Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (4 page)

Duqaq looked around. Looking for a better perspective. Then he saw it. A taller building, a little further away, but perhaps from there they could get what they needed. “Come on, let’s go. Hurry.”

When Peterson had excitedly told Gonz that al Mudtaji’s website had just posted a picture of Quizby’s severed head, giving the exact time that the head would be at Checkpoint 2, Gonz had acted quickly. He had immediately called the Marines at the checkpoint to warn them, but was told that the head had already arrived. Not bothering with details, Gonz had told them it could be booby-trapped and that the checkpoint needed to be closed down at once.

In a matter of minutes, Gonz had arrived at Checkpoint 2 with Peterson and McKay, an attractive young doctor with long blonde hair who had joined the CIA when the agency had offered to pay off all her medical school bills. A member of MP-5 for the past year, McKay was as smart as she was beautiful – a deadly combination when it came to Gonz’s heart. The attraction had always been mutual, and once they had almost acted on it. But Gonz had broken it off, insisting that as the head of MP-5, he had to remain objective and professional, which wouldn’t happen if they slept together. Now in just six weeks, she would go home. Back to Philadelphia where a position as a staff surgeon at the city’s top hospital awaited her. Her stint with the CIA would be over.

The three CIA agents wore Army fatigues, complete with their cover names on the name tape above their chest pockets. McKay now stood next to Peterson holding a black medical bag. Gonz glanced at Peterson and saw that he had gone pale. Probably never seen a severed head before, thought Gonz. Peterson had asked to tag along and Gonz had agreed. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

Nearby were several Marines, who along with Gonz, McKay, and Peterson, gathered near the severed head that lay face down on the road. Gonz had ordered the Marines to find a long tent pole that would be used to poke and prod the head, to make sure it wasn’t booby-trapped.

Gonz studied an Iraqi woman who sat on the ground several feet away, two Marines training their Colt M-4 guns on her. She wore a dark abaya, a full-length Arabian dress with embroidered designs on the sleeves and a matching head cover. Gonz guessed she was in her mid to late 20s. He glanced at the Marine captain in charge of Checkpoint 2 and then nodded toward to woman. “What’s her story?”

The captain grimaced. “It was weird, sir. She just walked up. Carrying the head in a shawl. Said it was for us.”

“Could’ve been a bomb,” Gonz reminded the captain.

“Yes, sir. But we’re always walking a fine line here. We’re supposed to check all vehicles, look at I.D., question any pedestrians. But at the same time, we’re supposed to be polite. Can’t offend them in any way.”

Gonz knew the drill well. Unlike any war the Americans had fought before, this one was fought on two strategic fronts – the battleground where all military options were open, and the policy front whereby American forces continually walked on egg shells so as to not offend any Muslims. Unfortunately, these two fronts often collided with poor results. Such as the order to not fire upon mosques which had soon become a joke when insurgents realized that they could take cover in a mosque, fire upon American soldiers at will, and never fear any gunfire in return. Supposedly, this sort of religious respect for the Muslims would allow the Americans to win the political war. Ridiculous in Gonz’s opinion, since most of the populace in the Middle East only appreciated brute force. However, orders were orders.

“When one of my men motioned to the shawl, she just opened it,” the captain explained. “My guy shouted and jumped backward so fast he fell down. I guess it was face up. The eyes open.”

Gonz nodded. “What did she say?”

“She clammed up. I’ve got five Iraqi Security Force guys here. They questioned her, but she refused to say a word.”

A Humvee pulled up with a large pole strapped across the roof. In short order, a Marine got the pole down and the group that had gathered around the head backed away. The Marine captain took the pole, saying, “Stand clear.”

Gonz, McKay, and Peterson moved further away. All attention was focused on the severed head as the captain used one end of the pole to roll it across the road, blood seeping from the neckline. Gonz started to move closer when the captain said, “Not yet, sir.”

Everyone watched as the captain pulled the pole back and using duct tape, attached a stun gun to the now bloody end of the metal pole. He then removed a roll of string from his pocket and tied one end of the string to the trigger, then played out the string along the length of the pole. With methodical precision, the Marine placed the stun gun directly on one side of the late Quizby’s face. Using the string, he pulled the trigger. The electrical pulse danced on the severed head, but to no effect. The captain then aimed the stun gun directly at the bloody neckline. Again, there was no effect.

“All clear,” the captain announced.

“No booby-traps?” Peterson asked, still unsure.

“No explosive devices, no,” the captain said.

Gonz nodded to McKay, and they quickly went over to the head, kneeling on either side. McKay opened her medical bag and handed Gonz a pair of latex gloves to put on. She did the same, and they carefully handled the head, rolling it so that it was face up. Quizby’s eyes were open, the mouth slightly agape. McKay spotted something and leaned very close to the dead man’s head, a puzzled look on her face.

“What the hell?” McKay murmured. She carefully opened the dead man’s mouth. A wad of yellow appeared. Gonz was about to reach in with his fingers when McKay said tersely, “No, Gonz. Wait.”

He watched as she removed a pair of long tweezers from her bag. She and Gonz exchanged looks. Gonz tried to reassure her, saying, “That’s why the stun gun. It’s not an explosive device.”

McKay nodded. Then, very gently, she used the tweezers to grab the yellow wad. She held it up to the light, turning it to get different angles. Finally she said, “Paper.” Looking at Gonz she asked, “Sending us a message?”

“Careful,” Duqaq warned as Maaz straddled atop the buttress on the ledge of the roof, leaning forward, straining to get a good picture. They were five stories high on the roof of an old hotel where they could look down on the Marines below at the checkpoint. They had seen the Humvee arrive and a soldier bring the long metal pole toward the group that was huddled together, conversing. Luckily, the group then backed away, giving Duqaq and Maaz a bird’s eye view of the dead American’s head.

Maaz had gotten several pictures of the Marine as he had probed the head. Now two others, a man and a woman, were carefully inspecting the head, which Duqaq thought was strange. Why not just take it away? He saw the Iraqi woman on the ground rise to her feet and quickly said to Maaz, “The woman. Get a picture.”

“There was something in the mouth,” Maaz said. He leaned forward and Duqaq instinctively grabbed him by his belt, fearful that he would lose his balance and fall. Although Duqaq wouldn’t admit it, he was terribly frightened of heights.

“The mouth?” Duqaq asked, standing behind Maaz and not looking down. “What is it?”

“Can’t tell.”

“The computer can help, right? Make it look closer?” asked Duqaq.

But Maaz ignored him, taking a series of photos as the woman soldier slowly pried open a small yellow gob using some sort of tool. Duqaq was much too far away to see anything of significance, but Maaz had a better view through the zoom lens.

“Hey!” someone shouted from below. Keeping a firm hold on Maaz’s belt, Duqaq found the courage to lean against the buttress and look straight down. Iraqi soldiers had spotted Maaz, half hanging off the edge of the roof. There were more shouts and in a matter of seconds, three soldiers headed inside the old hotel.

“Get off!” Duqaq said excitedly. “We have to go.”

“I can’t tell what it is,” Maaz responded, still focused on the American woman. “She’s putting it in a large plastic bag.”

“Now! They’ve seen us!”

When Maaz still didn’t respond, Duqaq pulled him with all his strength, which finally got Maaz’s attention. “Soldiers are coming!” Duqaq explained. “We have to go!”

Maaz swung himself off the buttress and planted both feet firmly onto the rooftop. He looked angry at being interrupted from his picture taking.

“Hide it! Hide the camera!”

“No!” Maaz hissed indignantly. The camera was his prized possession.

“They’re coming! They’ll take it away!”

Shouts from the nearby stairwell could now be heard. Maaz frantically looked around. The roof was flat and bare. There wasn’t even a generator on the roof. No place to hide anything. What was Duqaq thinking?

“Hurry!”

“Shut up!” Maaz said as he cursed under his breath and fumbled for the release on the back of the camera. Finally, a small plastic door popped open. He tried to remove the tiny digital memory card, but his fingers were too big. He had had this problem before.

Suddenly the stairwell door banged open and the soldiers appeared, each carrying a semi-automatic rifle. They looked around, spotted the two men and quickly approached as Duqaq swiftly stepped in front of Maaz, blocking him from the soldiers.

“What are you doing up here?” one soldier asked.

His heart racing, Duqaq asked in reply, “What’s going on down there? Is it the head? The head of the American?” He was pleased that his voice sounded braver than he felt.

“You have no right to be here. Spying. I can take you both in.”

“
Iraq National Journal
,” Duqaq said as he removed his wallet from his back trouser pocket and slowly took out his media credential card.

The soldier glanced at the document and nodded to Maaz. “Who is he?”

“He’s with me.” Hoping to deflect their attention away from Maaz, Duqaq removed his small reporter’s notepad from his other back pocket and said, “Is it the head? It was posted on al Mudtaji’s website. The head would be at Checkpoint 2. Is that what’s going on? You found the head of the American?”

The soldiers seemed surprised by Duqaq’s barrage of questions and were momentarily thrown off balance. Duqaq kept it up, saying, “The Iraqi woman down there? Who is she? Did she bring the head to the checkpoint? Is she with al Mudtaji?”

“Enough!” the soldier suddenly thundered, then brushed Duqaq aside and grabbed Maaz’s camera so fast he could hardly react.

“Hey!”

The soldier looked at the camera in his hand, turning it over, as Maaz said, “That’s mine!”

“The film?” the soldier asked. “Where is the film?”

Maaz glanced at Duqaq and said, “Inside.”

Duqaq and Maaz watched helplessly as the man took the camera to his two comrades. There was quite a discussion about the camera, and finally it was decided that they would take it back to the police station and let someone there fiddle with it.

“I want it back! It’s mine!” Maaz bellowed, quite angry.

“Enough,” said the leader. “You must leave now. Come.”

“No! It’s my camera. You can’t steal it!”

“You leave now or we will arrest you, understand?”

“It’s my property! That camera is my property!”

“Enough!” the soldier repeated, grabbing Maaz firmly by the arm. “You must go or face arrest, understand?”

Maaz gruffly pulled himself free of the soldier’s grasp as Duqaq quietly said to him, “Stop. You can’t win.” His voice was strained and Maaz realized it was over. He nodded to Duqaq and grudgingly started walking toward the stairwell, Duqaq falling in step beside him. When they reached the top of the stairs, Maaz turned and asked the leader, “Can I at least pick up the camera later? It’s my property.”

But the soldier didn’t answer. He just motioned Maaz down the stairs with his rifle.

Adnan stood stiffly behind the counter, his heart thundering in his chest. He watched as the two U.S. soldiers looked over the items on the far wall. He told himself it was just a coincidence – if the soldiers knew he had been in the Ring of Allah for the American’s beheading, they would have arrested him, not come into the pharmacy to look at cold remedies.

“What’s wrong with you?” Thamer asked curtly.

Adnan glanced at Thamer who like him, stood on the raised floor behind the counter. Standing a good meter above the shop’s floor, they had an unobstructed view of the store. Thamer had been carefully counting out prescription pain killers for one of their customers, but now he was frowning at Adnan. He continued, saying, “See what they need.”

Of course, Thamer was right. When the pharmacist had agreed to let Adnan apprentice at the dispensary in his last year at the university, he had told Adnan that customer service was as important as getting the medications right. And with the Americans invading the country, Thamer was especially glad to have someone who could speak English, extending his customer service expertise to the Americans. Since Adnan had learned a great deal from the older man during his apprenticeship, he had stayed on after graduating. The two men became close and not long ago, Thamer had agreed to sell the business to Adnan the following year when he planned to retire.

“I can hardly converse with them myself,” Thamer reminded him curtly.

Adnan nodded. He couldn’t help but glance at his pant legs. After his sister had pointed out the blood, he had gone into the bathroom, taken off his pants and scrubbed them with cold water until his hands were raw. After wringing them out, he had put them back on. Now they were dry, and, although Adnan could see very faint traces of the American’s blood, it was hardly noticeable.

“Sorry,” Adnan murmured to Thamer. He quickly headed to the far end of the counter, pushed open the waist-high pedestrian gate, and went down the two steps to the shop’s floor. His heart raced as he approached the two soldiers. He was surprised to see one was very tall, perhaps a basketball player.