Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (19 page)

He glanced at the floor. Some of these vehicles were armor-protected now. Aref wondered if this one was. What were the chances that this big Army truck would roll over a land mine? Or simply be sitting at a stoplight and be targeted by a rocket-propelled grenade? Or perhaps a roadside bomb?

But for some reason, he didn’t want anything like that to happen now. He was enjoying his ride in the big Army truck. More importantly, he wanted to go home. At home he would hold the large framed picture of Rafia that sat by his bed and tell her all about the Green Zone and the many questions the Americans had asked. He would tell his late wife about what the black American had said. “A government of the people, by the people and for the people.” He wasn’t completely sure he understood this, but it certainly wasn’t anything anyone talked about when Saddam was in power. “Of the people, by the people and for the people.”

He kept repeating the phrase to himself so that he wouldn’t forget it. Somehow it sounded right.

It sounded true.

“I want to see Ghaniyah.” Adnan stared at the American. “I need to see her. To see she is all right.”

“In a minute,” Gonz replied. He was busy flipping through a thick file in front of him on the desk. Adnan sat on the opposite side of the table, a scowl on his face. The two men were seated inside what served as an interrogation room. A video camera mounted near the ceiling was directed right at Adnan and provided Langley with a live feed.

Once Adnan had been broken, admitting that he had helped al Mudtaji only so he could get close to Ghaniyah, Gonz had questioned him about al Mudtaji’s plans for Sunday. But Adnan had insisted he didn’t know. Still tied down on the plank, he had been threatened with more waterboarding until Gonz had been satisfied. If al Mudtaji was planning a big attack tomorrow, Adnan didn’t know about it.

However, he did admit to breaking into the
Iraq National Journal
offices and taking a computer, thinking that was the only one that held Ghaniyah’s photograph. He had insisted that he had taken the hard drive out of the computer and destroyed it. Again, Gonz believed him.

Adnan had then been given a clean, dry Army T-shirt to wear. Ironically, the T-shirt had the words, “
Kill the squibs! Sink Navy
!” across the front in reference to the ongoing Army/Navy football rivalry.

Finally Gonz found what he was looking for. He removed an 8x10 picture of a young middle-eastern man. He rotated the picture so it was facing Adnan, slid it across the table and asked, “Who’s he?”

Adnan leaned forward and studied the photo for a minute. “Sharif.”

Gonz just stared at Adnan. That was the same name Ghaniyah had given them. “Where’s he from?”

“Lebanon. I don’t know what city or Province.”

“He was in America.”

“Yes, yes. He talked about that. In... A state with a long funny name.”

“Minnesota.”

Adnan became animated, snapping his fingers. “Yes! That was it. A university there.”

“University of Minnesota, St. Paul.” The CIA had quickly gone through the records of the bigger colleges and universities in the state after Ghaniyah had said of one of her brother’s men had gone to school in Minnesota. The man had been easy to pin down once they narrowed their search to middle-eastern men who left shortly before 9/11. “His real name is Abdul al-Jarrah.”

Adnan just studied the picture harder.

“We think he knew Zacharias Moussaoui. You know who I’m talking about?”

Adnan looked up, surprised. “He’s in your prison, yes?”

Gonz nodded. “He’s known as the 20th hijacker. So this guy, this Abdul, or Sharif, as he was known to you, he ever talk about his time in Minnesota? Or 9/11? Zacharias Moussaoui?”

Adnan shook his head.

“Nothing? You’ve got an American kidnapped. This Sharif guy spent time in America, but there’s no talk about the Americans? What they plan to do to us?”

“No.”

Gonz tried another tack. “How close is he to al Mudtaji? Near the top? A top lieutenant?”

Adnan nodded. “Yes. I would say so. He was the one to talk to the patient. Make the decisions.”

“The patient? You mean Quizby?”

Adnan nodded. “Al Mudtaji doesn’t speak English. Only Sharif could talk to him.”

“And you.”

“No, I don’t tell anyone I can speak English, yes?” He shrugged. “I rarely saw him. Only once before... Before he was killed.”

“Yet you were giving him his medication.”

“No,” Adnan insisted. “I measure out dosage. That is all. Sharif would ask the patient, the American, questions. Questions about his heart. Or the medications he was on. Sharif would then tell me.”

“What’s his deal? He a bomb maker?”

“Sharif?”

“Yes. That’s his expertise? Making bombs?”

Adnan gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon,” Gonz said irritably. “Everyone has a job. You were the medicine man. Maybe some are just bodyguards, fine. But this Sharif, he was educated in America. He spoke English. He’s al Mudtaji’s top guy. So what else? What could he do?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’re planning an attack!” Gonz retorted, running out of patience. “Something big! This guy’s a part of it! I need to know what he does!”

“I swear. I don’t know. I spent very little time with them, yes? It’s not like we are friends. I don’t know.”

“Is he a pilot? Can he fly planes?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know.”

“He ever talk about planes? He knew the 20th hijacker. Could it be they’re going to do something with planes again? Maybe get them from Syria? Or Iran? Fly them in here? Or hit Israel?”

“No.”

“No?” Gonz asked skeptically.

“I mean I don’t know. I didn’t talk to him. I tell him what medication to give to the American. That is all. I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know.”

“Here’s the strange thing,” Gonz said, flipping through the file in front of him. “The man in that photo we know is Abdul al-Jarrah. But guess what?” He tossed another glossy photo of another young middle-eastern man. “Here is Ziad al-Jarrah.”

Adnan just looked at the photograph, his face blank.

“He was one of the hijackers. Flight 93. Crashed in Pennsylvania.”

Startled, Adnan looked intensely at Gonz.

“So, I have to wonder if they are related. Plus, our hijacker was from Lebanon. You just said Abdul al-Jarrah is from Lebanon. That’s a pretty big coincidence.” He sighed. “And I don’t like coincidences.”

Adnan just stared at the American, not sure how to respond.

“I need to know about the men working with al Mudtaji,” Gonz continued. “Their names. Where they’re from–”

“Not here. That’s all I know,” Adnan said matter-of-factly.

“Not Iraq?”

“Al Mudtaji, yes. I met a total of five others. All bad men. Bad.”

“You know their names?”

Adnan gave a half smile, shaking his head. “No one used their real names. Only al Mudtaji knows who they really are. Me, he called me ‘Hassan.’” Adnan shrugged. “That was good, I didn’t want the others to know me, yes? I was glad for that.”

“Not Iraqis?”

“Two from Jordan. One from Kuwait. One, Saudi Arabia, one Lebanon.”

Gonz nodded. While they knew many of the insurgents were foreigners, it was disheartening to realize that all of al Mudtaji’s top men were foreigners. This meant that if the Iraqis couldn’t control the borders, the terrorists would just keep pouring in. Then something occurred to him and he asked, “Why no real names, but where they’re from is fair game?” He saw Adnan’s puzzled look and rephrased the question. “How do you know that’s where they are really from? They weren’t using real names–”

“You are not Iraqi,” Adnan quickly answered, cutting him off. “We know. We can tell by the dialect.”

Gonz nodded. It made sense. He looked through the file for other leads that needed to be addressed.

“Where is Ghaniyah?” Adnan suddenly inquired. “I wish to see her. Where is she, please?”

“She’s safe.” Gonz didn’t bother to look up.

“In your prison?” Adnan asked, his tone suddenly bitter.

“No–”

“You capture al Mudtaji’s sister and don’t put her prison? I don’t believe you.”

“I assure you, it’s true,” Gonz said, meeting Adnan’s gaze. “Ghaniyah’s fine. Safe.”

“Here? In the Green Zone?”

“I can’t really say.” He could see this upset the Iraqi so he quickly added, “She’s helping us. It’s important, and she’s doing a good job.” Adnan didn’t look convinced, so Gonz continued. “It was her choice, Adnan. She brought us the head.”

“No,” Adnan said briskly. “Never. She would never–”

“She did. She brought it to the checkpoint. Right on time, too. Just like al Mudtaji’s website said.”

“Al Mudtaji forced her to–”

“She did it on her own. She wanted to come clean. Help us.”

Adnan studied Gonz for a moment, digesting this. Finally he announced, “I want to see her.”

“In time...”

“I want to see Ghaniyah!” Adnan stubbornly persisted. “I must see her!”

“You will. Just not right now.”

“If what you say is true, she is not in prison, then let me see her,” he pleaded urgently. “Please.”

“In a few days. She’s not in Baghdad, okay? But she’s safe. She’s helping us, and she’ll be back in just a few days. I swear to you.”

“Where? Not Baghdad, where?”

“I can’t say.”

Adnan looked disgusted. “I’m telling you the truth! Now you tell me–”

“I am,” Gonz responded firmly, giving him a hard look. “You will see her. But not right now. Not today and probably not tomorrow. When she gets back–”

“In what? How long?”

“Couple days, max.”

“Two days then?”

“Something like that, yes,” Gonz answered, his attention focused on the papers in front of him.

“Then I will see her?” Adnan asked imploringly.

“Yes,” Gonz replied, looking up at Adnan. “I promise.”

“You promise?” Adnan scoffed. “Like your first President Bush? He promise he help us get rid of Saddam. After first Gulf War, yes? That kind of promise?”

Such a stupid code, Ghaniyah thought. The last four numbers given were actually one digit higher than the actual number. She had written down the phone number her father had given her, repeating it back just to be sure. The last four numbers were 9,6,3,3. This meant the correct phone number ended with the numbers 8,5,2,2. All the other numbers were supposed to be correct.

Ghaniyah briefly wondered if the Americans had bugged her father’s phone. She had told them of how he had instilled such hatred for all things Western in al Mudtaji from a young age and that he probably was helping the insurgency. She had mentioned that her half-brother would have an intermediary pass information between father and son. It would make sense that they would monitor the call. However, all they could do now was monitor calls to the phone number her father had given her. They had no way of knowing about al Mudtaji’s simple code or that her father had actually been giving her a completely different phone number.

She had almost told the American doctor about al Mudtaji’s simple code – that she would get her final instructions about the dresser after she called the secret number her father would give her. But for some reason, she had kept this information to herself. She was glad now she had.

Some loud shouts suddenly filled the air, startling her. She nervously glanced up from the small piece of paper. She could see past the empty tables of the café to the street outside. Three teenage boys playing soccer with a flat ball, egging each other on, boisterous. Suddenly anxious, she glanced around. The pay phone, located near the restrooms at the back of the café provided as good a shelter as she could possibly hope for. No one was around. She could hear a few noises from the kitchen, but she had already checked – the swinging door was closed. Whoever was in the kitchen probably had no idea that she was even there. Up front, the only waiter currently serving tables had taken a seat near the front window to read the day’s newspaper. It was quiet. As quiet as she could hope for. Most importantly, no one could hear her.

Ghaniyah glanced at the correct number again. What to do? Call it? Do as she was told? And then what? Tell the Americans, tell the doctor, or just leave? It was a big country, she could do it. Leave both al Mudtaji and the Americans.

But first she would make another phone call.

The answers she got from this phone call would decide everything.

Gonz studied the Iraqi who sat before him sipping some hot tea that had just been brought in. He believed in gut feelings and his gut was telling him that Adnan was telling the truth. He had only gotten wrapped up in al Mudtaji’s world by fluke – falling in love with the terrorist’s half-sister. Rotten luck, really. Still, there were some lingering questions.

“I still have one problem,” Gonz said.

Cupping the hot mug in both hands, Adnan looked up.

“The pharmacy notepad.”

Adnan carefully put the mug on the table. He glanced up at the video camera near the ceiling. He had noticed it as soon as he had walked in and was hardly surprised. Finally he replied, “Yes, I know.” He kept one hand on the mug, tracing the handle with a finger. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“The truth,” Gonz said more harshly than he intended.

“I don’t know for certain, yes?” Gonz nodded so Adnan continued. “I’ve been thinking of nothing else since you came into the shop with it. It was a great surprise, that.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

“I have a satchel, yes? Had it at university. I love it. Old. Very old, belonged to my father, but I still use it. I put the medicine for American, the American al Mudtaji had, in satchel.” Adnan shook his head, staring at the mug in front of him. “I leave, to give al Mudtaji medicine and make, what you call? House calls?”