Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (17 page)

“Sometimes you gamble, you lose... Is that not so?” Ghaniyah asked.

“You think that’s what’s happening?”

She whipped her head around, facing McKay with fury. “I gave you al Mudtaji. I gave him up. Do you say, thank you? No. No. You want more.”

The driver’s door suddenly opened, the driver peeked in and asked Ghaniyah a question in Arabic. She shook her head no. He shut the door and walked off. When McKay gave her a quizzical look, she explained, “He’s getting cigarettes.”

“Look, maybe it was the wrong choice. I don’t know. It’s not my call. But let me ask you one thing.” Ghaniyah turned to her and McKay said, “Aren’t you just a little bit curious about your aunt? Why she was poisoned?”

Ghaniyah looked away.

McKay continued. “Because I am. I’m very curious as to why someone would poison that well. And I could be wrong, but I think it has everything to do with al Mudtaji.”

Ghaniyah gave her a startled glance. She was about to speak, but suddenly stopped herself.

“And I think you know it too.” McKay saw the driver approaching and quickly added, “So yeah, maybe this is a waste of time. But if we find out exactly what your aunt was poisoned with, we stand a chance of saving her. Her and her neighbors. So you tell me, is this just a waste of time?”

The driver opened the door and slid into the seat before Ghaniyah could respond. The car started up, backfired once and they drove off.

As Daneen rocked the baby in her arms, she moved into the narrow hallway to better hear what was being said in their dining room.

“It was the CIA,” she heard the attractive American journalist announce in his accented Arabic.

“How do you know?” Maaz quickly asked.

“You guys had the photos on a network server. They found it. They destroyed it. Not just erased it, they made sure there was no way it could be retrieved. Only the CIA would do that.”

“And erase the backup discs I had,” she heard Fadhil complain.

“Exactly,” the American continued. “So the question is, why?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself all day,” Maaz lamented.

Daneen looked at baby Badr in her arms. He was asleep. She silently went back to their bedroom and put him in the crib near their bed. As she tucked the blanket around him, she had to smile to herself. Maaz was sitting in their dining room talking business with an American journalist who she had actually seen on television. The man had been introduced as Colonel K.C., and she had found him to be quite charming. Also present were Fadhil, the young computer whiz they had befriended before and Duqaq, a very well respected Iraqi journalist.

She would have never imagined such a sight. Two well-established journalists in her home, discussing important issues with her husband. It boggled her mind. After all, Maaz was simply a building superintendent. Nothing more. He was not a man of great education, part of the reason she believed that her brother Adnan had never really taken to him. However, Maaz had been lucky. Saddam’s Baathist Party had occupied the large building, and Maaz had kept everything running smoothly, so he was very well compensated. Which explained their modest, but very respectable home. When the Americans had brought war on the country and then soon taken over the very same building, Maaz had lucked out again – the Americans paid him more than the Baathists.

But now, as he sat at their dining room table discussing the plight of the missing photographs with the others, she knew that he wasn’t just lucky anymore. He had a talent. A talent for taking photographs and these men respected him. It was amazing. Truly amazing.

They had fought earlier that afternoon when she had berated Maaz for taking both boys to see the remains of the dead American hanging from the bridge. Instead of matching her anger, Maaz had been truly contrite, explaining that Dr. Lami had called him, asked him to meet at the bridge immediately, and he had had no choice but to take the children. When she bemoaned the effects that such a horrible sight might have on Faris, Maaz had assured her that they had been too far away to see much. She argued that they must’ve been very close – she could tell from the picture he had taken which had been published in the paper.

Maaz had calmly explained that it was his zoom lens which had made it appear close. He went on to say that since the school children were probably talking about it, Faris did what any boy would – he boasted about seeing the body himself. This explained the children building a model replica using the toy doll to reproduce the scene.

Maaz had then promised it would never happen again and had asked if they could have some people from the newspaper over for dinner, including the famous American. Surprised to be entertaining such an established journalist, she had readily agreed. Maaz had then gone to the market for some chicken and fresh vegetables with which she made a Pakistani curry dish that everyone had raved about.

“What was in the mouth?” the American journalist asked Maaz as Daneen reentered the room. “Any idea?”

Maaz looked to Duqaq. “It was small. Yellow.”

“How small?” Colonel K.C. questioned.

“Hard to say.” Maaz looked at Duqaq again. “Maybe a golf ball?”

“Yes, yes,” Duqaq piped in. “About that size.”

“And what exactly did they do with it?”

“They used very long tweezers, very long, and put the yellow thing in a plastic bag.”

“Marines?” Colonel K.C. asked.

“No,” Duqaq responded. “They were Army. Three of them.”

“Ranks?”

Duqaq shook his head. “We were pretty far away. On top of the building.”

Colonel K.C. sipped his tea, pondering this. Daneen checked the teapot, saw that it was low, and quickly went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“You think it’s important?” Fadhil asked the American.

Colonel K.C. looked up to the ceiling and was quiet for a moment. Finally, he allowed, “I think the real reason the photographs were stolen has to do with either what was found in the mouth, or the Iraqi woman.”

“The woman?” Daneen suddenly asked, her voice sounding more alarmed than she intended. Women had no place speaking when men were conversing, and she immediately regretted the outburst.

However, the colonel thought nothing of her interruption, since he was a Westerner. “The woman who brought the head to the checkpoint,” he clarified politely.

“You think she works for al Mudtaji?” Fadhil asked the American.

“How else would she have the head?” Duqaq challenged him.

“She may have had no choice,” Daneen abruptly theorized as the kettle started to whistle. She saw all the men looking at her so she quickly explained, “She could’ve been coerced, is all.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Maaz injected.

“No, no,” Colonel K.C. said to Maaz, scolding him. Turning to Daneen who brought the kettle to the table, he said, “Go on. Please.”

Uncomfortable by everyone staring at her, she lifted the lid of the teapot and poured in the hot water. “I don’t know. Maybe she had not been true to her husband, so he gave her to al Mudtaji.” No one said a word, so Daneen pressed on. “Maybe she was simply told to do it. Maybe her brother, her father, maybe they are in with al Mudtaji. They told her to take the head. She doesn’t, well...”

“What?” Colonel K.C. asked. “You mean they threatened her?”

“Exactly!” Daneen answered.

“Depending upon her crime,” Duqaq explained, “Her family could decide to put her to death.”

“Or worse,” Daneen said. She noticed this surprised the American, so she explained. “In our culture, if a woman disobeys her husband, or if she is young and unmarried and disobeys her father or a brother, they can make her life a living hell. They can force her to do as they please.”

“Not everyone acts like that,” Maaz corrected. “This is a very diverse country with many different beliefs. Different values. Not everyone, not all men, would do that.”

“True,” Daneen agreed with a tight smile. “But we don’t know her background. Who she is or why she did what she did.”

“And you think that’s what happened to this woman?” Colonel K.C. asked. “That she acted against her will?”

“I don’t know,” Daneen replied. “No one does. So, I think we shouldn’t be in judgment of her. That’s all.”

“Very interesting,” Colonel K.C. said. “I presumed she was al Qaeda. But perhaps not. Perhaps that is why...” His voice trailed off as he looked in his empty tea cup.

“Even so,” Fadhil said, “It wouldn’t change anything.”

“
Au contraire
,” the American journalist said. “
Au contraire
. If, as Daneen here says, this woman was forced to do it, then we have an entirely different line of questioning for ourselves.”

“Such as...?” Maaz asked.

“This is war,” Colonel K.C. mused. “If one side is using you, you get caught, the other side will use you just as quick.”

As Gonz made his way down the stairs to the soundproof basement, he was glad McKay was in Basra. Although he didn’t relish coercion techniques, he knew they had very little chance of gaining important information by any other means. He just wished some U.S. Congressmen could understand that. As Heisman had once said, “How about we take one of those Congressmen’s family members, then say, ‘Oh, an al Qaeda terrorist has your loved one and we’ve caught the terrorist and asked oh, so nicely where your beloved family member is being held, but guess what? He just spit in our faces. So sorry we couldn’t learn more. Hope your loved one comes home soon. With their head still attached to their shoulders.’” Then Heisman had laughed long and hard.

As Gonz walked across the cement floor, he saw that Heisman and three men from Military Intelligence were already in the room, preparing the suspect. He was a little bit late, conferring with Langley on the interrogation. It had taken a few hours, but he had now been given the green light for what was commonly referred to as “compelled interrogation.” There really wasn’t a choice in the matter. They were quickly running out of time.

He looked at Adnan who was stretched out on his back, tied down to a long plank of wood. The Iraqi was blindfolded, his arms strapped to his sides, his feet bound by heavy leather straps at the end of the board. The plank now sat at a 45-degree angle, his feet near the floor. Much like a child’s teeter-totter, the plank was balanced on a central fulcrum which would allow them to tilt Adnan back.

Gonz caught Heisman’s eye, and the big man shook his head. Adnan still hadn’t fully answered their questions. Now it had come to this. Gonz stepped forward and said, “We’re a go, men. We’re a go.”

Bound and blindfolded, Adnan remained stoic, not uttering a word or even moving a muscle, although Gonz knew he had to be frightened.

After he and Heisman had questioned the young man and Thamer, four Special Forces soldiers had quietly taken both men into custody. Gonz and Heisman had then gone to the home of Aref, only to learn that he has a tendency to put his life on the line by hanging around known insurgent target areas. Both old men, Aref and Thamer, were being held nearby, and Gonz felt certain that they had nothing to do with al Mudtaji.

Adnan, however, seemed to be an enigma. He had yielded no information from simple interrogation and been given a meal and allowed to sleep in a comfortable bed on the first floor. While Gonz was sure the man knew more than he was willing to divulge, something struck him as peculiar – something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It had bothered him all night and left him with very little sleep.

Gonz stood over Adnan and removed the blindfold. The Iraqi blinked quite a bit and looked at the men in the room. As Gonz studied the man’s face, he suddenly knew what it was. While Gonz had interrogated a number of al Qaeda suspects before, they all had one thing in common – a hatred in their eyes that was clear as day. This man did not have that. Instead he looked at Gonz with the same mournful eyes a sad puppy at a humane shelter might have. As if to say, “I don’t want to be here. Please help me.”

“I’m sorry,” Gonz heard himself say, a bit surprised by his own words.

“I have done nothing wrong,” Adnan softly replied. This had been his mantra since he had been taken into custody.

“I just want whatever information you have on al Mudtaji. What he’s planning for tomorrow. Then I won’t have to do this.”

But Adnan didn’t reply this time. Instead he simply closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the plank, as if he were about to take a nap.

“Coming through, sir,” one of the men said, and Gonz quickly moved out of the way. The man carried a large watering can and placed it on the floor. The sound of the water sloshing over the container and onto the floor seemed to awaken Adnan, and his eyes grew big at the sight of the watering can. Suddenly he started to squirm, but the restraints were tight, his fidgeting pointless. The same man quickly wrapped Adnan’s head with a wide swathe of cheesecloth. Adnan was upset now, crying out in Arabic, but his voice was nearly muted by the tight fabric across his face.

Gonz looked over to one of the men who now held a video camera, focusing it on Adnan. He glanced at Gonz. “Rolling.”

“Let’s do it,” Gonz said to the men.

“Gimme a one to ten,” said the man who had brought in the watering can.

“Four,” Gonz replied after some thought. The scale was simply a way of determining the severity of the interrogation technique. One, the lightest interrogation, ten the most intense.

Heisman then placed his large hands on the plank, tilting it so that Adnan was soon level with the floor. A moment later, Adnan was tipped back, his head down, his feet up. With his feet higher on the plank than his head, his lungs would also be higher than his mouth, making it impossible that he would actually take in great amounts of water directly to the lungs and drown. However, Adnan would have no way of knowing this. And even if he did reason this out, with the tight cheesecloth over his head, breathing would be extremely difficult, making him feel as if he was about to be asphyxiated.