Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (35 page)

“Who are you calling?” Abasah asked. “Is it Papa? I want to talk to him!”

“Shh!” Ghaniyah scolded. “It’s not your father. Quiet, now.”

Abasah looked at the driver to see if he would help, but he kept his eyes on the road. Ignoring both of them.

Ghaniyah was surprised to hear the familiar voice on the other end answer and almost hung up. Then she found her courage and said, “It’s me. Ghaniyah.”

“She’s talking to our IM guy!” Peterson reported.

“You sure?” Gonz asked.

“Technically, could be a coincidence. But I don’t think so.”

“Any way to confirm they’re talking to each other?”

“Not really. They hang up at the same time, that will tell us for sure.”

“I could try calling,” McKay offered. “She’s got call waiting. It may make her stay on longer.”

Gonz nodded. “Do it.”

Sharif stared at Adnan. “Why do I answer his phone? Because he’s dead.”

There was just silence on the other end. Then, “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, Ghaniyah, he is. I promise you. Just like our mutual friend, the goat rancher. You stole from him. After he stole from me. He’s dead too.”

“You killed him?” Ghaniyah asked, horrified.

“He stole from me!” Sharif bellowed in anger. “I won’t have it! Yusuf killed him! And the traitor’s family! All dead! The good news is your boyfriend is still alive. For now. Here. Say hello.”

He put the phone to Adnan’s ear. Adnan tentatively asked, “Ghaniyah?”

“Adnan?”

“Ghaniyah, listen–”

Sharif pulled the phone away. “See? I don’t lie. He’s alive. For now. You bring the ricin, I’ll let him go.” Adnan could only watch helplessly as Sharif turned away, listening for a moment. Then he impatiently replied, “You know where. Where your boyfriend helped kill the American.” Suddenly suspicious, Sharif added, “He just sent you the message, didn’t he?”

Ghaniyah had to think fast. “Yes. Of course. But I wanted to be sure.” The phone suddenly gave a loud beep, startling her. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Sharif barked at her.

“I’ll be there within the hour.” Another beep. Frightened, she quickly disconnected the line, her hands shaking.

“Where are we going?” Abasah whined.

Ghaniyah glanced at the girl, her mind reeling. Was Sharif telling the truth? Yusuf had killed Abasah’s father? And grandmother? It was unthinkable. But Adnan was alive. Not in a coma, fighting for his life. The Americans had lied. But it didn’t matter now. She knew where Adnan was, and she still had their ticket to freedom – the ricin.

“Can I ask you to read it again, sir?” the Marine corporal asked politely. He was one of the three Marines that had been assigned to stay with the family, first at the hospital, now at the newspaper office. He had previously checked in with Gonz, making sure that he had permission to take the family to the newspaper so they could be reunited with their oldest son. Standing between Daneen and Colonel K.C., he was addressing Dr. Lami.

After playing back Adnan’s words several times, Dr. Lami had written it down in English. He looked at the paper and repeated the message.
“Listen to me. I’m in place.Tell her. Two days ago, same place, okay? This is the second time I have to tell you. Second. Got it? What do I have to do, tell you five times? Five? I’m in place. She should know this from two days ago. Understand?”

Dr. Lami looked at the Marine. “What?”

The Marine thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing... But the way he said ‘second’ and ‘five.’” The Marine looked at their expectant faces with a sheepish smile. “That’s us, that’s all. We’re the 2/5. 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines.”

Colonel K.C. anxiously stepped forward, looking at Dr. Lami. “One more time, please.”

Again, Dr. Lami read Adnan’s message. Colonel K.C. looked at the Marine. “You’re right. Why didn’t he say, ‘This is twice I’ve had to tell you.’ But he says the word ‘second’ twice.”

“Right,” the Marine agreed. “Then he says five. That seems weird. He asks, ‘What do I have to do? Tell you five times. Five.’ He’s definitely repeating it on purpose.”

“But why would he talk about the Marines?” Dr. Lami asked. “I don’t understand.”

Heisman now sat in the passenger seat of a Humvee, watching the people come and go from the bus station. The Army Rangers from Ft. Benning, Georgia, had met him outside the café where Ghaniyah had last been seen, ready to take him wherever he wanted. The bus station had been the logical choice, but there were certainly no signs of Ghaniyah anywhere near it.

He was on his cell with Gonz who told him, “Just hang loose. We’re trying to pin down a location. They’re talking. Al Mudtaji and Ghaniyah. Someone’s got to stay on long enough for us to get a read. Then I’ll direct you.”

“Okay,” Heisman replied. “”

“Roger, out.”

“Seeing if it picks up any standard phrases.” Sitting in front of the computer, Peterson clicked on something as McKay sat next to him, watching as Gonz came up behind them.

“Here we go.” Peterson studied the monitor with a frown. “Not real helpful.” A combination of numbers and phrases appeared on screen. “Second and five, football term. Second down, five yards to go.”

“That’s not it.” Gonz was losing patience. He had hoped that when Ghaniyah had talked to their insurgent they would stay on long enough for a trace. But once again, the call had been under three minutes. He knew if Ghaniyah was talking to al Mudtaji, they had probably lost her.

“Five and two,” Peterson read a loud. “From the ‘five times.’ ‘Two days.’ Five and two could be fifty-two, fifty-two weeks in a year.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Gonz snorted.

“What’s that?” McKay asked, pointing to the screen. It read,
2
nd
Bn 5
th
.

“I don’t know,” Peterson remarked.

Gonz stared at the screen. “2nd Battalion, 5th Marines!”

“I don’t think he’s talking about the Marines,” Peterson offered.

“No, he is!” Gonz said with excitement. “We frequently use them. He wouldn’t know about that, but...” He continued to stare at the screen. Then it came to him. “They checked out the warehouse where Quizby was killed!”

Peterson quickly pulled up another window on the desktop. “Two days ago, sir. They were there two days ago.”

“That’s it!” McKay declared. “He’s saying he’s in place, where they were two days ago. The 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines!”

“But how would he know?” Peterson asked, puzzled.

“Because all our guys mark it,” Gonz explained, animated. “They go into a suspicious hideout, they tag it. Usually with spray paint. Sometimes chalk.”

“And they put the date,” McKay added. “This fits!”

Gonz’s cell phone rang and he immediately answered. “Gonz.” He was quiet, then nodded. “I know, I know. We just got it too, corporal. That’s exactly where they are!”

Thamer wasn’t in a good mood. He hadn’t realized until the day before just how much he had come to rely on Adnan. It was Adnan who meticulously monitored their supplies, ordered medications from the pharmaceutical companies, followed up with doctors regarding client prescriptions and always had time to answer questions from concerned customers.

All the information about their supplies, reminders of when to order new products, and all sorts of daily details were kept on the laptop in the back office. However, Thamer had staunchly refused to learn how to use the contraption, which was why he was in the pharmacy on this Sunday, trying to catch up.

He heard the knock on the front entrance door as he sat at the small desk in the modest office. Having just spent the last half hour digging through a stack of papers in the hopes of finding a shipping invoice from a Turkish pharmaceutical company – with no luck, his mood had only gotten worse.

Another knock. Louder.

“We’re closed!” Thamer called out. Even though the CLOSED sign was on the front door, the overhead lights were on and someone obviously thought that meant the pharmacy was open.

A louder rap on the door. Insistent.

Angry, Thamer got up and headed to the front. As he walked down the steps to the main floor, he saw that it was a woman with a child. The woman looked somewhat familiar, a tight smile on her face. Thamer unlatched the front door, opening it just a few inches. “We’re closed.”

“Thamer, it’s me. Ghaniyah.”

Thamer did a double take. It was Ghaniyah.

“Please. If you could let me in.”

Thamer glanced at the girl and opened the door. He then saw Ghaniyah motion to someone else and an older man appeared, carrying a large shopping bag.

“What’s this?” Thamer asked.

“Please, I don’t have much time.”

Thamer gave in, opening the door wider. Ghaniyah entered, followed by the girl and the older man.

“Turn out the lights,” Ghaniyah told him.

Thamer gave her an annoyed look. “Look, Ghaniyah –”

“Please! I don’t have much time!”

Thamer reluctantly walked over to the side wall where he turned off the overhead lights, giving Ghaniyah an impatient look.

“I have no one else to ask. That I trust.”

“I don’t understand... What’s going on?”

Peterson felt strangely self-conscious. The two MPs stood several feet away, one with a rifle in his hand. As the only team member now in MP-5, he had a lot of electronics to monitor and a lot of information to sift through. He certainly didn’t need the MPs breathing down his back. But he knew he had no choice.

Ignoring the MPs, he checked the patch linking Langley into Gonz’s LVD. It was still on. Good.

He then glanced at the laptop tracking the phones. Nothing. All phone lines were off. No one was making a call. Not so good.

He looked at his desktop monitor, which still showed the bouncing image of the Humvee dashboard. Gonz was in the passenger seat, the LVD on his lapel capturing the SUV’s seesaw jarring motion as it swiftly drove through the streets of Baghdad. It made him nauseated to watch. Definitely not good.

“Peterson, you there?” he heard Gonz ask via the radio.

He quickly picked up the radio. “Roger, Gonz. I’m here.”

“You got a time on Heisman?”

Peterson fumbled through his notes on the desk. He found the right piece of paper, then looked at his watch. “He’s eh, he’s seventeen minutes out.”

“Roger, our ETA is in fifteen. Hey, Peterson? No one using any of the phones? .”

He glanced at the screen. “Nope. Nothing.”

“Okay, anything else?”

Peterson hesitated, then answered. “Eh, it can wait.”

“What? What is it? Tell me now.”

“I got two MPs here.”

“What?” Gonz bellowed. “They’re not authorized to be inside Marco Polo 5!”

“I know, sir.” He glanced over his shoulder at the men. “It was Langley. I patched them in to your LVD. Some guy there wanted to know who the hell I was. I gave him my name, and he said I had no authorization to be here.”

There was a hesitation. “The damned pencil-dicks! I never got the paperwork in, that’s all! Shit!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Not your fault. I’ll deal with it when I get back. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, out.”

Peterson slowly put the radio down. Truth be told, he loved working for MP-5, and he’d gladly do it for free. The fact that he was paid was just icing on the cake. So he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to him if Gonz never came back. Obviously, Langley had no idea who he was. Which meant he would probably be sent back to the Army. A simple Army grunt. The thought horrified him.

Then he felt terribly guilty for all his selfish thoughts when the rest of the team,
his team
, was about to confront al Mudtaji and his fanatical henchmen in some warehouse.

Aref rose to his feet, along with the rest of the crowd, clapping and shouting enthusiastically. The cabinet minister had arrived later than promised, but he made up for the delay by speaking for more than forty minutes, and by the end of his speech, Aref firmly believed that the elected leader was right – Iraq had indeed been born again. The parliamentary official had said that the Iraq of old – which never gave an ounce of what he called “true freedom” to its people – had been set aside. A new Iraq, offering “the only true and fair determination for freedom by way of a one man, one vote system” had now been established, and the new parliament would work with “great resolve” to grant all Iraqis – Sunnis, Shiites, and Kurds alike – an equal voice in the new Iraq.

As the wind kicked up, the speaker moved away from the dais and walked across the platform, waving to the crowd. Remembering his poster, Aref quickly picked it up, brandishing it over his head.

Some of the spectators surged forward, wanting to get closer to the parliamentary leader, and Aref was caught in the swell of humanity, barely able to stay on his feet. The speaker spontaneously leaned down from the platform, shaking hands with the well-wishers, and the crowd reacted by pushing ahead with even greater urgency. Aref struggled to hold his position. He wanted to shake the man’s hand too.

Another gust of wind and the poster was unexpectedly whipped from his hands. Looking over his shoulder, he saw it fly through the air. He turned back to the platform. The speaker was close now. Smiling. Shaking hands. A man wearing a traditional dishdasha harshly elbowed Aref out of the way, knocking him to the ground.