Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (6 page)

“What was done to her?” McKay asked with a bitter tone as she stared at the woman.

“Nothing.” McKay gave Gonz a harsh look and he repeated, “Nothing, I swear.” McKay didn’t seem to believe him, so he told her, “Ask. She wants to talk to you – ‘the woman at the Checkpoint and who was on the plane.’ That’s you. Ask.”

McKay looked around the viewing room. “Just you going to watch the show?”

Gonz could barely keep his impatience at bay. “You have a problem, tell me now.”

McKay couldn’t meet his gaze. Finally, she said, “I don’t know. I don’t like torture. Okay?”

“She wasn’t touched, McKay, I swear,” Gonz said angrily.

“I believe you.”

“Good. Fine,” Gonz replied defensively.

“I just feel that if she clams up, doesn’t say what you need to hear, then it starts. Whatever it is you guys do to people.”

“Let me tell you something,” Gonz said taking a step close to her and looking down at her with burning eyes. “We are at war. Her friends pulled Timothy Quizby from his truck – a truck that was taking air conditioners to schools, believe it or not – kept him for nearly three weeks before decapitating him, airing it live and–”

“I know,” McKay said, interrupting him and waving him off. “I know.”

“So we need to find out what we can about these murderers,” Gonz told her in a softer voice.

“I’m not an interrogator. I’ve never been trained–”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gonz told her. “She speaks English and she asked to talk to you. I’ll help you. If she isn’t forthcoming, fine. We tried.”

“And then the beatings start.” McKay’s tone was harder than she intended, but the truth was she abhorred torture and didn’t want any part of it.

“Actually, sleep deprivation, loud rap music, which I personally find quite annoying, then forced positions for hours on end, say squatting, until it feels like your legs and back muscles will burst.” McKay looked uncertain, so Gonz continued, saying, “Then we make it clear if she still doesn’t want to cooperate, yes, we’ll hurt her.”

McKay gave him a sharp look. “Which makes you no better than they are. There is the Geneva Convention to consider–”

“This isn’t a conventional war!” Gonz angrily retorted. “They don’t wear uniforms. They booby-trap bodies, send suicide bombers into packed crowds, killing their own men, women, and children! They target police recruitment centers, schools! For God’s sake, McKay!”

She turned away, once again studying the Iraqi woman behind the glass. Gonz ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. He was frustrated beyond words. First losing Quizby. Then having the head show up at the checkpoint, and now dealing with McKay.

As if reading his thoughts, she turned back to him and quietly said, “Sorry.”

Gonz nodded, then said “Timothy Quizby would tell you to do whatever is necessary so another innocent American isn’t beheaded. Think of that.” Gonz studied her for a moment, than added, “Or ask his widow. Or his children. Children that will never see their father again.”

“I get it, Gonz. I get it.”

“Good,” he said with finality, bringing the matter to a close. “Then see what she has to say.”

“They took it! They just took it!”

Daneen glanced at her husband pacing in the next room as she stirred the stew with one hand and bounced the baby in her other arm. Maaz had come home much later than usual, but she had dutifully waited for him, and now she was quite hungry. “Dr. Lami said you’d get it back,” Daneen reminded him.

“But it was
my
camera,” her husband fumed. “They had no right to take it. Bastards. The lot of them.”

Daneen was glad that their oldest, Faris, was spending the night with a friend. She had been teaching the nine-year old about their country’s past, the tenants of democracy and a free society. Which of course, meant respecting the rule of law and the police. She didn’t need Faris to hear such talk about the police. For how many years had they feared the police? Saddam’s henchmen? Besides, the boy had found the camera and had been so pleased that it had made his father so happy. If all went well, the newspaper owner could retrieve the camera before Faris even learned it was missing. “I know you’re upset, but he said he’d get you a new one if need be.”

“It’s just the principle of it all,” Maaz scoffed in anger. “This is democracy? Then the Americans can keep it!” With that he strode over to their old television and flipped it on. The al-Jazeera news came on.

Putting a lid on the pot and turning the burner to low, Daneen checked the baby’s milk warming on the other burner. Then she joined her husband in their small living room. As she sat beside him on the couch, he immediately reached for the baby and Daneen gladly gave him up. He was fourteen pounds now and getting heavier by the day.

“We were there!” Maaz said excitedly, pointing to the television. “Right there. Checkpoint 2.”

The television commentator talked over footage showing the U.S. Marines turning away cars. The newscaster explained that the head of the dead American had been left at the checkpoint earlier that day.

“We were on the roof over there,” Maaz explained, pointing again. “You can’t see it, but it’s just over to the right. That’s where I got lots of photos! Lots!”

Daneen could see her husband was still excited by all that had happened and put a hand on his leg. She smiled and said, “Good that you got the photos out of the camera.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “Digital card. You can’t take the photos out. Just the card.”

“That’s what I meant.”

He nodded. He knew he was being irrational and taking out his frustration on her. Finally he smiled and said, “I did it. I really did it. I’m a photojournalist now.”

She gave him a warm smile in return, then turned her attention back to the television. They were showing footage of the American dressed in an orange jumpsuit and kneeling before the men who were about to kill him. Daneen’s heart went still. What must Americans think of them? And if it continues like this, Daneen thought, the Americans will leave. Then where will Iraq be?

“Timothy Quizby worked for the American company Halliburton,” the newscaster said, as if that somehow explained why he was about to be murdered in cold blood.

“He needs a bottle,” Maaz announced, getting up.

“There’s one there,” Daneen said quietly, waving a hand toward the kitchen, her eyes riveted to the small screen.

“Where?” Maaz asked from the kitchen.

“On the burner,” Daneen said automatically. “Check it didn’t get too warm.”

Maaz took the bottle out of the small pot of heated water and turned off the burner. He dripped a few drops of milk on his wrist. Just right. He offered the bottle to the baby who greedily took it in his mouth. Maaz moved back into the living room just as the television replayed the beheading, the first strike not quite doing the job. How many times had they shown it today? Over and over and over again. Now the second strike and the head was completely severed from the body. The camera followed the head as it rolled across the floor, blood spraying from the neck. Another roll, blood now splattering the pant legs of one of the terrorists. Then it listed to one side, teetered for just a moment and then stopped completely.

Daneen let out a shriek, covering her mouth with both her hands. She stared at the television. The head was now motionless, the pant legs behind it also frozen. She had seen those bloodstained pant legs before.
That’s Adnan,
she thought, her mind reeling
. Adnan was there! He was there!

“No, no, no!” Daneen wailed. “What have you done!? What have you done!?”

Maaz hurried to the television and quickly turned it off. He stared at his wife, unsure. She had seen such beheadings before. What was wrong with her? She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “No, no, this mustn’t be! This mustn’t be! Oh, no, no, no!”

Maaz could only watch as his wife slid off the couch and started banging her hands against the floor, screaming, “No, no, no..!”

Frightened by his mother’s screeching, the baby dropped his bottle and started bawling.
What the hell
, Maaz thought.
What the hell just happened?

“Get her to elaborate,” she heard Gonz say in her ear.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Dr. McKay said. “You brought us the head. But that wasn’t the plan?”

“They were scared,” the Iraqi woman explained, gesturing with her hands which were still shackled in front of her. “They were young. Maybe eight, nine, ten?”

“Boys,” McKay prompted.

“Yes, yes. Boys.”

“Did they know what it was?” Searching for clarification, McKay added, “They know what was in the shawl?”

She suddenly laughed. “Of course.”

“But they were scared,” McKay said, again encouraging her to explain what happened.

“Yes. They knew. They had been paid, and they wanted to help al Mudtaji, yes? You may not understand, but it would allow, what do you call? Bragging rights, yes?”

“And you saw them get the head?”

“I told you, I left car, what? A block before? Then I walked to where the men were talking to the boys.”

“Who were the men? Their names?”

She smiled patiently. “I do not know. No one knows anyone’s real name, just al Mudtaji knows. You’d have to ask him.”

“Okay,” Gonz quietly said in her ear. “Why did she do it? She suicidal or something?”

“So you brought us the head,” McKay continued. “Why?”

“As I said before, opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what? To get caught?” McKay laughed, scoffing at her. “Yes, that was a good opportunity.”

“Exactly,” came the young woman’s quick reply.

McKay stared at her for a moment. “You must’ve known we’d put you in prison.”

“Maybe, but you would question me first, yes? That’s what we’re doing. I just thought it would be in the Green Zone. Not... Where are we, may I ask?”

“I can’t reveal that,” McKay replied, a little unnerved that she didn’t know herself. Regrouping, she said, “Okay, so you wanted to speak with us. Delivering the head would get some attention and you could speak. So speak.”

The young woman took a deep breath. “I want it to stop.” When McKay gave her a puzzled look, she continued, saying, “I want you to stop him.”

“Al Mudtaji?”

“Yes.”

McKay was taken back. “But you work for him. You–”

“No!” she thundered, her face suddenly dark. “No! He took me! From my home. My life. He took me so it would be better for him, yes? You are looking everywhere for him, yes? Looking for him among maybe some men, yes? Probably not looking for a man and a woman. Dressed as you.” She gestured with her hands again. “Not like that. Army clothes, but Western clothes, yes? Dressed nicely, looking European, maybe. Looking like maybe we are married?”

McKay was surprised by her outburst. “He kidnapped you?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes! Exactly!”

“When?” Gonz asked in her ear.

“When?” McKay repeated. “When did this happen?”

“January 24th. He had asked me to work with him, I had told him, no. I hate him. Hate him! So he blew up the restaurant where I work! Five people died! That day, he took me!”

“And you’ve been with him ever since?”

“How can I be free? If I go out, he has people with me or follow, yes? He’s a terrible man. Terrible! You must stop him!”

“Why you?” McKay asked. “Why’d he pick you?”

“He is my brother,” the Iraqi woman answered without emotion.

“Shit,” Gonz muttered in her ear.

When McKay just stared in surprise, the Iraqi woman explained, “My half-brother. His name is Mohammed. Mohammed Monla. His real name. Older, by two years. His father, my father. Not same mother. Our father, he hates the West. Hates, understand? He filled al Mudtaji’s head with hate for Americans. Hate!”

McKay shook her head slightly, as if to clear the cobwebs. “But why–?”

“The first Gulf War, yes? My father was in that war. Republican Guard. He was hurt. By a bomb. Lost both legs.”

“Shit,” Gonz grumbled again.

“I’m sorry,” McKay told her.

“I don’t care. He is not my father.” When McKay gave her a baffled look, she explained, “How you say? Biological father, yes. He is not a true father – one who would show love for me. For my mother.”

“Where is your mother now?”

“She died. After the war started. This war. She was very sick for long time. Then she died.”

“And your father?”

“Here.” She realized her error and stated, “Baghdad. I never talk to him.”

“Does al Mudtaji?”

“Al Mudtaji?” she repeated, seeming surprised. With a shrug she said, “Not in person. No, no. Too dangerous. Al Mudtaji sends a man to talk to our father. Or father gets word to al Mudtaji. Not in person, no. I don’t know, but I think my father helps him. But maybe not. I don’t know for certain. But I think, yes, my father helps.”

“Let’s take a break, McKay,” Gonz said in her ear with a heavy sigh. “Offer her some food. Water. Take the handcuffs off.”

Dr. Lami removed the photo from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. The man across from him was simply known as Colonel K.C. Now in his 50s, with salt and pepper wavy hair and green eyes, he had retired from the U.S. Army several years ago and now worked as a journalist for one of the American cable news companies. With his good looks, he was quite popular in the States. With his no-nonsense expert military opinion, he was also popular with America’s top military leaders in Iraq.

“Pretty,” Colonel K.C. said in English, sipping his beer. While the colonel was fluent in Arabic, whenever the two met in a public setting it was better to speak English and avoid being overheard. Dr. Lami noticed the colonel’s beer was almost empty and motioned to the waiter for another.

“I want to know who she is,” Dr. Lami said.

“She had the head?”

“Yes. She was arrested. I have talked to everyone I know, but it is like she doesn’t exist. No one can tell me anything.”