Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (14 page)

Slowly eating, he tried to console himself with the fact that at least the newspaper couldn’t run photographs of Ghaniyah. They had taken the computer which Fadhil had used to show Daneen the pictures taken at the checkpoint. Earlier that morning he had gone past the low-income apartment house where he had left the small television and computer. It was all gone.

And the hard drive had been incinerated in the basement boiler of another apartment complex. He felt quite confident that the country would never see pictures of Ghaniyah detained at the checkpoint. That was the good news. The bad news was that he had absolutely no idea where Ghaniyah was, let alone if she was well or even alive. And it was this nagging worry that suppressed his appetite.

“What was that movie?” Adnan heard a man ask from a nearby table. “Some black man drove an old woman everywhere?”

“American or European?” another man inquired.

“American, American. An old woman never drove, but some black man drove her around. Long time ago.”

“Oh, yes. ‘
Driving Miss Daisy
,’” the second man replied.

“That’s it! Right. Look over there,” said the first man with a hearty laugh, pointing out the window. “That’s it. That’s what the Americans bring us, yes? ‘
Driving Miss Daisy
.’”

Adnan followed their looks and saw a Humvee was now parked across the street. A large black man was behind the wheel, an Army cap on his head while a white man sat in the passenger seat, hatless. Adnan couldn’t help but smile. By wearing a cap, the black man did look like a chauffeur.

“But the white man is supposed to be in the backseat,” the second man volunteered. “That’s how it done. He’s got to be in the back.”

“You go tell him that,” the first man laughed. “And while you’re at it, tell him you thought only old white women were driven by blacks.”

“Maybe his name is Daisy.” The two men laughed loudly.

Gonz was still on his Blackberry. The call had come in as Heisman had parked the Humvee across the street from the target that was still in the café. It was his operations director from Langley who wanted to know more details about the possibility that Ghaniyah’s aunt had been poisoned. Gonz explained what he could, which wasn’t much, and reiterated a few times that he couldn’t call McKay for further information because that could jeopardize her cover. Gonz was then put on speaker phone – which he absolutely detested – and told to repeat everything he knew.

There was much speculation about the poisoning and what it might mean, if McKay had diagnosed the old woman’s condition correctly. Although the CIA didn’t want to give up one of their Gulfstreams in the area, they did say that they would have a helicopter standing by at the Basra air base. It would be fueled and ready to fly the water sample to their station in Kuwait for analysis.

Then the conversation turned to what might be in the aunt’s chest and the timeline for McKay to get her hands on it. Someone in Langley suggested she take a photograph of it and measure the dimensions so they could find a similar chest in order swap them. There was more talk about what assets in the field would be available to secure such a chest and the likelihood that they could make the exchange without being seen. If all went well, they could then have the aunt’s chest taken to Kuwait where it would be examined carefully.

It took all of Gonz’s will power not to yell at the suits back in Washington. He had a job to do and all their talk and speculation was keeping him from doing that job. However, he refrained from speaking his mind. Finally, Gonz was told to keep them updated every hour, on the hour and the call was disconnected.

Heisman looked over at his boss. “You okay?”

“Feel like I got about twenty bozos looking over my shoulder right now.”

“That’s good, man.” When Gonz gave him a puzzled look, he explained, “Means you’re in the driver’s seat. You got the ball in your hands, it’s third down and long, and they’re just waiting to see if they’ve called the right play.”

“How much time left?” Gonz asked, changing the subject.

“Zilch,” Heisman said, nodding out the window. “Lunch is hereby over.”

As Gonz looked across the street. he saw that their target had just left the café. He walked at a brisk pace, his head down, seeming to concentrate on just keeping one foot in front of the other.

Gonz sighed. “Just as well. We’ll hit them both at once. See what gives.”

“Got it.” Heisman started the Humvee as Gonz glanced at his Blackberry, willing McKay to contact him again. He needed a lot more information.

Miles from downtown Basra, the three modest homes sat a good distance from the dirt road, clumped close together in a semi-circle, and all facing a common yard. The shell of a rusty old truck listed on its side beside one of the homes. “Many years ago all this was maize corn and wheat,” Ghaniyah said whimsically, waving her arm at the seemingly endless flat land around her. “As a child, I would run through the rows of corn. They seemed so tall.”

McKay looked around the desolate landscape which showed only sparse agriculture now. In the distance she saw a tractor working the land. “What happened?”

“Two families near here, maybe two miles away, they were killed by Saddam’s police. Then all the crops were destroyed. Including here.”

“Why?”

Ghaniyah shuddered. “Supposedly they were plotting to overthrow the local Baathist government. But some say it was Uday. You know, Saddam’s son? He liked a young girl here. Before he could take her, the family secretly sent her away. Uday was furious. He tortured the family, but only the father knew exactly where she had been sent, and he killed himself before he could be tortured. So Uday took out his anger on the crops. The land.”

McKay didn’t know what to say. “You know what happened to the girl?”

Ghaniyah didn’t answer as she stood looking at the empty wasteland. “I’m not sure why, but crops couldn’t grow for years. It was awful.”

McKay could only nod. “Did it affect the water? Whatever they did to the crops?”

Surprised by the question, Ghaniyah shook her head no. “At least, I haven’t heard that. My aunt never left. She took a job closer to the city. But she lived here just fine.”

“Until now,” McKay reminded her. “Where’s the well?”

Ghaniyah pointed between two of the homes. “Over there.”

McKay followed her carrying her black medical bag. The well was quite large with a rock wall and a modern looking hand pump. As Ghaniyah reached for the hand pump, McKay warned, “Don’t touch it.” Ghaniyah gave her a quizzical look. “Better safe than sorry,” McKay explained as she put on a pair of latex gloves. She then removed two small vials from her medical bag and uncapped each one, handing them to Ghaniyah. “Don’t touch the tops. They’re sterile.”

Ghaniyah nodded and watched as McKay worked the hand pump which she was surprised to find was quite stiff. “Your aunt must be strong.”

The Iraqi woman smiled. “She’s lived here all her life. She’s used to it.”

McKay struggled with the pump. “Well, I’m used to indoor plumbing.” Finally water started to dribble out the spigot. “Okay, give me one.” Ghaniyah handed her the vial, and McKay pumped with her right hand, holding the vial under the faucet with her left hand. It quickly filled and she handed it back to Ghaniyah. “Now the other one.” McKay repeated the process with the second vial and then capped each one. Pulling clear Ziploc® bags from her medical case, she marked the date, time and location of the samples using a felt pen.

“Now what?” Ghaniyah asked.

McKay put the vials inside a Styrofoam pre-formed box that fit the vials perfectly. She marked the outside of the box with the same information and then put it in the medical bag. Finally, she removed the latex gloves and put them in a separate Ziploc bag. “Let’s see that chest.”

Daneen was furious.

Her adventures with Adnan the night before had left her emotionally and physically exhausted, and she had decided to splurge that afternoon by buying some take-out food from a nearby restaurant for lunch. She had then gone home, quite happy to find Faris playing in their tiny yard with two neighbor boys, the three squatting around something. Perhaps marbles. She had put the baby down for a nap and gone back outside to visit with the boys who were on their school lunch break when she heard Faris say, “It’s true! He had no head! Ask my Father. He took lots of pictures. He’ll tell you.”

“What happened to the head?” one of the boys asked.

“Fell off, I guess,” Faris explained.

“Can that happen? Can your head just fall off?”

“No, silly,” said the third boy. “They cut it off.”

“Who?” Faris asked, suddenly frightened.

“You know, the people that do that sometimes.”

Stunned by the exchange she was hearing, Daneen quickly approached the boys. What she saw astounded her. The boys had constructed a rudimentary toy bridge using sticks and had hung a decapitated doll by its feet from the traverse. She immediately knew what must have happened – Maaz had taken Faris with him when he went to photograph the body of the dead American. She had seen the photograph in the
Iraq National Journal
earlier that day and had seen Maaz’s photo credit. It just never occurred to her that he had Faris with him.

“Faris,” she scolded. “What is the meaning of this!”

The boy immediately stood. “I’m sorry, mother,” Faris said contritely.

“You saw... You saw that last night? The dead American at the river?”

“Yes, mother.”

“You should’ve never been there! That is no place for children!”

“Badr was there, too,” Faris protested, as if that justified his presence at the grisly scene.

Daneen just stared at her oldest child. “Badr?” she repeated.

“We couldn’t just leave him home by himself.”

Daneen immediately turned her attention to Naad, Faris’ closest friend who lived just across the alley. On the rare occasion that she and Maaz had to go somewhere without their children, Naad’s mother always took the boys.

“We weren’t home,” Naad said quietly.

“I see,” Daneen responded, at a loss for more words.

“Lots of people were there. Everyone started shouting,” Faris said excitedly. “I’m not sure what they were saying exactly, but they were loud. Really loud.”

Daneen just looked at her son with bewilderment. She could guess what they were chanting – “
Death to the Infidel
.” Her son should have never been near a mob like that. Finally, she nodded toward the doll and toy bridge. “Whose doll is that?”

“My sister’s,” Naad confessed.

“You broke it.”

“No.” He dug in his pocket, fished out the doll’s head and quickly clamped it back on the torso. “See?”

“Well, give it back to your sister. And I don’t want to hear any more talk of this.” She turned to leave, then pivoted back to the boys. “And take that thing apart. I don’t want to see it anymore.” With that she stomped back inside the house, furious with Maaz for taking Faris to see such a gruesome sight. No child should see such things. She wondered how it might negatively impact Faris. Would he have nightmares?

Ironically, while Daneen had been dreading having to deal with her husband when he finally came home, knowing that he would be livid about the stolen computer and lost photographs, now she was so angry at him that she couldn’t care less how upset he might be. What he had done was unforgivable.

“Allahu Akbar,” –
God is most great –
the worshippers said in unison, their voices echoing off the walls of the mosque.

Adnan, like the many men around him, stood perfectly straight, his arms at his sides. However, unlike the others, his mind was far from God. Instead, he thought about al Mudtaji and his men. How they had faithfully adhered to the
Salaat
, the Islamic ritual prayer, five times a day without fail. Although he had been raised to follow the
Salaat
, which he had dutifully done most of his life, he had begun to question his faith the last few years. Even more so after he had watched al Mudtaji pray religiously, yet chop off a man’s head with no remorse whatsoever.

Following the prayer routine with numbed mindlessness, Adnan kneeled into the
Sudjood
, one of the prayer positions, kneeling as he touched his hands, forehead, and nose to the ground. “Glory be to my Lord, the Most High,” Adnan recited with the other men. “Glory be to my Lord, the Most High. Glory be to my Lord, the Most High.” After a pause, the worshippers said in unison, “God is most great.”

The multitude all lifted their heads off the ground, but remained in a kneeling position, their legs tucked under them, eyes mindfully focused on their laps. Again in unison: “God is most great!” The men then resumed the kneeling position, their foreheads to the ground. “Glory be to my Lord, the Most High,” the congregation reiterated. “Glory be to my Lord, the Most High. Glory be to my Lord, the Most High.”

With his face to the ground, Adnan did not join the chorus in prayer this time.
How many times must one say the same thing?
He thought.
Doesn’t God get tired of hearing the same refrain, over and over and over again?

He hated himself for thinking such thoughts. But the truth was the
Salaat
now left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Instead of feeling more clean and pure, he felt defiled. Ironically, it was only guilt that had driven him into a mosque for prayers that afternoon. He hoped some day he could wash away the ingrained training of such rituals and the guilt he still felt when he didn’t pray.

Instead of repeating the remaining verses of the Islamic prayer with the others, Adnan silently prayed to whatever god there might be that Ghaniyah was alive, safe and healthy. He repeated this personal prayer several times to himself.