Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (13 page)

McKay hesitated. “It could be an intestinal flu. But it could be she was poisoned.”

“Poisoned!?” Ghaniyah gasped.

McKay shot her an annoyed look. “Could be simple food poisoning. From an unclean restaurant. Did she get any food from somewhere new? Anything happen that day or the day before that was out of the ordinary?”

The two Iraqi women again conversed rapidly. Ghaniyah questioned her a couple times on something, then turned to McKay. “The only thing strange was that a man came to fix the hand pump.”

“The hand pump?”

“She’s on well water. She says the well was fine. She hadn’t had any problems. She thought it strange.”

“Shit,” McKay muttered.

“What is it?”

Ignoring the question, McKay looked at the urine collection bag again. “I’m worried about her kidneys. She’s got a lot of liquid going in, but not coming out.”

“So she has a kidney problem?”

“I’m going to give her medication for the kidneys. Get her some crushed ice to chew on. It’ll be easier for her than trying to drink. Give her as much as she wants. We want to flush out her system.”

“I don’t understand,” Ghaniyah said. “Why would someone poison her? It doesn’t make sense.”

McKay gave her a sharp look. “I need to go to her house today. But earlier. We’ll leave at eleven.”

“But, what–?”

“Eleven,” McKay repeated as she quickly made her way through the tightly crammed beds. “Don’t be late.”

As soon as Colonel K.C. entered the building, he knew something was amiss. Although he had only been to the newspaper office twice before, he knew it was much like any major newspaper throughout the world with a large staff often shouting to each other, reporters working the phones, and the usual commotion before deadline. Instead, the
Iraq National Journal
office was now deathly quiet. Several staffers turned his way as he entered, then ignored him.

The staff was staring across the room where Colonel K.C. saw Dr. Lami pacing the floor behind a young man who was working on a computer. Another five newspapermen were clustered near the desk, keeping out of Dr. Lami’s stomping path.

“Just my photos?” Colonel K.C. heard a man ask incredulously in Arabic. The colonel had learned Arabic while in the Army, and it served him well as a journalist now. He never needed an interpreter. The man angrily went on. “That’s all? Just mine? Bastards!”

Dr. Lami looked up as Colonel K.C. approached. The American was about to ask what was going on, but Dr. Lami furiously lashed out at him. “You gave the photograph to the Americans, yes? You gave them the picture I gave you?”

“Why?” Colonel K.C. asked. “What’s going on?”

“Answer me! You gave the Americans the photograph, yes or no?”

The American hesitated. All eyes were on him. Finally he said, “You wanted my help as I remember.”

“Who did you tell? Who?”

“I talked to one person. Marine Staff Sergeant Michaels. He’s the media liaison with the Marines,” the American responded defensively. “It was his men, Marines, that were at that checkpoint.”

“What did he say?”

Colonel K.C. shrugged. “He said he’d get back to me.”

“When?” Dr. Lami demanded. “When was this?”

“Yesterday morning.” Suddenly Colonel K.C. realized that the American who had visited him at his hotel was behind whatever was going on. The man had admitted his status was classified. The colonel had presumed he was either Military Intelligence or CIA. Either way, the colonel had shown the man the
Iraq National Journal
paper that morning with the one photo Dr. Lami had published.

“And you told him where it came from?” Dr. Lami continued. “You told this staff sergeant that the photos were from this newspaper!”

“No!” Colonel K.C. retorted. He and Dr. Lami had shared information for the past couple years, and he wasn’t about to lose this contact. “No. I swear!”

“We ran the photo first,” Fadhil said as he quickly typed on the keyboard. “It’s not difficult to figure out we had the originals.”

“What happened?” Colonel K.C. asked again.

“Someone stole a computer. And a television set,” Dr. Lami explained with anger. “Those I don’t care about. But they erased the photos.”

Colonel K.C. blanched. “The photos from the checkpoint?”

“
My
photos,” Maaz said bitterly. “They erased
my
photos.”

“Look, I don’t know computers, but I bet there’s a way to retrieve them,” Colonel K.C. said evenly. But as he said the words, he told himself that if the man that had approached him was CIA, the photos were long gone.

“Whoever did this removed all data,” Fadhil explained. Then he turned to Dr. Lami with a smile. “But all is not lost.” He got up and went to a nearby desk, pulling out a box filled with 3.5" floppy disks. The labels were written in Arabic, and he flipped through them rapidly, then pulled one out. Dr. Lami stopped pacing and stood directly behind the computer as Fadhil put the disk in the drive. He entered a few keystrokes and the screen changed to a bright blue with a few Arabic words. Fadhil just stared at the monitor.

“What? What’s this?” Dr. Lami asked.

“My back-up. All the photos Maaz took.”

“Well, where are they?”

Fadhil didn’t answer. He popped out the disk, then re-inserted it and again entered his key commands. The same blue screen appeared. Fadhil turned to Colonel K.C. who stood closest to the other desk. “Get me another disk.” The colonel handed Fadhil the entire box. The computer technician ejected the original floppy disk and inserted a new one. A moment later the same blue screen appeared.

“What’s going on? What does this mean?”

“This can’t be.” Fadhil stared at the computer in shock as if willing it to comply with his commands. He ejected the disk and put in a third floppy.

“We don’t have the photos?”

“It’s been erased. Everything,” Fadhil calmly explained.

“What!?”

“I backed them up to two different disks. The disks are wiped clean. Also, I had the photos on our main server. That way, one computer goes down, even ten go down, I just need one and we have the photos. They wiped out everything.”

“Wait a minute,” Colonel K.C. said calmly. He nodded to Maaz. “His camera. You have the pictures in there, right?”

“My camera?” Maaz scoffed. “They stole it. The police. I had the memory card, yes.” He quickly opened the desk drawer near Fadhil. “It was in here. But now it is stolen too.”

“So much for the Americans, eh?” Dr. Lami lashed out at Colonel K.C. “So much for their support of a pro-democracy paper.”

“You don’t know it was the Americans,” Colonel K.C. responded lamely.

“Of course it was!”

“One thing doesn’t make sense,” Fadhil said quietly. He turned in his chair to face Dr. Lami. “They erase the photos from the server and wipe out all our back-up disks in case we have the photos on disk. Why do all that and then take one computer too?”

Dr. Lami just stared at him.

Fadhil shook his head. “I don’t think it was just the Americans. Yes, they would know their way around the computers, and they probably took a heavy magnet to the disks. But they wouldn’t take a computer too. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Doctor?”

McKay looked up to find an English-speaking nurse standing nearby holding a chart. She quickly finished washing her hands and grabbed a couple paper towels that felt like burlap on her skin. “You find something?”

“I did as you asked. Symptoms of nausea, diarrhea, vomiting. All in the last few days. It’s true.”

This got McKay’s attention. “How many?”

“Five. Two women, one man, and two children. One child is very sick. Not good at all.”

McKay threw away the paper towels. She had just finished a lengthy hernia surgery on a middle-aged man. The surgery had gone well, and she felt good about her skills. The post-operating area was still empty, so McKay asked the nurse, “What about where they live?”

The nurse nodded. “All live very near the first victim, Ezzah Monla. They all share the well.”

Although McKay had half-expected this to be the case, she was still stunned. Her head reeled. Ghaniyah’s aunt was poisoned. But by what toxin? And why? She immediately thought about the fact that al Mudtaji had insisted his sister stay at a hotel, not their aunt’s home. Why? Because he knew the water was tainted? And why poison a few people who share a well?

“How many people use that well?”

“Everyone that is now sick,” the nurse replied. “Three homes. It is not a large well.”

McKay had worked with Gonz long enough to know that coincidences rarely occurred in the real world. The coincidence of having al Mudtaji’s aunt sick at the same time that the terrorist wanted some chest the old woman possessed struck her as a very convenient happenstance.

“What do you want me to do?” the nurse asked. When McKay didn’t respond, the nurse asked loudly, “Doctor? What do you want me to do? I can notify Ministry of Health.”

McKay finally came to her senses. “No,” she said more tersely than she intended. “No. I need to examine the others first. Are they showing signs of kidney failure?”

“The youngest child, yes. Without doubt. I’m not sure about the others.”

McKay nodded. “Give me five minutes. Then I want you to go with me. I’ll need an interpreter.”

The nurse gave a curt nod and left. McKay moved into a very small bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She felt oddly conflicted. On the one hand, she knew she’d have to move fast. If the others were showing the same symptoms as Ghaniyah’s elderly aunt, word would quickly spread and the Ministry of Health would want to take action. She needed to stall just for a few hours so that she could get to the well first. On the other hand, as a doctor she had sworn an oath to do no harm. What if others decided to drink from the well before signs could be posted warning that it contained a dangerous toxin?

Although she would love to talk to Gonz, she knew she couldn’t take the chance of being overheard. She pulled out her cell phone and began typing an encrypted text message.
“Ghaniyah’s aunt poisoned. Well water near her home tainted. Others very sick. Will send water sample ASAP. Not COINCIDENCE.”

Gonz read the text message again, puzzled by McKay’s report. If Ghaniyah’s aunt was indeed poisoned, the question was why? From preliminary research done by an agent in Basra, Gonz had learned that the 63-year old woman lived alone and seemed to have an adequate means of support. However, like McKay, Gonz didn’t like the coincidence of the old woman being in the hospital at the same time that Ghaniyah was supposed to retrieve some sort of dresser or chest. Had she been poisoned in order for Ghaniyah to take the chest without any interference? And why poison a community well? If the terrorist leader wanted his aunt out of the way, why not just kill her? He certainly killed innocent people easily enough. Or at the very minimum, why not poison just her? Why involve others?

Using his Blackberry, Gonz sent a quick text message to his agent in Basra, instructing him to be ready to retrieve a sample of well water from McKay. The problem was, he didn’t know the exact time line yet. They would just have to wait to hear from McKay. Next, he sent a text message to his operations manager at Langley, telling him of the poisoned well and that they would need to transport the water sample to Kuwait as soon as possible. Like all things in the government, the bureaucracy was sometimes mind-boggling, and Gonz knew that his request for a Gulfstream jet would have to go up the chain of command. He just hoped it would be approved. He wanted to know what kind of poison was dumped into the well. More importantly, by whom, although he doubted the technicians in Kuwait would be able to deduce that.

“There he is,” Heisman announced.

Looking up from the passenger seat of the Humvee, Gonz saw a nice looking Iraqi man of about 30 make his way down the street. He was clean-shaven and wore dark pants and a white dress shirt. The man retrieved a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket, and when he put them on he looked like a Westerner in both style and clothing.

“Well?” Heisman asked.

Gonz looked over at his agent. “This his usual?”

“Yep,” Heisman said. “Like clockwork. He’ll go over two blocks to a small café. Want to know what he orders?”

“What about the pharmacy owner? Thamer?”

“He stays behind. I went in there once. He was eating something, couldn’t tell what. I think he lets the younger guy go to lunch, he brings his in.”

“How long do we have?”

“He’s a fast walker. About four minutes he’ll be at the café. He stays about thirty minutes.”

Gonz glanced at his watch. “So it’s a game of heads or tails.” By this, Gonz meant that they had two men to choose from and no lead on which one might be their target. But both men guessed that if anyone in the pharmacy was tied to al Mudtaji, it would be the younger man. As a rule, terrorism was a young man’s sport. “Heads or tails. Want to call it?”

“We talk to the old man, he’ll tell the younger man. We’ll be telegraphing our pass,” Heisman said, using a football metaphor which he slipped in from time to time. Gonz didn’t mind the football analogies. In fact, he knew exactly what his operative was saying.

“So we go to the younger man and hope he’s the connection.”

Heisman nodded. “Be my play.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Heisman started up the Humvee and pulled out onto the street.

Sitting at a small table by the window, Adnan watched the late morning city traffic pass by as he ate a rice and vegetable dish. For the past two years he had used his early lunch hour to eat a big meal at a restaurant, but now he felt he was just going through the motions. One problem was that since Ghaniyah had been taken by her half-brother, he rarely had an appetite. Instead he spent his free time worrying about her. Now he worried that she was in prison. The other problem was that this café, while certainly satisfactory, wasn’t Ghaniyah’s café – a place he used to dine at every day without fail, a place where they first met and where they first kissed one evening after he had helped her clean up at closing. A place where they had fallen in love.