Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (21 page)

Maaz looked at his watch. It was half past eleven now.

“Nice camera,” a deep voice said just behind him.

Startled, Maaz turned to see a young man with a light beard smoking a cigarette. He wore faded blue jeans, a light jacket and an easy smile.

“You like it?” the man inquired.

For some reason, Maaz felt uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“What happened to the old one?”

Surprised, Maaz just stared at the man.

“Never got it back, eh?” the young stranger asked with a laugh.

“Who are you?” Maaz asked in surprise. “How do you know–”

“Tell me something,” the man said, taking another puff of the cigarette and blowing out the smoke directly toward Maaz. “You figure out what was in the dead infidel’s mouth?”

Maaz could only stare at the man, at a loss for words. All he could think was that the man in front of him was a terrorist. He was standing along the scenic Tigris talking to a terrorist.

The young man laughed again. “I’ll help you.” He now removed a small piece of paper from his pants pocket. “It was a note from al Mudtaji. Here is what it said.”

Maaz took the folded paper and quickly opened it. The typed note read,
Islam is the only true religion. Now you have an American who speaks the truth of Islam. Before now, he and all other Americans never spoke the truth of Islam. He had to have his head removed. Now he can speak the truth. Understand. This is the first of many American heads that will come to speak the truth Sunday.

Anxiously glancing up, Maaz saw that the young man was casually walking away. He looked over his shoulder toward Maaz, then turned so that he was walking backward. “Don’t worry about what you were told earlier,” the man shouted. “Just wanted to see you again.” He pointed at the paper in Maaz’s hand. “Share that with everyone, huh?”

He laughed again, then turned around and walked away briskly.

Maaz hesitated, then focused his camera on the stranger. Using the zoom, he brought the man’s image in close, rapidly taking several pictures. He waited for the man to turn around again. But he didn’t.

A moment later the terrorist’s image was blocked by a group of people walking toward Maaz.

She now sat on the front steps of her aunt’s house, waiting.

The small suitcase the Americans had provided prior to her arrival at Basra sat beside her, filled with a few clothes and toiletries. Hidden inside, along the spine of the special valise was the satellite cell phone with which she could call the Americans – either Dr. McKay or her boss. She had never made a call with it, having only received text messages from the woman doctor and had almost thrown it away when she had packed her clothes. Why not? She certainly wasn’t going to call the Americans now. She had made her decision. But at the last minute she had tucked it inside the suitcase’s hiding place.

In the end, her decision came down to Adnan. She not only wanted to see him again, she wanted a future with him. Although she wasn’t all that sure the country had a solid future, at least as a democracy, she believed in Adnan and she believed in herself. They would prevail. If she did this one thing, and somehow managed to do it right, she would hold the key to their future. They could then both be free, and nothing, not al Mudtaji, nor the Americans, could keep them apart again.

Provided they both lived, of course.

After talking to her father and figuring out the real number to call, she had first called the pharmacy again. The previous day, after overhearing Dr. McKay talking on her cell phone about Thamer Pharmacy and heart medication, she had been very anxious to call Adnan and warn him.

However, by the time the taxi had dropped them both off at the hospital in downtown Basra and she had found a pay phone where she wouldn’t be overheard, there had been no answer at the pharmacy. This had never happened before since either Thamer or Adnan was always in the shop during business hours. She had tried calling throughout the late afternoon and evening. But the phone just rang and rang which only exacerbated her worry.

The following day, calling from inside the small café, Thamer had answered, very brusque. But as soon as he recognized Ghaniyah’s voice, he angrily told her what had happened. Although the old man had seemed confused at times, she was finally able to piece together his rambling and reconstruct why the two pharmacists had been picked up – the note left in the American’s mouth had been written on stationery from the pharmacy. She immediately knew that al Mudtaji would have never fingered anyone that had helped him, and she knew he fervently believed he and Adnan were of like mind. More than likely Sharif had written the note and purposely chosen to point the finger at the pharmacy by using their stationery. An easy task considering al Mudtaji was illiterate.

It nearly killed her to think of Adnan being held prisoner by the Americans. Why hadn’t they released him? They had let Thamer and some old man, a regular customer of theirs, go. So why not Adnan? She surmised that it was because of the heart medication. They must have somehow traced the medication directly to Adnan.

The whole mess angered her no end. She had cooperated with the Americans, come back to Basra after so many long years, done everything that was asked of her and now they held Adnan, as if he were some criminal. A terrorist. His crime was that he loved her with all his heart. He had helped al Mudtaji for the sole purpose of getting a glimpse of her, seeing that she was all right. And now he was paying an exorbitant price for that love.

Thamer had given her the exact time they had been arrested and described the two Americans with great detail. She had never seen the big black American, but the other man had to be Dr. McKay’s boss. What puzzled Ghaniyah was the fact that the Americans hadn’t asked her about Adnan or Thamer. It didn’t make sense. When it came to anything else to do with her half brother, they would question her relentlessly. So why hadn’t she been asked about Adnan?

If Adnan had for some reason admitted what he had done, she knew the Americans would try to verify it with her. See if Adnan, too, could be used as they had used her. On the other hand, if Adnan had resisted their interrogations and hadn’t spoken Ghaniyah’s name, why wouldn’t the doctor ask her about Adnan? Ask her if al Mudtaji knew the pharmacist?

There was only one answer. They were keeping the truth from her. Which meant that al Mudtaji had actually been correct – the Americans couldn’t be trusted.

She saw the billowing dust from the vehicle on the sandy tract before she heard it. A moment later she could hear its powerful engine. A few seconds later she could actually see it through the swirling silt. It was a large white pick-up truck. Just as the voice on the other end of the phone had told her to expect when she had sealed her fate by calling the coded number. Her entire body tensed.

This was it.

There was no turning back.

It was at times like this that McKay wondered what the hell she had been thinking by joining the agency. After getting Peterson’s text message about ricin, she only had about an hour to evaluate the various patients and start treatment. Ghaniyah’s aunt had taken a turn for the worse, her kidneys shutting down. The hospital had a dialysis machine, but it was malfunctioning. Unfortunately, there was no real treatment for ricin – all the patients, including the small boy fighting for his life, were given super-activated charcoal which would hopefully soak up the poison. Since dehydration was a worry, they were also given intravenous fluids.

She had then been called to the emergency room where she was tending a small boy’s broken finger when she had gotten Gonz’s “911/911” page, meaning a dire emergency. She had read the text message in a bathroom, then slipped out of the hospital through a service entrance. Hopefully someone else had set the boy’s finger properly by now. Within thirty minutes she had sent Ghaniyah two encrypted text messages and had made her way to the outdoor marketplace just a few blocks from the east end of the city’s fabulous harbor. Now as she walked along the crowded bazaar and sipped her lukewarm tea, she scanned all the different women’s faces filling the outdoor marketplace. Unfortunately, since all the women wore head coverings, usually black, they all appeared much the same to McKay. The best chance of spotting Ghaniyah would be her height – she was tall for an Iraqi woman, almost 5'9", same as McKay.

With the sun shining brightly and many boats filling the adjacent harbor, it seemed the perfect day. But it was hardly that, at least for McKay. When she had read Gonz’s message about Ghaniyah’s arrest in the U.K. and her past link to ricin, she couldn’t believe it. Ghaniyah, an Islamic fundamentalist? Every fiber of her being screamed no. It wasn’t possible. There had to be another answer.

“McKay, you there?” she heard Gonz say in her ear.

Still in the crowd, McKay brought her hands to her face and sneezed once, a signal to Gonz that she would soon be able to speak. She made her way through the bustling crowd and a few minutes later was seated at a small bench which overlooked the water. While she still detested the head covering she had to wear, at least it hid the Bluetooth device hooked on her right ear, which allowed her to talk on the cell phone without having the cell phone held to her ear. The cell phone itself was hidden in the ample sleeves of the dress.

Raising her hand close to her face to hide the fact that she was talking, she said softly, “I’m in place. Asset is not. Repeat, asset is not. Over.”

She could hear Gonz sigh. “Been this late before?”

McKay glanced at her watch. Ghaniyah was now nearly an hour late for the rendezvous. “Negative.” McKay then asked, “Am I getting any help here?” She knew Gonz had assigned a couple men to keep an eye on Ghaniyah while she kept her cover inside the hospital. The question in McKay’s mind was, why hadn’t those assets chased Ghaniyah down?

“Only had one on duty. She somehow slipped past.”

“Has anyone checked her hotel?”

“She checked out over four hours ago.”

I’m wasting my time, McKay thought. Somehow Ghaniyah was tipped off and by now she would be long gone. Unless... “What about the aunt’s house?” she quietly asked.

“It was checked last night. Late. No activity there or any of the adjoining houses.” Gonz was quiet for a minute then asked, “You think she’s there?”

“Al Mudtaji told her to bring the dresser, right?”

“I dunno,” Gonz sighed. “Might have been an elaborate ruse. That’s what Langley thinks, anyway. You never found anything in it.”

“I need to go out there,” McKay suddenly announced.

“What for?”

McKay couldn’t admit that even though there was probably a stack of files implicating Ghaniyah, she just didn’t believe it. “One last check, that’s all. I’ll need an escort.”

“McKay...”

“She’s not going to show up here, Gonz. She’s not.”

“Hang on...”

McKay waited for what seemed like an eternity. Being staunchly independent, she didn’t like the idea of having to have an escort, but since she wasn’t fluent in Arabic, an English-speaking woman going to a rural farm area by herself would attract too much attention. She needed an Arab man to go with her.

“McKay?” she heard in the earpiece.

“Go.”

“Peterson checked the cell you gave her. It’s been turned off.”

McKay immediately stood up. There was no point hanging around the bazaar. “The escort?”

“The man you gave the water samples to... He’ll pick you up within thirty minutes at your location...”

“We don’t have that kind of time, Gonz!” McKay retorted angrily. She realized how loudly she had spoken and quickly bowed her head and walked across the street where there were even fewer people around. “Gonz –”

“Northeast corner of the marketplace. Tan two-door Toyota.”

“Roger, Gonz. Out.”

Inside her sleeve, she disconnected the cell phone.

“Here we go.”

Maaz, Dr. Lami and Duqaq gathered around the large monitor as Fadhil sat at the desk and clicked through the photos once more. The first picture showed the terrorist’s backside, quite close.

“He never turned around again?” Dr. Lami asked.

“No,” Maaz replied, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

“Could be anyone,” Duqaq added.

“He was watching us,” Maaz told Duqaq. “He asked about the camera. If I ever got it back.”

No one said anything as they watched the last two images of the terrorist walking away from the camera. The slide show continued with the pictures Maaz had taken earlier of the Presidential Palace. Fadhil clicked on the last picture, ending the slide show.

Dr. Lami studied Maaz. “You never saw this man before?”

“No.” Everyone was staring at him so Maaz continued, saying, “He asked if I knew what was taken from the infidel’s mouth. No one else knows that. He has to be one of them.” When no one responded, Maaz pressed on. “He asked if I had gotten my camera back. He must have been watching the whole time.”

Duqaq nodded. “I don’t doubt it. They know the Americans found the note, but they aren’t happy that it didn’t become public.”

“They’re using us,” Dr. Lami scoffed.

“Are you kidding?” Duqaq asked. “Who is using who? If this is true, that al Mudtaji put such a note in the dead man’s mouth and the Americans are sitting on it, I say we make it public. Plus, it means something’s happening tomorrow. Some kind of attack.”

“We can’t verify that it’s true,” Dr. Lami protested. “It’s just one man’s assertion.”

“A man who knew I’d be out there taking pictures today,” Maaz argued. “A man who knew I lost my camera to the Security Forces. A man who knew something was hidden in the mouth.”

“I agree,” Duqaq conceded. “Whoever this man is, he has information. Information he has passed on to us. We have to run with it.”

Dr. Lami mulled it over. “We could attribute it to ‘sources close to al Mudtaji.’”