Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (31 page)

There was a moment of silence. “He was hurt yesterday. There was a missile attack in the Green Zone and –”

“I saw,” Ghaniyah replied tersely. “He walked to an ambulance. I saw. He’s fine. Don’t try to lie to me doctor or the poison goes back to my brother.”

“No, no, listen –”

Staring at the watch’s second hand quickly move around the dial, Ghaniyah interrupted. “One hour. I will call in one hour. I want to speak to him.”

She disconnected the call with her heart racing. Then she turned the phone off.

“Who was that?” Abasah asked.

“Never mind.”

“What about Papa? Are you calling Papa?”

“No, not right now.”

“Can we call? He might be angry.”

“We will. I promise. But in a little while.” She saw the man looking at her from outside the driver’s door. She motioned him in.

The man silently got behind the wheel. He gestured with his hand, and she quickly gave up the watch.

“I’ll need it again,” Ghaniyah told him.

But he didn’t reply. He gave her a long look, then slipped it onto his wrist, fastening it in place without a word. He put the truck in gear, and they headed back to the highway.

McKay paced near Peterson’s desk. She felt like a young teenager who had been relegated to the children’s table for Christmas dinner even though she felt grown up enough to sit with the adults. She looked at Peterson’s main computer monitor that showed a detailed map of Baghdad’s Jadida neighborhood and grumbled, “They should be there by now. We should be on-screen.”

“Phone’s still off,” Peterson relayed, busy checking the laptop that was tracking Ghaniyah’s phone.

McKay didn’t expect Ghaniyah to suddenly turn on the satellite phone and give up her location. But she didn’t say anything about Ghaniyah. Instead she said, “Call in for a check.”

Peterson turned back to his main computer and picked up a two-way satellite phone from his desk. “This is Marco Polo 5. Can we have an LVD check?”

“Roger that,” they heard Gonz reply. “LVD on.”

The Localized Video Display combined a live audible, video feed with precise GPS coordinates. This particular LVD, with the tiny camera attached to Gonz’s Army jacket in the disguise of a lieutenant’s bar, showed a bouncing movement as Gonz walked past two Humvees that were parked at the curb. In the upper right corner, the GPS coordinates gave his exact location.

McKay felt better. She might have been left at the kid’s table, but at least she could see what was going on with the adults, and right now they were in place and safe. At least, so far.

Heisman briefly came into frame as he walked beside Gonz. The video changed to a glass door with Arabic writing stenciled in a crescent shape. They saw Heisman open the door, and the camera view bounced inside as Gonz entered first. A moment later the Peterson’s monitor suddenly went dark.

McKay’s stomach lurched. It had been a setup. Just like Gonz had worried about. Then the monitor flickered back to life showing the inside of the busy newspaper office. People at various desks. It could be an office anywhere.

A young Iraqi man approached, and they heard Gonz say, “We’re here to see Dr. Lami. Colonel K.C. sent us.”

“This way, please,” the young man said.

The video showed the man’s backside as Gonz followed.

McKay wondered about the small boy who had witnessed his family being held hostage by masked gunmen. Gonz had gotten a call on his cell phone right after Ghaniyah had called McKay for the second time. The caller had been the renowned American journalist, Colonel K.C., who had quickly relayed that a young boy had come to the
Iraq National Journal
newspaper office with a bizarre story about his uncle, whose picture had appeared in the morning edition of the paper, and some missing ricin. The boy had been crying, telling the newspaper people that they must contact the Americans, not the Iraqi Security Forces.

The colonel had kept Gonz’s business card and had decided to call him after Dr. Lami had asked for his help. Of course, being a good journalist, the colonel had wanted verification about the ricin. Gonz hadn’t wanted to confirm or deny anything, but in the end he and the colonel made a compromise: the colonel would be kept in the loop for the next twenty-four hours and could have the exclusive on the story at the end of that time period. But in the mean time, both Colonel K.C. and the Iraqi newspaper had to keep a lid on what was going on. The colonel had quickly agreed, saying that he would meet them at the newspaper offices.

McKay had been getting her Kevlar vest on when Gonz had told her she was staying put. He wanted her available should Ghaniyah call. She had argued her cell phone would work anywhere in Iraq, but Gonz then shared his concern that they might be walking into a deadly trap. He had made it clear that he wanted her around to finish the job if he and Heisman were taken out. Fearing for his safety and angry at being left behind, she had insisted that Gonz at least wear the LVD. With his microphone open, they would be able to have a live audible video feed.

Gonz had agreed and then immediately radioed for twelve Marines from the 2/5. Within thirty minutes, the dozen Marines, plus the two CIA men, were on their way.

Gonz and Heisman were shown into a spacious office where a small boy sat in the large leather chair staring at a computer monitor that displayed the standard Microsoft 3D flying objects as a screen saver. Before Gonz could say anything, an older man came in from behind, carrying a paper plate of food and a cup of water. He wore a Western style business suit, expensive leather shoes, and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Dr. Lami?” Gonz asked.

The newspaper owner gave him an embarrassed smile. “He didn’t get breakfast.” He looked at the boy and said, “Faris, these men are here to help.”

The boy slowly turned his attention away from the computer screen, but when he saw Heisman with his bulk and black skin, his eyes noticeably widened. He couldn’t stop staring.

“Faris..!” Dr. Lami scolded.

“Hi, Faris,” Heisman said in Arabic with a smile. “My name is Heisman.”

Faris continued to stare, clearly baffled. “Are you Arab?” the boy asked in Arabic.

“No. American.”

“American?”

“That’s right,” Heisman said with a wink. “Surprised you, eh?”

Anxious to get the mission under way, Gonz nodded for Dr. Lami to step outside the office with him.

Dr. Lami put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and, nodding toward the big black man, said, “Tell this man what you told me? Okay?”

Faris said to Heisman, “You have a funny accent.”

“Saudi Arabian,” Heisman told him. “You know where Saudi Arabia is?”

Faris slowly nodded, not taking his eyes off the big man.

Outside the office, Gonz closed the door behind Dr. Lami and quietly asked, “What can you tell me?”

The doctor immediately removed a small piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “This is the address.” The text was carefully written in both English and Arabic. “It is close. Five minutes by car. No more.”

“The colonel said the boy’s family is related to a man we were questioning. Adnan Hanjour?”

Dr. Lami nodded. “My photographer, one of my photographers, is his brother-in-law.”

“How many people are we talking about? How many people live there?”

“My photographer, his wife, and Faris.” Almost as an after thought, he added, “And a baby. They have a baby.”

“Okay.”

Dr. Lami gave Gonz a hard look and said, “Is it true? What the boy says? The insurgents are hunting for some stolen ricin?”

“We’re trying to track that down as we speak.”

Dr. Lami shuddered and pulled off his glasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief. “And this man’s connection?”

“I have every reason to believe he is innocent. But he is in danger. That’s why we had him in custody.”

“Because of the missing ricin?”

Gonz nodded. “Right.” Changing the subject he asked, “You been to the house? Seen the layout?”

“No, sorry. But Colonel K.C. has. Faris can help, of course.”

Gonz nodded. He looked through the glass to Heisman and the boy. The ex-football player was leaning across the desk pointing to something as Faris sketched a diagram on a piece of paper.

“The colonel should be here momentarily,” Dr. Lami said.

“We don’t have time,” Gonz explained, feeling suddenly tense. “Excuse me.” He opened the office door and looked at Heisman. “Ready?”

Heisman nodded and grabbed the drawing. “We’re a go.” He turned to the boy and said in Arabic, “We’ll see you in a little bit, okay?”

The boy numbly nodded, staring after the large black man as he quickly walked away.

McKay eagerly watched the monitor. She could tell Gonz was jogging now as the video bounced up and down. In front of him, two Marines were leading the way down the alley. The audio picked up the men’s heavy breathing and rustling of their thirty-plus pounds of gear. To her ears it sounded like an elephant stampede, and she worried that al Mudtaji’s men could already hear them coming.

Peterson sat entrenched in front of the monitor, nervously biting a fingernail. The video image abruptly came to a halt, and the view changed to show a Marine across the small alley, down on one knee, his assault rifle at his shoulder, ready. Suddenly the two-way radio on the desk squawked. Then they heard Gonz’s whisper. “Marco Polo 5, you read me?”

McKay snatched up the radio. “Five by five, Gonz.”

“Nothing to report?” Gonz asked. McKay knew he was asking if they had a lead on Ghaniyah’s whereabouts.

“Negative.”

“Roger, MP-5. We’re going in.”

“Roger that,” McKay said.

Gonz’s arm appeared on screen as he directed the men into position.

McKay anxiously watched the monitor, chewing on her lower lip.

Then her cell phone rang.

“Ghaniyah?” McKay anxiously asked as she answered her cell phone without looking at the display to see the caller I.D. Instead, her eyes were riveted to Peterson’s computer monitor.

“Dr. McKay?” a man’s voice asked.

She was momentarily taken back to hear a strange man’s voice on the other end. “Yes,” she cautiously answered, as she watched a Marine kneel on the ground before a wood fence that she presumed surrounded the small patio area of the target house. She could see him peek through a hole in the wood. Gonz turned around, and McKay could see a Marine perched on the roof across the alley. He was in sniper position.

“Chadwick at Langley. You still got a live feed on?”

McKay didn’t like the caller’s tone and replied crisply, “That’s right.”

“We lost our connection. We need you to reboot using channel Delta, Bravo, Eight. Repeat, channel Delta, Bravo, Eight.”

McKay quickly relayed the message to Peterson who seemed to be happy to do something other than watch his monitor. After a few keystrokes he said, “Patch in place.”

McKay repeated, “Patch in place.”

“I’m not getting it...” The CIA man irritably reported.

McKay sighed. She knew the protocol allowed Langley to get a live feed whenever a CIA agent used an LVD, a Localized Video Display, but she hardly thought the suits back in Washington D.C. could help Gonz and Heisman right now. And she didn’t like the interruption.

“Should be there,” Peterson said, looking over his shoulder at her.

“You should have it,” McKay impatiently echoed as she saw the patio’s back gate slowly open. Gonz’s hand on the latch. He was going in first.

“Okay, okay. We’re on.” With that the caller had hung up.

McKay snapped the phone shut. “They’re back on,” she told Peterson.

Gonz slowly stepped inside the patio, and she could see exactly what he saw – a masked gunmen just inside the open sliding glass door. His machine gun aimed right at Gonz.

Gonz fired at the masked man at the same time that a series of shots rang out from inside the house. He felt a thunderous blast hit him in the chest as he was blown off his feet.

He lay on his back, staring up at the blue sky interspersed with telephone lines. He had no idea if he hit the terrorist or not. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t seem to breathe.

“Oh, God,” Peterson moaned. The screen showed only the sky which meant Gonz was down, face up on the ground.

McKay didn’t say a word. Her hands clasped over her mouth and nose, she stared at the monitor with a strange emotional detachment. She coldly reasoned that Gonz had two things working in his favor: there was a medic with the assault team and he was wearing a flak jacket. But where had he been hit? The stomach? The head?

Suddenly Heisman’s face filled the screen. He was obviously leaning over Gonz. A concerned look on his face. “Fuckin’ A!” Heisman moved off screen and they heard him yell, “Go! Go! Go!”

There was more yelling, the words incomprehensible. McKay and Peterson waited for what seemed like an eternity. Then Heisman appeared again. Looking right at the camera.

“Hey man, you okay?” they heard Heisman ask.

“Fuck,” Gonz moaned.

Peterson’s face lit up as he turned to her. “He’s okay..! You hear that? He’s okay!”

“Clear!” Gonz heard a Marine call out from inside the house.

“Clear!” another shouted.

“Hey! Got vitals here!” yet another Marine yelled.

Gonz struggled to sit up. “Vitals” meant someone was alive. He yanked his Army jacket up to his neck so he could see his flak jacket underneath. The bullet was embedded just below his heart which explained why he had had the air knocked out of him.