Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (7 page)

The colonel smiled before finishing off his beer. It wasn’t as good as American beer, but it wasn’t all bad either. “So you’re fishing.”

Dr. Lami nodded. “I can print the photograph, but I want to know who she is first.”

“Print it,” the colonel said with a shrug. “She deserves it. Pretty or not.”

Dr. Lami studied the photograph for a moment before speaking. “She is pretty, yes. But I feel there is something more.” He glanced up at the colonel just as the waiter brought the second beer. After the waiter had left them, he added, “Did you know that there was something in the dead man’s mouth?” Colonel K.C. glanced up sharply. “I can print that too. But ask yourself this. Why have the head go to a checkpoint? Why not just throw it away? Because there was something al Mudtaji wanted the Americans to see. Something he put in the dead man’s mouth.”

“I hadn’t heard that,” the colonel admitted.

Dr. Lami again pushed the photo toward the colonel. “I gave you some information. Return the favor. Find out who the woman is. Her connection to al Mudtaji.”

“So you can publish it.”

“Yes,” Dr. Lami responded. “So I can publish it.”

Once the Americans invaded and some Sunni groups decided to fight back by using improvised explosive devices, commonly called IEDs, the Iraqi people quickly learned to recognize the signs of an impending roadside bomb. It wasn’t hard. Basically, all activity in the area ceased. Market place stalls emptied, store shops suddenly had no customers, children were no longer playing outside and most noticeably, the streets were devoid of normal pedestrian traffic.

That was what Aref was looking for that evening as he rode the old bicycle through the streets of Jadida, a neighborhood of Baghdad that had been his birthplace, where he had gotten married more than fifty years ago now and where he had buried his beloved wife. If he had it his way, he’d die in Jadida. Preferably sooner rather than later. But sadly, there were no signs of any impending attack. Too much activity. Even though the sun had just dipped below the horizon and his vision wasn’t what it used to be, he could tell from the foot traffic alone. He was out of luck.

Not for the first time, Aref wished he knew exactly when and where some American soldiers would patrol. Then, if he could see all the signs of an imminent attack, and with luck, timing it just right, he could be blown to bits along with an American convoy, and finally be reunited his wife. He wasn’t sure exactly what happened after death, but he believed with all his heart that once again they would be together. Whether it was heaven or hell, he didn’t care. As long as they were together.

Suddenly an American Humvee pulled out of a side street ahead of him. Aref felt a thrill of exhilaration and rose off the saddle, pedaling hard, doing his best to catch up. Vehicle traffic was heavy and he pushed hard. The stoplight ahead turned red and he took advantage, passing cars on the right as fast he could. His legs had already been tired from his day’s excursion, and within minutes he felt like they were on fire. But he wasn’t about to be deterred. This was his chance. He was in Jadida. The Humvee was just two cars ahead... Now one car ahead. Maybe someone had a rocket-propelled grenade. They would aim right for the Humvee, and if he could just be right next to it... He was almost there when the loud blast shattered the tranquil evening.

Next thing he knew he was sprawled on the pavement, his hands stinging in pain and one knee painfully sore. He saw his bicycle lying on the ground nearby, the front tire spinning around lazily.

“You all right?” someone asked.

Aref glanced up to see a middle-aged man looking down at him. He frantically looked around for the Humvee, then saw it, a good distance ahead. It must have taken off when the light changed. Aref struggled to sit up.

“You’re bleeding,” the man said, pointing.

Aref followed the man’s look and noticed that his ring finger on his right hand was indeed bleeding. What a fiasco, he thought. He glanced up the street. The Humvee was long gone. The opportunity gone, too. But there had been an attack, hadn’t there? He looked at the man standing over him. “What happened?”

“You were going like hell. Then you just fell.” When Aref gave him a puzzled look, the man continued, “I think it was the backfire.” Aref still looked puzzled, so the man explained, “The car next to the Humvee? Backfired. I don’t blame you. I hate driving near one, myself. Always thinking that might be the day, you know?”

Aref shook his head in disgust. He tried to get up and the man quickly got an arm under him. Suddenly a car honked. Aref realized they were blocking one lane of traffic. “Get in my truck, old man. I’ll get the bike.”

“No, no,” Aref said, noticing the truck for the first time. More car horns.

“Get in,” the man insisted. “You’re in no shape to ride, what with that hand.”

Aref looked at his hand again. It was filled with blood now. Maybe the man was right. He watched as the man put his bicycle in the truck bed. Once he knew his bike was secure, he climbed into the passenger seat, careful to cradle his hand in his lap so he didn’t get blood on the interior of the truck.

Their evening supper was ruined. And Maaz still had no idea why. He had put the baby in his cradle and turned off the stove, leaving the stew untouched in the pot. Now, he stood over Daneen who was stretched out on the couch, a blanket giving her warmth, her eyes closed. He studied her tear-stained face and suddenly it dawned on him. It was all he could do not to cry out in joy. Instead, he gently moved her feet aside and sat down on the sofa, pulling her feet across his lap. Her eyes opened and she gave him a slight smile. He beamed at her. “You’re pregnant.” When Daneen frowned at him, he continued enthusiastically, “Remember with Faris? You got very, very strange. You’d cry for no reason. No reason at all. Remember?”

Daneen nodded. Of course she remembered. She also remembered all too well the weight of depression that enveloped her after their baby, Badr, had been born just ten months ago now. That is why she would never ever allow herself to get pregnant again. Instead, she had convinced her brother Adnan to get her birth control pills from his pharmacy. Pills that she hid from Maaz, but took faithfully on schedule.

“It’ll be fine,” Maaz said softly. “You’ll see. With two jobs now, we can afford another baby.”

Daneen couldn’t help but love him. His world was simple, and hers had just been turned upside down. She knew she couldn’t tell him what she had just discovered – that Adnan was part of al Mudtaji’s inner circle of death. Somehow, she’d handle it herself. “Maybe a girl, yes?” Maaz went on. “A girl would be nice, yes?”

Daneen nodded. Finally she said, “Yes.”

“You need to eat,” he chided her gently. “You’re eating for two.” He glanced at the television which was still turned off. “And no more news programs, okay? It’s too hard on you. We can get rid of the television, in fact–”

“No,” Daneen replied, her tone more harsh than she intended. She quickly added, “You’re a journalist. You need to see what is going on.”

“But not if it upsets you. I’ve never seen you like this.” After a minute he said, “It scared me.”

Daneen nodded. She had lost it. But who wouldn’t? Her brother, a person she adored, was a jihadist. Unthinkable, but true. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” He took her hand in his, rubbing it affectionately. Then he gave her a bewildered look and said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Daneen shrugged. “I wanted to wait. Just another month, to be sure.”

“But how can I take care of you if I don’t know?”

“I’m fine.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “It was a terrible thing to see, I know.” He squeezed her hand. “I had already seen it at the office. On their website.”

“What time?” Daneen suddenly asked. “What time did... Did the American die?”

Maaz studied her for a moment, then said, “I don’t know.”

Daneen rose up on her elbows. “But you always take your noon meal at the newspaper office, right? Was it going on then?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, did you eat at the newspaper? Around noon? As usual?”

“I guess,” Maaz said, baffled by her intense line of questioning.

“And it was on the computers then? At that time?”

He shrugged. “What does it matter?”

“It was noon time,” Daneen said, almost to herself and lying back on the sofa, gazing at the ceiling.

“Why? Why do you want to talk of such things? You need to forget it. You need to think happy thoughts.”

Daneen wanted to scream. Instead, she nodded absently. Her thoughts were on Adnan. Was he able to clean his pants with cold water, as she had suggested? If not, was there anyone else who saw the al-Jazeera newscast and saw what she just saw? What about Adnan’s boss, Thamer? Had he seen the bloody pants? He was a very smart man, Daneen knew. If he had seen Adnan’s pants and the news, he too would know.

Then it struck her. Thamer was pro-democracy. He openly criticized the insurgents. If he knew, he would turn Adnan in. There was no doubt about it.

They were back in the same interrogation room, although this time the Iraqi woman, who had given her name as Ghaniyah Monla, was not handcuffed and was sipping hot tea, cupping the mug with both hands. McKay noticed that the mug was imprinted with the words “FBI – Fat Boy Idiots,” clearly a gibe at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. CIA humor. Gonz was also in the room this time, standing with one foot on the seat of a chair. Sitting opposite Ghaniyah with a cup of good coffee in hand, McKay wondered how many CIA analysts might be watching from the comfortable theater seats in the next room.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Gonz explained. “We do.”

Ghaniyah glanced from Gonz to McKay. “So..?”

“We need you to stay with your brother,” Gonz stated.

A shadow crossed Ghaniyah’s face. She leaned back in the chair, shaking her head. “No. No more.”

“Yes,” Gonz said firmly.

“No. I will tell you where he goes. I know where you can find him. You go. Arrest him.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes! Yes, it is!” she argued.

“You said yourself he never stays in one place for more than two days. Sometimes he’s with some members of his cell, sometimes with other members. It’s always changing. That’s what you said.”

“Yes,” Ghaniyah said, leaning forward eagerly. “But I can show you. All the places. Baghdad. Fallujah. Sometimes he goes to Kirkuk. Ramadi. I will show you where.”

“But you have no idea if he’ll even be there!” Gonz impatiently rebuked her. When she didn’t respond, he added with annoyance, “Do you know when he’ll be at which place!? Do you!?”

Chided, Ghaniyah softly replied, “No.”

Gonz pulled the chair out and sat down. “Look, let’s say you’re right. You correctly pin down his location at a given time. Yes, we want to arrest him and we could do that.”

“Yes,” Ghaniyah readily agreed. “Yes. That is good.”

“No, it’s not good. There’s the problem. Your brother is–”

“Half-brother,” she quickly reminded him. “Half.”

“Okay, half-brother,” Gonz continued calmly. “Whatever he’s planning for this coming Sunday is big. Very big. He’s announced it. Put it on his website. So far, when he’s said he’s going to do something, he does it.”

Ghaniyah glanced at McKay who said, “It’s true.”

“You say you don’t know anything about this upcoming attack,” Gonz reminded her.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Maybe simultaneous attacks? A series of car bombs? Maybe one of our convoys? Or maybe –”

“No!” Ghaniyah replied impatiently, staring at Gonz. “I don’t know! I swear. He doesn’t tell me these things. He doesn’t, how you say? Confide in me.”

“Well, we need to find out. Find out what he’s planning.”

“You arrest him. You ask him then.”

“Miss Monla,–”

“Ghaniyah,” she corrected him.

“Ghaniyah. We’d like nothing better than to arrest him, believe me. But in order to stop this next attack, which will be big, we’d also need to get every one of his cell members. Otherwise, there’s a good chance whatever they’re planning will still happen.”

“No. No, no. You arrest him,” Ghaniyah chided him. “You arrest him, it will stop. He’s the leader.”

“He’s part of a fanatical jihad!” Gonz retorted hotly. “They’re well organized and have already killed hundreds of Iraqis. Hundreds! Killed or wounded as many Coalition forces. We kill him, or arrest him, twenty more pop up in his place. With
his
plans for Sunday.”

Ghaniyah looked beaten. “I don’t know what his plan is... I don’t know.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Everyone frustrated.

“Wait a minute,” McKay suddenly interjected. Both Ghaniyah and Gonz looked at her. McKay turned to Ghaniyah. “You said earlier that whenever you leave your brother, half-brother, he has someone with you. Or you’re followed.”

“Yes, always,” Ghaniyah confirmed.

Gonz immediately saw the flaw in his plan. “What happened today? You said you took the head from the boys who were scared and brought it to the checkpoint. Where was one of al Mudtaji’s men? You were alone?”

“Yes. Alone.”

Maybe al Mudtaji had set them up from the beginning, Gonz thought. “I don’t think so.”

“This time, yes. I was alone.”

“But why?” asked McKay. “Why would he let you be on your own?”

“He didn’t know. Abdul, he let me go, by myself.”

“From where?” Gonz asked, puzzled. “From your hideout?”

“Abdul was to the take head to give to the boys, yes? He was to take me to the bus station.”

“Bus station?” Gonz frowned.

“To go to Basra,” Ghaniyah explained. “My father’s sister, my aunt, is in the hospital in Basra. I was to go.”

“To Basra?” McKay asked with surprise.

“Wait a minute,” Gonz said. “Back up. Why would this Abdul just drop you off? You said someone’s always with you.”