Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (22 page)

“Exactly!” Duqaq replied.

Dr. Lami turned to Maaz. “Can you take a picture of the note? I want to print a photo of the note as we got it.” Looking at Duqaq he instructed, “Write up the story. Everything. The head at the checkpoint, what the Marines did there, finding the note in the mouth, what you witnessed, everything.”

“What about the woman who brought it?” Duqaq asked.

Dr. Lami shook his head. “We don’t have photos and have no way of knowing anything about her. For all we know, someone put it in her bag without her knowledge–”

“C’mon,” Duqaq scoffed.

Dr. Lami raised his hand. “One thing at a time. Let’s work with what we do have. And that’s the note.” Dr. Lami sighed. “I still would like some sort of verification though.”

“I can tell you it’s true,” a woman’s soft voice said from behind them. All the men turned at once. Daneen stood not two yards behind them.

“Daneen...” Maaz said in surprise.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Daneen remarked politely, bowing her head slightly.

“You know about the note?” Dr. Lami asked.

She looked up. “They arrested my brother for it.”

“What?” Maaz thundered.

“The note from al Mudtaji was on his pharmacy stationery,” she told her husband. Looking at Dr. Lami, she said, “My brother is a pharmacist. Thamer Pharmacy. They arrested him and also Thamer, the owner, an older man. He’s been released now. But they still have my brother.”

“This can’t be,” Maaz retorted. “Adnan doesn’t support al Mudtaji–”

“Of course not,” Daneen replied hotly. “Someone did this purposely. Used the pharmacy stationery so he would be arrested.”

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Lami said. “Why?”

Daneen didn’t have the answer for that one. She shook her head, her eyes tearful. “My brother is a good man. You can ask anyone.”

“Can we talk to this pharmacist? Thamer?” Dr. Lami asked.

Daneen nodded. “I just came from there. He’s very upset. Very angry.”

Dr. Lami looked to Duqaq. “Get out there now.”

Duqaq quickly hurried to an adjacent desk and grabbed his reporter’s notebook. “What about her brother?” he called out. “We want to go public with that?”

Everyone turned to Daneen. She slowly nodded, blinking back the tears. “What worse can come to him now? Yes. You must tell his story. Please.”

Dr. Lami looked at Maaz. “Go with him. I want photos.”

Fadhil quickly ejected the camera’s memory card from the computer and handed it to Maaz.

Dr. Lami looked at Fadhil, “These photos, of this insurgent, I don’t want to lose them.”

Fadhil nodded. “I’m putting encrypted copies on the Internet. The Americans can break in here, take everything we got, won’t matter. The photos will be safe.”

Maaz looked at Dr. Lami. “You’re going to publish them?”

“Not yet,” Dr. Lami allowed. “But I want the freedom to publish them if I want.”

Maaz quickly gathered up his camera gear and approached Daneen. “You going to be all right?”

She nodded.

“You sure you want to do this? Have everyone know he’s been arrested?”

“I want him free,” Daneen replied tearfully. “If this helps, then yes.”

“C’mon,” Duqaq told Maaz.

Maaz kissed her softly on the cheek, cupping her face with one hand. He hesitated, as if about to say something. Then he quickly walked away.

“You have a photo of your brother?” Dr. Lami asked.

Daneen didn’t seem to hear, her back to the publisher as she watched her husband hurry through the front doors.

“Daneen?” Fadhil said loudly.

She turned. Sorrow etched across her face.

“You have a photo of your brother?” Dr. Lami inquired again.

“At home.”

“Can you get it, please? We’ll need it.”

“All her clothes!” the man shouted at her from the living room. “We have to fill this!”

Ghaniyah nervously pulled open the top drawer of her aunt’s dresser. She gathered all the undergarments in her arms and dumped them on the nearby bed, her mind reeling. Just a couple days ago she and the American doctor had carefully inspected the very same dresser, finding nothing but her aunt’s personal effects. Now that she knew better, a part of her wanted to laugh.

“Hurry!” the man yelled. “We haven’t got much time!”

“Yes, yes! I’m coming!” Ghaniyah replied in a loud voice.

After pulling up in his truck, the man had given her a low grunt of acknowledgment as he had hurried into the house, Ghaniyah quickly following. He had surprised her by seeming to know the house well, sidestepping the large, overstuffed, frayed chair in the main room that sat close to the far wall, squatting down before a low oak wood chest behind it and tossing off an embroidered satin shroud that had lain over the chest for as long as Ghaniyah could remember. With the shroud gone, he had quickly slid the latch and opened the lid of the three-foot long chest. There was nothing inside except three one-gallon Ziploc bags filled with what looked like chalky sand, off-white in color. The man had been clearly relieved to find the bags intact inside the trunk.

“What is that?” Ghaniyah had tentatively asked.

“How is the old woman?” the man had suddenly inquired, looking up at her as he remained squatting in front of the chest.

“Very sick. She’s in the hospital.”

The man nodded with satisfaction.

“That’s what made her sick,” Ghaniyah had said looking at the bags, not asking a question this time, but making a declaration.

“You knew her?”

“My aunt.”

The man had seemed surprised by this. Finally he had said, “I’m sorry.” He had stood then and said, “There is much sacrifice. For all.”

The man had then gone to the truck where he removed a long narrow board from the truck bed. It wasn’t heavy, and he quickly came back inside with it, telling her to gather up whatever clothes she could find.

As she continued to stack her aunt’s clothes on the bed, she wondered how she could have forgotten about the chest. Why hadn’t the American doctor noticed it either? It must’ve been the shroud, Ghaniyah thought. Partially hidden behind the large chair and with the shroud covering it, it was easy to look past it. Even if the American doctor had noticed it, she might have thought it was simply a low table. Not a chest.

She scooped up four of her aunt’s tired, old Arabian dresses and walked out of the bedroom. Nearing the chest, she saw the man placing small wooden blocks inside the opened chest, one in each corner. She watched as he then took the narrow sheet of plywood and laid it inside the trunk. It fit neatly on top of the blocks, the plastic bags now both hidden and protected.

Without saying a word, she handed him the garments. He quickly laid them across the bottom of the chest. In a matter of minutes, the chest was filled with the clothes Ghaniyah had emptied from her aunt’s bedroom dresser. The man then grabbed the embroidered shroud off the floor, folded in lengthwise, and laid it gently across the top of the clothes. He closed the lid and stood on one of end of the trunk. “Let’s go,” he said.

Ghaniyah got on the other side of the chest and on the count of three, they lifted it rather easily. They quickly loaded the chest, the old chair and a rocking chair into the truck. As the man tied it all down with rope, Ghaniyah knew this might be her last chance and quickly headed back inside.

“Hey!” the man called out.

On the top step, Ghaniyah turned back, her heart racing.

“If you’re thirsty, I have water in the truck.”

Ghaniyah gave a small smile. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Stepping back inside the old house, Ghaniyah knew that her evasive answer would lead the man to think she was in need of the bathroom. Instead, she quickly made her way to the kitchen. Fortunately, there was a small window that allowed her to keep an eye on the man. She opened a drawer and selected a five-inch sharp knife. Putting her foot on the kitchen counter, she hurriedly rolled down her calf-length stocking and placed the knife inside her stocking and the ankle-high boot, the sharp blade against her instep, the handle tight against her ankle. She put her foot on the floor, putting all her weight on the foot, testing it. Amazingly, she couldn’t feel the blade against her foot. She then pulled her stocking up, hiding any trace of the knife.

As she walked across the kitchen floor the handle painfully dug into her ankle. But it was a small price to pay for the little amount of security it provided.

Hopefully, she would never need it.

“Nothing,” Peterson said, clicking through various screens on his computer. “Still off.”

“Damn,” Gonz muttered while sprawled in a nearby canvas director’s chair and eating an apple. It was quiet inside the Marco Polo 5 complex. Heisman paced nearby, a satellite cell phone glued to one ear.

“Think she knows that? That we’re trying to triangulate her cell?”

Gonz sighed. “Peterson, a couple hours ago I would’ve told you she’s our best shot at bringing down al Mudtaji and uncovering whatever he’s up to. I’d tell you we’ve got a local agent watching her, she’s not a pro, which means the chances of him getting burned are zilch. So to tell the truth, I don’t know shit.”

“Got it. Thanks,” Heisman said, disconnecting the call. He walked over to Gonz who had raised an eyebrow.

“Sent an Army captain and an interpreter to their idea of a county record office,” Heisman said, looking at a piece of paper in his hand. “The only record of a Ezzah Shukir close to the age range we want is a birth certificate from 1980.”

“Sounds about right,” Gonz said. “Birth place?”

“Basra.”

Gonz sat up, all attention now. “Siblings?”

Heisman shook his head. “Got the mother’s name, that’s all. A Faymen Shukir.” Heisman grinned at Gonz. “But guess what? This Ezzah Shukir? The address given at the time of her birth is just a couple miles from the aunt’s farmhouse. Another one of those coincidences you don’t like.”

“But the aunt, the one in the hospital, she’s from the father’s side of the family. Not the mother’s sister.”

“Doesn’t mean family didn’t live close by. How many times have we seen that?”

“True,” Gonz conceded.

“Something else of interest. She applied for a Jordanian passport in 1995.”

“And it was granted, we know that. So, what? She’s got dual citizenship?”

“Jordan’s cooperating and they’re chasing down all that stuff. Key is, if she was
born
there. Then there are two. One born in Basra, 1980 and the one born in Jordan.”

Gonz mulled this over for a moment. “You’re right. About the coincidences. That’s supposed to be a pretty rural area, right? Where the aunt lives? We got Ghaniyah’s aunt and maybe she and her mother, no mention of a father, living just a couple miles apart.” He bit off another piece of the apple. “My bet is on the Basra baby. She’s our Ghaniyah.”

“How does that work then?” Heisman asked. “She goes off to Jordan, gets recruited by al Qaeda?”

“Or falls in love.” Heisman shot him a skeptical look and Gonz said, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Question is, is she in love now? In love with our pharmacy guy?”

“No way of knowing,” Gonz admitted.

“Handwriting sample came back negative by the way.”

“I saw that.”

“Which means, he may be telling the truth. He didn’t write the note in Quizby’s mouth. Which leaves us with Abdul al-Jarrah, a.k.a., Sharif, to be the note writer since he speaks English, too. Only he used the pharmacy stationery to rat out Adnan.”

Gonz nodded. “All’s fair in love and war.”

“Great analysis,” Heisman scoffed. He studied the paper in his hand for a moment, then asked, “You buying that al Mudtaji’s illiterate?”

“No evidence either way, really.”

“Our pharmacist friend said he tested him. Had two bottles. One marked ACE inhibitor, the other a diuretic. He asked al Mudtaji for the ACE. He got the diuretic. He also claims he tested him again just to be sure. Both times al Mudtaji had a 50-50 chance of getting it right, both times he blows it.”

“That’s his story. No way to confirm or deny.” Gonz tore off another bite of the apple and spoke while he chewed, “But, you have to wonder, if you’re a terrorist, you’re planning something big, we don’t know what, you’re constantly on the run, is it a factor?”

“What do you mean?” Heisman asked. “Being illiterate?”

“Think about it. He’s totally dependent upon voice communications, either on the phone or in person. He can’t take a chance communicating by e-mail or leaving hidden messages in chat rooms because then someone has to do it for him. Even if he’s handed a written note, he has to have someone he trusts, someone valuable to him, who can read it to him.”

“Someone high up in the brain trust,” Heisman said, continuing the line of reasoning.

“Someone that could want to be the top dog himself.”

“What are you suggesting?” Heisman asked in surprise. “A coup?”

“Why not? Can happen in any dictatorship. And I guarantee you, terrorist organizations are pure dictatorships.” Gonz turned to Peterson. “You can post a message on al Mudtaji’s website, right?”

“Someone translates, sure.”

Gonz looked at Heisman with an impish grin.

McKay couldn’t believe her luck. Or rather, her lack of luck. “This isn’t good.”

“How do you want to play it?” the man calling himself Richard asked as he slowly drove the small sedan toward the ranch house.

“I don’t know,” McKay muttered. Two bright yellow trucks were parked close to the well. The doors of each truck were marked with “City of Basra” emblems in both Arabic and English.

“That’s where the water came from,” Richard said rather than asked. “You know what’s wrong with it?”

McKay hesitated. The man seemed to be legitimate. When he had picked her up at the bazaar, she had been surprised to learn that he knew her real name and spoke English surprisingly well. On their ride to the aunt’s house, he had lamented that Ghaniyah had given him the slip, explaining that he had been watching for her outside the front entrance of her hotel. However, once he had realized that she must’ve given him the slip, it was too late. He complained that he should’ve been allowed to have another man watch the rear exit of the hotel.