Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (26 page)

When she and the girl had come inside for the evening supper, she had expected Yusuf to tell her about the change in plans. Instead, he and the rancher had taken their meal to the main room, talking in quiet voices. Even though neither the old woman nor the girl had spoken while the three of them ate in the kitchen, she hadn’t been able to hear what the men were saying.

After eating, the rancher had shown her to a small room off the kitchen where he had carried her suitcase. He had rolled out a thick mat and given her a small pillow and blanket. She had waited for him to tell her that she would be staying, but he had just left her there. A few minutes later she had heard the rancher say goodnight to his elderly mother and the child, then she could hear him and Yusuf talking, but she couldn’t make out the words.

Perhaps the girl had been wrong. Perhaps the girl wanted a mother figure and the whole conversation between her father and rancher had been made up. But something nagged at Ghaniyah, and in her gut she knew it was true. Yusuf would be leaving her behind. Soon the men stopped talking, the light outside her room was turned off and the entire house became eerily quiet.

After hearing that Yusuf was going to leave her behind, her first thought had been to get in the truck and drive off. But of course, that wouldn’t work. She had gotten behind the wheel of a car only once, while in England when the man she was with had suddenly gotten sick and stopped the car. They were outside Manchester on a rural road, and he had been so anxious to get back to the mosque in Manchester that he had told her to drive. While the car had had an automatic transmission, she had still made a near mess of things, severely overcorrecting her steering or stepping too hard or too lightly on the gas and brakes. The man had cursed her and gotten back behind the wheel himself. Her one experience at driving told her that stealing the truck was not an option.

Alone in the dark, small room, she thought about using the American cell phone. She could tell the American doctor where she was, or at least as near as she knew, and describe Yusuf and his truck so that he could be stopped. But if she did that, what would become of Adnan? No, she had to keep to her original plan. But how could she if Yusuf was abandoning her on this ranch?

Then it dawned on her. The answer was simple! Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Thrilled with the idea, she almost laughed out loud.

With only the use of one arm, Adnan found that a normally simple chore, such as changing clothes, now took considerable effort. He was able to get the dishdasha on by painfully contorting his bad arm to get it through the sleeve. Next, he struggled for what seemed like an eternity to secure the keffiyeh properly with only his left hand. Finally, he managed.

He couldn’t see how he looked, but he believed he was concealed as best could be expected – no one would be able to see his partially shaved head where the stitches had been sewn in, and both arms were well hidden in the generous folds of the sleeves.

Impatient to escape, Adnan now headed to the opened door at the end of the room. A man coughed loudly behind him and Adnan jumped, alarmed. He glanced behind him. It was the old man whose clothes he now wore. He was propped on one elbow, hacking miserably. Adnan momentarily froze, waiting for the man to realize that his clothes had been stolen and start hollering. But the man gave another violent cough, then fell back on the cot, exhausted.

Peeking out the door, Adnan saw only a single nurse down the corridor to his left. Luckily, she was a good thirty feet away and busy filling out paperwork. Adnan looked to his right. Just a few feet away was a door marked “Exit.” Glancing back at the nurse, he quietly went to the door. As he opened the door, it gave a piercing screech in protest. The unexpected noise prompted Adnan to plunge into the stairwell, quickly scurrying down the stairs, gripping the side railing with his good hand.

After descending just one flight of stairs, he found himself on the ground floor. Ignoring the side door that led back into the hospital, he was about to push open the heavy stainless steel outer door when something caught his eye through the small picture window. An American soldier just outside the door! He froze, his heart racing. Pressing his back to the wall, he peered through the glass in the other direction. Another soldier!

Two soldiers, clearly monitoring the door. But why? Were they looking for him? Suddenly, a stairwell door opened above him. Voices. Talking. Unsure what to do, Adnan simply stood frozen in place.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, the men talking.

He had to make a decision.

“Signs of cranial hematoma?” McKay asked as the elevator doors opened to the second floor.

“Not at this time,” the Iraqi doctor responded in perfect English. A man of about 50, he stepped out of the elevator first, followed by Gonz and Heisman. McKay was last, honoring the Muslim custom that a woman must never walk parallel to, or in front of, a man. The doctor turned and waited for McKay, giving her a disgruntled look. “He is getting proper care, I assure you.”

“I don’t doubt that,” McKay answered politely, relieved to see very little activity on the floor. Just two nurses visible at a nurse’s station a good fifteen feet ahead.

“Good. Then I suggest you check on him, feel free to make suggestions if you see I have missed something, but then I must insist you leave.”

McKay could see Gonz was about to speak and shot him a look to back off. “I’m afraid not. He–”

“He is an Iraqi citizen. And he is my patient. I won’t authorize his release.”

“I understand your concern, but –”

“He is an interpreter, is that correct? Working for you in the Green Zone?”

“Yes.”

“Is that right?” The doctor scoffed. “Then tell me, why do you have armed soldiers at all the entrances right now?”

McKay was momentarily taken back, then quickly answered, “That is for your protection.”

“My –?”

“The hospital. The patients. Your staff.” The Iraqi doctor was clearly baffled and McKay continued. “You know of the missile attack in the Green Zone this afternoon?”

“Of course.”

“We think it was an attempt on his life.”

The Iraqi doctor shook his head. “No, no. I saw on the news. Everyone did. The soldiers that came out of the building were MPs. Military Police. This man was in custody and –”

“He was with the Military Police as they questioned a man. That man gave up important information about an impending attack. Against your new government. Our interpreter, he was about to translate when the missile hit.” McKay could see the doctor’s stern veneer crack slightly. She pressed on. “The insurgent? He’s dead. So, yes, we need this man back, to tell us what he knows. But I guarantee you, the longer he is here, the greater the danger to this entire hospital.”

Gonz smiled to himself, thinking he couldn’t have done better himself.

The Iraqi doctor still seemed unsure, but finally said, “Very well. This way.” He led the three CIA agents down a long corridor. He looked over his shoulder at McKay, “But we will ask. If he doesn’t want to go with you, he can stay. The choice will be his, agreed?”

“Agreed,” McKay answered, knowing she didn’t have a choice.

Minutes before, the voices in the stairwell had abruptly stopped as the men had exited one floor above Adnan. With the soldiers outside, Adnan had remained in the stairwell, unsure what to do. Suddenly the door above him squeaked opened, and once more he heard two men talking. Their voices grew louder, their feet clomping down the stairs, the sound echoing in the narrow concrete stairwell. They were close now. Adnan peeked through the door window. The soldiers hadn’t moved. He hurried back to the stairs and parked himself in the middle of the third stair from the bottom, his elbows on his knees, his head lowered.

“We can’t,” he heard one man say. “There is too much infection already.”

More movement from behind him. Then nothing. The men were directly behind him now. They had stopped. He waited. It took all the patience he could muster. Finally he heard, “Excuse me,” in Arabic. But Adnan remained frozen, unresponsive. A louder voice now, the other man, “Excuse us, please.”

Adnan looked up. He saw that one man was older, his face lined. He wore a dishdasha and keffiyeh, similar to Adnan’s attire. The other man was younger and wore a Western style business suit and tie. “I’m sorry,” Adnan muttered, rising to his feet.

“Are you well?” the younger man asked.

“My mother... the cancer has spread and...” He let his voice trail off, choking back a sob.

“I’m sorry.”

Adnan looked at the younger man. “You are a doctor, yes?”

“Yes.”

The two men took tentative steps toward the door. “Can you tell me, please? Cancer of the pancreas? How long?”

Clearly uncomfortable, the doctor said, “It’s hard to say...”

“Months? Maybe a couple months, yes?”

“Perhaps,” the doctor allowed.

Adnan quickly pushed the door open with his good arm, nodding for the men to exit. As they stepped outside, Adnan closely followed. A moment later, the older man abruptly stopped, clearly surprised by the sight of the U.S. soldiers.

“What’s going on?” the doctor asked softly.

“I don’t know,” his older companion said.

Turning to the doctor so his face was not clearly seen, Adnan continued, “They say it will be fast, but I worry about the pain. There will be pain, yes? More pain than now?”

The doctor ignored his questions, staring at the soldiers. “This is absurd.”

“What’s going on here, eh?” the older man demanded of the soldiers. “Why are you here?”

Adnan knew the soldiers probably didn’t speak a word of Arabic, but at least they were focused on the old man, not himself. Fearful of being recognized, he kept his face toward the young doctor and pressed on. “She shouldn’t have to be in pain, that is my worry.”

“What’s going on?” the older man asked in a belligerent voice, not moving.

“Go,” one of the soldiers said in English, gesturing with his rifle. “Get on now.”

But the older man wasn’t hearing any of it. He refused to move, saying, “Why are you here like this? What’s going on?”

“Let it go,” the doctor scolded him.

“Fuck,” one soldier muttered.

The older man suddenly grabbed Adnan by the shoulder. “You speak any English?”

“No,” Adnan answered, careful to look only at the ground.

“Let it go,” the doctor repeated, gently pushing the old man forward.

“Tell me,” Adnan said to the doctor as the group finally started to walk forward. “There will be pain? Lots of pain?”

“This is our country!” the old man barked as he pulled even with the soldiers. “Our country! Not Saddam’s! Not yours!
Ours
!”

“A lot of pain, yes?” Adnan reiterated.

“Yes,” the doctor answered dismissively, paying him little attention.

“You hear me!?” the old man ranted.

“There is medicine for that, yes?” Adnan asked as he kept a steady pace next to the doctor. “Pain medicine? I understand it comes from Turkey. The best pain medicine.” He could see from his peripheral vision that they were past the sentries now.

“I don’t understand,” the older man grumbled, looking over his shoulder. “Why are they here? What is the meaning of this?”

“Can the hospital get that pain medicine?” Adnan persisted. “She is my mother. I don’t want her in pain.”

“Stupid Americans,” the older man complained.

“You can get the pain stuff, right?” Adnan asked, not letting it go.

“Yes, we can get her medication.”

“Thank you,” Adnan effused. “Thank you.” He let out a sigh of relief as they got further away from the soldiers.

The three walked in silence, the older man continuing to glance over his shoulder at the soldiers.

At the doorway to the ward, the doctor flipped on a light switch and overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life. Gonz anxiously stepped around the doctor, quickly scanning the beds. There were a total of twelve beds, only seven occupied. On the first cot lay a man with only one leg. A bloody bandaged stump where his other leg used to be. The reason for the others to be hospitalized wasn’t as clearly evident. A few of the patients began to stir, the lights obviously awakening them. The doctor headed down the aisle between the beds, then suddenly stopped. Gonz followed his look. An empty cot, but not neatly made like the others. This one had clearly been slept in, the blanket carelessly tossed aside. The doctor gave Gonz a stunned look.

“He’s gone,” Gonz declared to Heisman who had followed him into the room. He could see McKay standing at the threshold, mindful of Islamic customs and keeping a respectful distance from the sick men.

“I don’t understand...” the doctor muttered.

Gonz removed his radio from his belt. “All units, the bird has flown the coop. Repeat, the bird has flown the coop. Lock down all exits. No one enters or exits.” He turned to the doctor. “When was he last seen?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check with the nurse.”

“Do it,” Gonz angrily retorted.

Ghaniyah struggled with the knotted rope, frantically trying to untie the tightly fastened line. The truck actually rocked slightly as she shifted her weight, digging her fingers between the knotted lines. She had seen Yusuf tie down the old overstuffed chair and chest with a rope while they were still at her aunt’s home. It had just never occurred to her that it would be so monstrously difficult to untie. Another problem was the darkness. There was only a partial moon in the night sky, but what little light it gave off was obscured by heavy clouds. Even though her eyes had adjusted to the dark shadows when she had first stepped outside, she was still fumbling in near pitch black conditions.