Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (16 page)

Heisman finally motioned for him to be quiet and said to Gonz, “He says this paper may belong to one of their customers. An Aref al-Balbusi. It’s his name on the paper, so it must belong to him. He lives here in Jadida.”

“He is a friend of al Mudtaji?” Gonz asked. There was more translating and then the black American shook his head.

“How old is he?” Gonz inquired.

Heisman asked Thamer who stepped over to a large Rolodex, flipping through the cards. Thamer looked to Adnan and said in Arabic, “He’s my age. No, older. Right?”

“Seventy, seventy-five.” Adnan said in both Arabic and English.

“A little old to be a terrorist,” Gonz put in.

Thamer handed the card to Heisman, rapidly explaining in Arabic. Heisman looked to Gonz and translated, “He says he knows the guy’s not a terrorist. He’s known him and his wife all his life. Says he’s a good man.”

“He is,” Adnan repeated in English. “He’s a good man. He wouldn’t do such a thing.” As Gonz studied him, Adnan felt he needed to fill the dead space with words so he continued, saying, “Maybe it’s not Aref’s. Maybe someone stole it. It only has his name. Maybe we started to write something down, then someone took the notepad.”

“And you didn’t notice?” Gonz asked skeptically.

“No,” Adnan shrugged. No doubt al Mudtaji stole it, but Adnan never saw him swipe the paper, so the truth was he didn’t notice.

“Why would someone steal paper that has your name embossed on it?” Gonz asked. “They that desperate for paper around here?”

“I don’t know,” Adnan said lamely, his will fading. “I can’t explain it.” Which was the truth. Although al Mudtaji had told him he was going to give the Americans “a message,” he had had no idea that it would be written on paper and stuffed in the man’s mouth. Or, that the paper would be from his pharmacy.

Heisman turned to Thamer and said harshly in Arabic, “We think you know al Mudtaji and we think you helped him.”

Thamer stared at the black man, his face suddenly ashen. “We don’t know him. No one does.”

“No one?”

“No one we know.”

“Maybe one of our customers,” Adnan said in Arabic, his voice sounding eager to his own ears. “We don’t lock them away. Look. Here’s one.” He reached for one of their notepads lying on the counter. Showed it to the Americans. “Someone could’ve taken it.”

Heisman quickly translated for Gonz who simply shook his head. “A customer? A customer took it?”

“Could be,” Adnan replied in English.

“We don’t know anything about this,” Thamer said emphatically in Arabic. “We have nothing to do with al Mudtaji. The man’s a criminal! He should be locked up! What he does, it’s barbaric!”

After Heisman translated, Gonz looked at Adnan. “What about you? You have something to do with al Mudtaji? Something your boss here doesn’t even know about?”

“No,” Adnan stammered. “Of course not.”

“You agree with him? Death to the Americans? You call us infidels? You–”

“No!”

“What’s he saying?” Thamer asked angrily of Adnan.

“He’s asking if your friend here likes al Mudtaji,” Heisman explained in Arabic. “Believes in his cause.”

“Of course not,” Thamer answered defiantly. “Don’t be absurd!”

“No,” Adnan repeated.

Gonz stared at the younger man. He knew the young pharmacist was nervous, and his gut told him that he was their link to al Mudtaji. “Okay,” he said politely. “So someone could have easily taken a notepad.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” Adnan confirmed in English.

“Okay, let’s say I buy that. I still have another problem.” He waited a moment, watching the nervous Muslim. “The American who was beheaded? He had a poor heart. He needed medication. Medication he didn’t have with him when he was kidnapped.” There! He saw it. A brief flicker in the young man’s face. Fear? He pressed on. “He wouldn’t have lived very long without that medication. And since we’ve now found the man’s body, we’re doing tests. A toxicology screen. But I can bet you any amount of money you want that we’ll find trace amounts of beta blockers, ACE inhibitors, maybe something else. Some drug that kept his heart ticking until al Mudtaji was ready for him to die.” Gonz let that sink in a moment then added. “What do you think the odds are? Odds are that we find note paper from only one shop in all the country, and it comes from here? And odds that a kidnap victim was given medication – medication that came from here, too?”

Adnan didn’t reply. He couldn’t have if his life depended upon it. He was too frightened.

“I call it a coincidence,” Gonz continued, glaring at Adnan. “And you know what? I don’t like coincidences.”

The boy had been paid well and now pointed to a group of men forming a straggly line outside the ticket office at the Al Sh’ab Stadium. Gonz just stared. All the men were young, none looking more than thirty years of age, except for one old man wearing a short red jacket. Gonz glanced at Heisman who was warily checking out the scene.

“The old man?” Gonz asked. “In the red jacket?”

“Yes, yes,” the boy replied in perfect English, his accent slightly British. “That is him.”

“It’s a recruiting station,” Heisman announced. “For policeman.”

“He’s here every Friday,” the boy said. “Between prayer times.”

Gonz knew the boy was referring to the fact that Friday is the Islamic holy day. As he watched the old man he asked, “What’s he doing? He can’t possibly think he can be a policeman.”

The boy gave a sheepish shrug. “He’s hoping, yes?”

“Hoping,” Heisman said gruffly. “For what?”

“For the day.” The Americans gave him a puzzled look and he said, “Maybe it will be today. No one knows, yes?”

“The day for what?” Heisman responded impatiently.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” the boy suddenly announced. “My mother would be very angry.”

Heisman and Gonz exchanged looks. Gonz said, “What’s he waiting for? He meet someone here? Every Friday?”

“No. Well, I don’t think so,” the boy said. “He just hoping, yes?”

“For what?” Gonz asked gently. “Tell us what he’s hoping for.”

“For a bomb.”

Gonz and Heisman exchanged startled looks.

“How you say?” the boy continued. “Someone brings bomb. Kills everyone. Especially new policemen.”

“A suicide bomber, you mean?” Gonz asked in surprise.

“Yes, yes! That is the word. Suicide. Suicide bomb.” The Americans were silent, digesting this news so the boy said again, “I really shouldn’t be here. My mother doesn’t allow it.”

“She’s worried about a suicide bomber showing up?” Heisman asked.

The boy nodded. “Can we go?”

“So, Aref, your neighbor, what? He’s just looking to die or something?” Gonz inquired softly.

Another nod of the head. “He told my father one night. He was very upset. Said he just wants to die, but he won’t get to see Rafia if he kills himself, so he just has to hope he dies.”

“Wait,” Heisman interrupted. “Who’s Rafia?”

“His wife,” the boy responded simply. “She’s in heaven.”

“So his wife’s dead and he’s looking for a quick ticket for himself, huh?” Heisman said in disgust. “Seems to me it’s still killing yourself if you purposely place yourself where you think you’ll get killed.”

The boy didn’t say a word as he cautiously looked around. It was obvious he wasn’t comfortable. Gonz turned to Heisman. “Find out what you can. We’ll wait here.” Heisman left them and they watched as he approached the waiting men. Gonz turned to the boy. “It’s safe. We’re far enough away.”

The boy just looked at Gonz as if he was crazy. “Some day he’s going to be right. It will be his day.”

“Maybe,” Gonz allowed. “But not today.” Changing the subject he asked, “How’d you learn such good English?”

“My father.”

“Where did he learn?”

“London.”

Which explained the faint British accent. “How about that?”

The boy nodded. “He’s going to take me some day,” he declared proudly.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Aref just stared at the black American, startled by his command of Arabic. “Who are you?”

“My name is Stubbs,” Heisman answered. “Lieutenant Stubbs, U.S. Army.” He noticed all the men nearby were silent now, listening. “It’s important.”

“What’s this about?” a young man behind Aref asked bitterly.

“It’s about Rafia,” Heisman said quietly to Aref, ignoring the others.

“Rafia – ?”

“That’s right.”

Aref looked around. All the men were staring at him. Aref glanced at Heisman, then turned toward a small group of young men squatting on the ground, playing chess. He whistled and one of the men leaped up and came over.

“I’m taking a break. Hold my spot,” Aref told the man.

Heisman led Aref away from the crowd. “Sorry about your wife.”

“You knew her?” the old man asked with great curiosity.

“No, sir, I did not.” They were now a good fifty meters from the line of men and Heisman stopped. “But I know why you stand here every Friday.”

“I make money,” Aref answered defensively. “The young ones, they are impatient. Don’t want to wait. Or others, they want to go back to the mosque. They pay me to hold their place in line.”

“Kind of dangerous, don’t you think?” Aref just stared at Heisman, so he continued, “Sometimes the Sunni, they like to bomb these places.” Aref suddenly looked uncomfortable and Heisman pressed on. “But then, you know that. Everyone knows that. Of course, maybe you think it would be a blessing, right? You die, it would be okay, right?”

“I don’t understand,” Aref lamely protested.

“You want to die and you know what? I don’t care. I don’t. You want to die, fine by me. But I want to live, and most people in this country want to live, right?” Aref didn’t say a word. Heisman pulled out the plastic bag holding the yellow carbon from Thamer’s pharmacy. “See this? Has your name on it.” Aref studied the paper briefly, then shrugged. “Remember the American that al Mudtaji killed a few days ago? Cut off his head?” Aref didn’t react, so Heisman asked harshly. “You remember that or not?”

“Yes,” Aref answered nervously.

“This was placed in his mouth. It’s from Thamer’s Pharmacy. A pharmacy where you get your medications. A pharmacy two blocks from your home. And it has your name on it.”

Aref looked aghast as the American’s words sank in. “Al Mudtaji?”

“Right. The one and only. Your friend.”

“My..? No. I don’t know al Mudtaji.”

“Who does? Adnan? The young Sunni who works there?”

“No.”

“You know what I think? I think you both work for al Mudtaji.”

“No!”

“And you gave this paper to al Mudtaji so he could write us a little note.”

“No, I swear!”

“You just didn’t realize that it had your name, handwritten on it.”

“No!”

“Which now connects you to al Mudtaji’s terrorist group.”

“No! I swear! It’s not mine! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Heisman studied him for a moment. Both he and Gonz believed that Aref was probably a dead-end, but every lead had to be checked out. “Tell you what. Let’s go for a little ride.”

“What? No!” Aref protested. “You’ll put me in jail!”

“Nah,” Heisman responded with the wave of his hand. “Just a double-ply standard Army tent.” Then he gave the old man a hard look. “Hey, guess what? It sits right next to an arms depot. Something goes wrong and kaboom!”

Aref stared at the black American.

Heisman grinned. “Might be your lucky day after all.”

They rode in tense silence as the taxi threaded its way through the outskirts of the city. McKay glanced at Ghaniyah who sat near the door, looking out the window. While she desperately wanted to ask Ghaniyah what was troubling her, she couldn’t for the very simple reason that she couldn’t speak more than two words in Arabic, and they didn’t dare speak English in front of the taxi driver. The man had presumed he was transporting two Iraqi women to the hospital to visit their ailing relative. The last thing he needed to know was that an American woman was in his car.

As the traffic increased around them, the driver looked through the rearview mirror and said something to Ghaniyah in Arabic. McKay watched as Ghaniyah simply shrugged, mumbling something. The driver nodded and quickly navigated to the right lane. McKay hated the language barrier. That and the stupid hijab that was back on her head, bothering her to no end.

A moment later the driver pulled into a gas station. He said something to Ghaniyah again, then hopped out. McKay watched as he started to fill the tank just outside her door. She turned to Ghaniyah and whispered, “What’s wrong?”

Ghaniyah shot her a nasty look. She glanced at the driver, then shrugged.

“You’ve been upset since we left the house. What is it?”

“Why are we doing this?” Ghaniyah asked, visibly distraught.

“Doing what?” McKay asked, baffled.

Ghaniyah gestured wildly with her arms. “This! Coming to Basra. Waste of time, yes? I gave you al Mudtaji –”

“Keep your voice down,” McKay hissed.

“I gave you al Mudtaji and what?” Ghaniyah whispered. “What do you do? You get him? You arrest him? No. You play games.”

“We need to know what he’s up to.”

“He wouldn’t be up to anything if you’d arrest him. You should’ve arrested him. It would be over now.”

“Okay,” McKay said carefully. “Maybe. Maybe we could’ve caught him. But there has been a lot of evidence indicating he and his men are planning something big.” Ghaniyah just grunted in response, so McKay pressed on. “And if we caught him, the plan could still go through. And we’d be nowhere.”

Ghaniyah glared at her. “Maybe it will fail. This plan of yours.”

“Could be,” McKay allowed. “It’s a gamble.”

Ghaniyah seemed to ponder this for a moment before suddenly blurting out, “How do you know I won’t just run off?”

“I don’t,” McKay answered, startled by Ghaniyah’s anger. “That’s a gamble too.” Of course, she couldn’t tell the Iraqi woman what Gonz had told her – two men would be watching Ghaniyah at all times whenever possible. She wondered if the men were nearby now. Even though she had undergone extensive CIA surveillance training, which included spotting trackers, McKay had not yet detected anyone suspicious whenever she was with Ghaniyah. Which didn’t mean they weren’t there – it just meant McKay was a marginal covert agent at best.