She touched him on the shoulder. “Thank you for showing me.” She started to leave, then turned to the young man. “Those photos? You can send them places by computer, yes?”

“E-mail, you mean? Yes. The one in today’s paper we sent to the A.P.” He saw her puzzled look and said, “Associated Press. Money from just one picture like that can keep us going for awhile. We’ll get more when we publish the rest.”

Daneen gave a slight smile. “I see. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work.”

Fadhil watched her leave sensing that something was wrong. He wondered what it was.

It wasn’t until early evening that McKay had a chance to see the photos in the
Iraq National Journal
. As had already been arranged, she had entered a café near the hospital just after six o’clock, taking a seat near the back. She carried a copy of the Arabic edition of the newspaper since no English editions had been available at the newsstand. Now sipping some tea, she unfolded the paper and scrutinized the photo.

While she could see the vague image of Ghaniyah in the background, since the Iraqi woman had been wearing a hijab, it could’ve been anyone. Something good to be said about their damned head coverings after all, McKay thought. She put the paper on the chair at an adjacent table, and a minute later Ghaniyah entered the café, removing the newspaper to sit down just a meter away from McKay. The restaurant had very few patrons, which suited their purposes quite well. When a waiter came to the table, Ghaniyah ordered some tea and black bread.

Holding her tea cup in front of her lips, McKay said quietly, “We may have a problem.” She could see Ghaniyah look at her in surprise, and she quickly hissed, “Don’t look at me.” From her peripheral vision she could see Ghaniyah glance away. “That paper ran a photo of what happened yesterday. You’re in the background. We’re worried there may be more to follow.”

Now sipping the tea, she saw Ghaniyah unfold the newspaper and study the pictures. No one in the café was paying any attention to the two women, so McKay continued, “If that happens, we’re pulling you out.” Ghaniyah didn’t say a word, seeming to be engrossed in the photo. “It could be anyone. The hijab helped shadow your face.” Still nothing from the attractive young woman, so McKay said, “You look at the chest?”

Taking her lead from McKay, Ghaniyah held her tea cup close to her face, blocking any sign that she was talking. “It’s just a chest. With her clothes.”

McKay felt a tinge of disappointment. “Did you look under the drawers? Pull them out and check that nothing is taped to the bottom. A note, perhaps?”

“There is nothing but her clothes,” Ghaniyah replied adamantly.

McKay thought a moment. “That’s the only chest?”

“Yes.” Her voice was filled with contempt.

“I’ll need to come by. Tomorrow.” McKay knew that although Ghaniyah had given her aunt’s name and address to Gonz, the CIA hadn’t been able to locate her home. Which meant they were dependent on Ghaniyah.

“I’m telling the truth,” Ghaniyah responded.

“I’m off at two this afternoon. I can be there after that.”

“Did you see my aunt?” Ghaniyah whispered.

“No. I didn’t have a chance.”

“She is very sick. I don’t think they know what’s wrong.” The waiter seated a young couple fairly close by, and Ghaniyah continued in hushed voice. “I’d like you to help her.”

Instead of answering, McKay stood and fished out some money from her wallet, leaving it on the table. As she turned to leave, she faced Ghaniyah. “I’ll do what I can. We’ll leave tomorrow about two-thirty.”

A moment later McKay was gone.

Although quite a few people in the crowd had flashlights, Maaz found it still very hard to see exactly what it was. He stood on the bank of the Tigris River, very close to the concrete bridge that spanned high above him. Suddenly the crowd started shouting, and he heard the roar of an engine. He turned away from the bridge just in time to see a large Nissan truck skid down the rocky embankment toward the river, heading directly toward them.

“Faris!” Maaz called out.

“I’m right behind you,” he heard his son reply. He turned to see Faris holding his young brother. He put a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder as they watched the truck approach the crowd which had parted slightly. A moment later, a row of spotlights mounted on top of the truck cab blinded the mob, many whom had to turn away or put up a hand to block the glaring lights.

“Higher, higher!” someone shouted. There was a chorus of instruction shouted at the truck driver, and a moment later a passenger climbed out of the truck window and scrambled onto the hood. He leaned across the windshield and manually adjusted the powerful spotlights, one by one. Suddenly there was a gasp from the crowd. Maaz turned to face the bridge, which was now lit up like it was daytime.

It was a truly gruesome sight.

The headless body had been hung by its ankles from a middle trellis of the bridge. He wore only pants and his arms hung down, as if reaching for the water below.

“Is that a person?” Faris asked softly.

“Let’s go,” Maaz heard Dr. Lami say. He turned to see his boss take the baby from Faris. Their eyes met. “We’ll be at the car.”

“I want to stay,” Faris protested.

“No, you go with Dr. Lami. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Who is it?” Faris asked. “Where’s his head?”

“Go with the doctor,” Maaz insisted. He could see Faris was about to argue, so he said firmly, “Now.”

The crowd suddenly started to enthusiastically chant “Death to the infidel! Death to the infidel!” Maaz saw Faris take another look at the body, then trudge after Dr. Lami who was making his way up the steep slope. After waiting a few moments to make sure Faris was indeed leaving, Maaz turned back to the bridge. He used the camera slung around his neck to zoom in on the body. As he gently touched the shutter button, the Nikon’s auto-focus adjusted the lens and the flash automatically popped up. Maaz wasn’t sure he needed the flash, but he correctly presumed the camera knew better than he did. He quickly took a series of pictures from various angles. He even took a picture of the still shouting crowd for good measure. He then pressed another button and viewed the images he’d just taken on the LCD display on the back of the Nikon. He could see that all the pictures were indeed good. He took a few more pictures, over-riding the flash. When he checked, these were a bit dark, but they did have an edgy, artistic feel.