Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (2 page)

The man was actually shaking so hard that Adnan Hanjour could have sworn he heard the man’s teeth chatter. He had been dressed in an orange jumpsuit and brought to this room that had two bright lights illuminating the black backdrop that had been hung just for the occasion. The man had been forced to kneel in front of the lights that were nearly blinding in their intensity, his hands tied firmly behind his back. All the others, a total of six of them, stood behind the prisoner, each wearing a long scarf across his face so that only his eyes were showing, and arrogantly holding a machine gun, or in the case of al Mudtaji, a long, sharp sword.

Al Mudtaji stood directly behind the kneeling man, reading the charges against the infidel. At one point the man mumbled something, but his words were indistinguishable. Not that it mattered. The man’s fate had been sealed the moment he was kidnapped and confirmed to be an American.

Adnan fidgeted nervously as al Mudtaji continued reading with great zeal. He looked toward the video camera that was recording everything. This was a live event for those with Internet access. For those who missed it, the al Jazeera network would soon beam the American’s beheading into living rooms and offices throughout the Middle East.

Worried that he would somehow be recognized, Adnan self-consciously touched his scarf, making sure it hadn’t slipped. He knew only his eyes could be seen and since his dark eyes were like millions of others, it was hardly revealing. Even the scarf was not his own, but one borrowed, further reducing the chance that a friend or family member would recognize him.

Still, he couldn’t help but worry. While al Mudtaji and his men had been somewhat suspect of him, he had come through for them and had been given the distinguished honor of standing in the Ring of Allah for the beheading. He glanced at the prisoner who was trembling so violently that Adnan wondered if the man’s heart would give out. If he wasn’t so scared himself he might have laughed out loud at the irony.

The man, who was contracted to drive trucks for a large American company, had been kidnapped just north of Baghdad. Once it was discovered that he was indeed an American, his kidnappers had put him up for auction. Adnan briefly wondered if the American knew that. Or that al Mudtaji had traded an old truck and several weapons for the American. Al Mudtaji had gotten a good deal only after it was discovered that the American had a heart condition that required medical attention.

By the time al Mudtaji had successfully traded for the American, the large man had taken a turn for the worse and in wheezing gasps had explained what type of medicine he needed. That’s when al Mudtaji himself had walked into the pharmacy where Adnan worked. Clean shaven, wearing Western clothes and rimless eyeglasses, he had hardly looked like one of the country’s most wanted terrorists. As for Adnan, he couldn’t believe his luck – for weeks he had been trying to figure out how he could get close to al Mudtaji. Now the terrorist had walked right through his door. Unbelievable.

He had played his cards just right. First, he didn’t permit al Mudtaji to just purchase the medication with what Adnan knew to be a false doctor’s requisition, even though al Mudtaji had offered three times the standard price. Adnan had needed to see where the terrorist lived, meet those around him and with any luck, see for himself that Ghaniyah was there. For this reason, Adnan had insisted that he would need to see the patient and monitor the dosage. At first al Mudtaji had balked, but Adnan had explained that if the dosage was not strong enough, the man’s heart could stop, too much and it could cause the heart to beat so fast and erratically that it could lead to cardiac arrest. Of course, this wasn’t entirely true. But what choice did al Mudtaji have? He needed the American alive so he could kill him. Again, the irony of it all.

And so here Adnan stood – in the Ring of Allah – as al Mudtaji read the charges against the infidel. Finally, al Mudtaji announced that the American was guilty and must die. Adnan swallowed hard. He had never seen anyone killed. He glanced at al Mudtaji and was surprised to find the terrorist staring at him. Al Mudtaji held the sword high and gave an indiscernible nod. Adnan’s heart thundered. Did al Mudtaji want
him
to kill the American? He couldn’t. Hell, he had always wanted to be a doctor. Ever since he was a kid. However, he had ended up getting a Doctor of Pharmacy degree, and worked as a pharmacist – a job he thoroughly enjoyed because he liked helping people, giving them medicine to make their lives better, and explaining the side effects of other drugs.

Finally, Adnan gave al Mudtaji an identical nod in return. Stepping to the side of the American and with one firm kick, al Mudtaji knocked the prisoner over. The man fell on his side, his eyes wild. One of al Mudtaji’s other men placed a foot on the prisoner’s ribs, holding him in place. The American must have known what was coming and, although he didn’t say a word, he frantically looked around. Suddenly he was staring directly at Adnan, his eyes pleading, overwhelming fear on his face. Adnan wanted to look away, but he found he couldn’t.

Under the bright lights, the reflection of the sword’s blade arced across the room, causing Adnan to momentarily glance away. He looked back at the American just as the sword hit home, blood spraying across the room. The American gave an audible “Humph.”

Adnan was horrified to find the American still staring at him. Then the blade came down again and the head rolled away, coming to a stop near Adnan’s feet.

As Adnan made his way through the busy city streets of Jadida, he was amazed that everyone was simply going about their business as usual. Scores of people at the open-air market, many laughing and visiting with friends. Two men arguing over a newspaper article. Teenagers playing soccer on a nearby side street, two buckets spaced apart to serve as the goal. A woman prodding her young son to keep pace, saying they were going to be late.

Adnan marveled that al Mudtaji had been so wrong. The terrorist had predicted that the beheading would have their fellow Sunnis across the country clamoring for more. Instead, in this ethnically mixed neighborhood which was largely Sunni, no one seemed to even know about the execution. Adnan wondered if something had gone wrong with the live feed on the Internet. That would certainly explain it.

Walking briskly, he relished the fresh air. After the man had been killed, Adnan couldn’t get away fast enough, suppressing the urge to vomit. Al Mudtaji had asked him to stay for a celebration meal, but Adnan had declined, insisting that he had to get back to the shop. Al Mudtaji had given him a strong embrace and thanked him for his help, praising Allah.

Leaving the abandoned warehouse, he had half expected to find soldiers surrounding the structure, their guns drawn, ready to take them all down. But there wasn’t a soul around, and it took all of his will not to run as fast as he could. Only after he was back near his own neighborhood did he finally start to relax.

But no matter how far he walked from that building, Adnan couldn’t erase the image of the American from his mind. As he had left, two of al Mudtaji’s men had been loading the body and head into the trunk of a car, having been given strict instructions to dump the head close to the Green Zone – the heavily guarded sector of Baghdad that housed the Coalition forces. He briefly wondered if the American had been married or had children.

“Adnan! Adnan!”

Adnan turned, surprised to hear someone calling his name. It was his sister, Daneen. She wore a typically modest Muslim dress with a headscarf, or “hijab,” and hurried to catch up to him, tightly clutching a bundle under her arm.

“Can’t you hear?”

“What?”

“I’ve been calling your name,” Daneen explained. “You’re walking so fast. No wonder you couldn’t hear.”

“Sorry,” Adnan said contritely.

“Is it Ghaniyah?” she asked.

“Ghaniyah?”

“Well, what else would have you so preoccupied?” Daneen had only met her a few times, but she knew her brother was very fond of the young woman. She had asked Adnan repeatedly to bring Ghaniyah to dinner some time, but so far he hadn’t taken her up on the offer, so Daneen’s husband and kids had yet to meet the attractive woman. Daneen then smiled and finally Adnan smiled too. “You all right?”

“Sorry. Just in my own world.”

“Where have you been?”

“No where,” he replied, a little more rudely than he meant. He started off again and his sister kept pace with him.

“It’s Wednesday,” Daneen reminded him. “I was here for lunch, but Thamer said you were out.”

“I was at the university,” Adnan said, lying smoothly. “I wanted to hear a guest lecturer at the pharmacology school.” Adnan gave her a warm smile. “Sorry, I just forgot about today.”

“Any word about Ghaniyah then?”

Adnan shook his head, his smile vanishing. Daneen studied him for a moment, then said, “She’ll be back. It was the explosion, that’s all.”

Adnan nodded. He knew the truth, but he couldn’t tell his sister that Ghaniyah’s disappearance had nothing to do with the car bomb that demolished the café where she worked. Instead, it had everything to do with al Mudtaji.

“You have the pills, yes?” his sister asked, bringing his attention back to the present.

“Of course. I’m sorry I forgot about today.”

She smiled and took his arm. They walked in comfortable silence, Adnan pleased to feel her touch. When they reached the pharmacy, Adnan opened the door for her. As she started to enter, she looked down toward his feet and exclaimed, “Is that blood?”

Adnan followed her look. The bottoms of his pant legs were splattered with blood. He couldn’t believe it. He had been in such a hurry to leave, he hadn’t checked himself for blood. He looked down at his shirt, but it was clean. It was just the pants.

“Where did it come from?” Daneen persisted.

“Eh, a man. A student, I think. At the university.”

Daneen looked skeptical. “And he bled on your pants? How could that be?”

“Two men got in a fight,” Adnan explained impatiently. “Over what, I don’t know. I joined some other guys trying to pull them apart. The one I grabbed fell on my feet, his nose very bloody.”

Daneen seemed to ponder the likelihood of such an event. Finally she said, “Use cold water only. Not hot. Cold water and it will come out.”

While most people in Jadida didn’t yet know about the most recent beheading, those in the
Iraq National Journal
newspaper offices were only too aware. Most of the staff had gathered around the managing editor’s computer monitor to watch the execution live on al Mudtaji’s website. Some had turned away when they saw the masked man raise the sword over his head, not wishing to see the slaughter.

Maaz, 35, sat cross-legged on the floor fiddling with the digital camera, aiming the lens at the copy editor across the room. He could now zoom in close with the touch of his finger, the auto focus doing the rest. Maaz’s son had found the camera on the street, a find that thrilled his father. Taking the camera to the newspaper office the next day, one of the editor’s was able to download the camera’s memory card onto a computer.

Fadhil, the newspaper’s top computer whiz, showed Maaz how to delete unwanted photos from the memory card and download the desired photos to the computer. They had found scores of pictures of American Marines, some mugging for the camera, which just confirmed what Maaz had already presumed – the camera had belonged to a Marine.

Still a novice photographer, Maaz believed that finding the camera was a sign that he was destined to be a photojournalist. For years, he had been the maintenance manager of the 9,000 square-foot building that now housed the newspaper. Just a few years ago, the building had been owned by Saddam Hussein’s Baath party. Once the Americans invaded, the building was quickly abandoned, the offices left untouched.

While there was no one to pay him for his services, Maaz continued to maintain the building, often paying for the replacement of broken windows out of his own pocket. For some time this went on and more than once he complained to his wife that there was no point in working for free. However, Daneen had insisted that someone would take over the building and, if he proved himself valuable, he would have a job.

Daneen had been correct. The first to occupy the building were the fledgling new Iraqi government’s Ministry of Oil and Ministry of Health. Then came a new start-up daily newspaper called the
Iraq National Journal
. Since the Americans were largely responsible for the new Iraqi government, which occupied most of the building, they paid all the bills, including Maaz’s salary – even gave him a raise.

After helping the newspaper move into the building, Maaz had taken to stopping by the offices at all hours, intrigued by how stories came together, asking endless questions of everyone. One day word came in from an anonymous caller that there would be a car bombing in a nearby square in just thirty minutes. The staff photographer wasn’t around, so Maaz had been given a camera and told to go with the reporter who would cover the story. Tipping off the media, especially television reporters, to such an attack was quite routine. The terrorists loved to see their assault get maximum coverage, especially if the news clips were picked up by the wire services. Maaz had waited a safe distance away, and when the explosion occurred just as predicted, he had eagerly taken pictures.

Much to the editor’s disdain however, Maaz had used an entire roll of film and only one picture was actually usable. But that gave him his first photo credit and a new passion – photojournalism. Finding the digital camera just confirmed that his photography should be his full time job. However, since the newspaper could only pay him for photos published, he continued his salaried job as the building’s maintenance manager, hanging around the newspaper office as time permitted.