Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (28 page)

“Exactly,” Heisman said. “We don’t know. We act like she’s with us, she’s not, we’ve blown our only chance.”

“Not really,” Peterson offered. “It’s like if you’re dating someone, you think you got it good and someone tells you he spotted her with someone else. It can freak you out.”

Gonz nodded. “It puts you in doubt.”

“Yeah,” Peterson agreed. “And then, you want to know if it’s true or not, and it really bugs you.”

“Okay,” Heisman said. “So what? We mention Ghaniyah? Say she’s bringing us the ricin.”

“Exactly,” Gonz said through the pencil. “Let’s just see what happens.”

Heisman looked at Peterson. “Tell him that seven days from Sunday Ghaniyah will be here. With the ricin. Make that
my
ricin.”

Peterson quickly typed on the keyboard. He hit a button and the text was immediately translated into Arabic. Then he hit the send icon. “Let’s see how you reply to that, idiot.”

The four of them waited, watching the screen. Nothing happened. Gonz got up, joining Heisman behind Peterson’s chair.

“Did it go?” Gonz asked.

“It went. We took a while to reply this last time. He’s probably just thinking.”

A new message in Arabic suddenly popped up on the screen.

“Shit!” Peterson shouted in frustration.

“What?” Gonz asked.

“He logged out.”

Walking down the sidewalk, his head buried in the paper, Maaz was relieved to see that the story made the front page, just as Dr. Lami had promised. It was below the fold, but his two-column photo of Thamer was sharp, the old man’s face stern, glaring defiantly at the camera. Maaz was also relieved to find his photo credit in small font just below the photo. How many times had he looked at newspaper photos, seeing the photographer’s name affiliated with such news wires as Reuters or the Associated Press? Now he had joined the ranks with his own front page photo credit. It was gratifying.

Stopping at an intersection, Maaz glanced up and realized that Faris wasn’t with him. Frantically looking around, he saw his son still at the news stand. Two U.S. Humvees had pulled up and several soldiers had gotten out, probably looking for an English newspaper or magazine. Faris was jumping up and down in front of a soldier, his hands cupped together as if he was trying to catch some falling rain.

“Faris!” Maaz bellowed.

Faris turned, saw his father, but then quickly turned back to the soldier. The man reached into his zippered thigh pocket and pulled something out. Maaz knew it was candy. The American soldiers always seemed to have plenty of candy, and the Iraqi children were now well versed in getting what they deemed as their fair share of the loot. Maaz saw the soldier drop small gumdrops into Faris’ waiting hands. The soldier’s hands then empty, he smiled, tousling Faris’ hair affectionately. Another soldier said something and both soldiers laughed. Faris promptly popped a candy in his mouth and ran toward his father, all smiles.

It wasn’t until they had gotten home a few minutes later that Maaz had finally noticed one of his photographs was headlining the lead story, above the fold. The photo depicted the backside of the terrorist who had met him near the Presidential Palace. Duqaq had written the story, describing for readers how al Mudtaji had placed a handwritten note in the mouth of the decapitated American. According to unnamed sources, the note read,
Islam is the only true religion. Now you have an American who speaks the truth of Islam. Before now, he and all other Americans never spoke the truth of Islam. He had to have his head removed. Now he can speak the truth. Understand. This is the first of many American heads that will come to speak the truth Sunday
.

The article went on to speculate that al Mudtaji might have warned of a planned attack to take place later in the day. However, both Iraqi and American officials denied knowing of any planned assault. The article also explained that the note was written on Thamer’s Pharmacy stationery which had led to the arrest of Thamer, Adnan, and one of the pharmacy’s customers. The newspaper quoted Thamer about his detention inside the Green Zone, and the article went on with some information about Adnan, including speculation as to why the Americans were still holding him. A grainy black and white photo of Adnan appeared on page four.

Daneen had read the articles very carefully before starting their breakfast. She now looked at Faris who sat at the dinning table simply staring at his plate. “Why aren’t you eating?”

The boy sheepishly glanced at his father, then replied, “I have an upset stomach.”

“Upset stomach?” Daneen worriedly felt his forehead with the palm of her hand.

“He’s fine,” Maaz told her. “He ran quite a bit.”

“What? Why would you run?” Daneen asked her son.

Faris again glanced at his father. Then shrugged.

“He’ll be fine,” Maaz assured her. “Just give him a few minutes to rest, eh?” He gave Faris a warning look since they both knew Faris had eaten too much candy on the way home. “Drink some water and lie down.”

Faris readily complied, drinking a tall glass of water. He then gave a belch and both father and son laughed. Still concerned about Faris’ well-being, Daneen failed to find his burp humorous. She told Faris to lie down on the sofa where she could keep an eye on him.

“If he is ill, you have to stay home with him,” Daneen said to her husband.

“What? Why?”

“Because he might have to go to the doctor.”

“He’s fine,” Maaz scoffed.

“I don’t want him home alone.”

“Where are you going? It’s Sunday.”

“I’m meeting with Colonel K.C.”

Maaz couldn’t hide his astonishment. “The colonel?”

“He wants to talk about Adnan.”

“I should be there.”

“I can go by myself.”

“Where? Where are you meeting?”

“Hotel Palestine.”

Surprised, Maaz shot her an annoyed look. “I will escort you.”

Daneen knew it was futile to argue. A Muslim woman should not be seen going into a hotel to meet a man. It didn’t matter why they were meeting, it just wasn’t done.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll take Faris if he isn’t better.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Daneen didn’t reply. She glanced at the front page of the paper, wondering about the man who was walking away from the camera. Had he seen Adnan at the American’s beheading? And if he were caught, would he implicate Adnan?

She suddenly realized that she too had an upset stomach.

Ghaniyah had no choice but to wait.

The morning had not gone as she had hoped, and now she impatiently paced outside the house, continually glancing at her suitcase which sat near the rancher’s old truck. After filling her suitcase with the bags of poison the night before, she had gone back to her small room and actually slept for a couple hours. She had awakened with a start when she had heard Yusuf’s truck rumble to life. It had been tempting to confront him, ask why he was leaving her, but it wasn’t worth the risk. She had the poison and that was all that mattered.

Less than an hour later she had emerged from the room to find the rancher’s old mother busy making breakfast. The girl was apparently still sleeping, and the rancher curtly told her that Yusuf had already left and she was to stay. Ghaniyah’s anger had been genuine as she had promptly told him that she was al Mudtaji’s sister and she had to get back to Baghdad. The rancher had shrugged, not seeming to care one way or another. She argued that if he didn’t take her to the bus station immediately, her brother’s wrath would befall the man, his family, and all his goats.

Finally, the rancher had agreed to drive her to the bus station. However, they had to wait. A veterinarian was due momentarily to look after some of the baby goats that were not doing well. The rancher promised that as soon as the doctor was finished, he would drive her to the bus station.

The veterinarian had arrived an hour or so later on a small scooter, his medical bag tied down behind him on the seat. The rancher had led him across the fields where they had disappeared over a small hill in the distance. As Ghaniyah anxiously paced near the old truck, she heard the roar of a vehicle behind her. She turned.

It was Yusuf.

She could see the rage on his face as he sped toward her, dirt swirling in the truck’s wake. Ghaniyah couldn’t help but glance at her suitcase again. She turned back to Yusuf as he cut the engine and quickly exited the truck. He marched toward her, his face contorted in anger.

“Where is he?”

Ghaniyah just shook her head, fearfully.

“Where is he!?” he screamed.

As Yusuf started toward the door, Ghaniyah finally found her voice. “He’s in the fields.” She pointed in the direction the rancher had gone. “Some of the goats are sick. He’s with a doctor.”

Exasperated, Yusuf marched off across the field.

Watching him, Ghaniyah’s heart raced. She quickly walked over to Yusuf’s truck. All her aunt’s clothes were tossed across the truck bed, the rope no longer holding the chest in place. Her mouth went dry. Yusuf had discovered that the poison was missing. He would go after the rancher, who, if he valued his life, would lead Yusuf to the shed. She glanced at Yusuf. He was making good time, nearly halfway to the small hill where she had last seen the rancher.

She looked inside the truck cab. The keys were in the ignition. Realizing she had no choice, Ghaniyah quickly went for her suitcase. Just then the front door of the house opened. The girl stood there. Ghaniyah froze. They stared at each other for a moment, then Ghaniyah said, “Stay inside.”

“I can go with you.”

“No, you can’t. Stay inside. Please.”

Ghaniyah grabbed her suitcase and quickly put it on the passenger seat of Yusuf’s truck.

“Wait,” the girl said, quickly picking up a stick from the ground.

But Ghaniyah had no time to wait. She climbed behind the wheel. Closing the door, she watched through the side mirror as the girl knelt down beside the front passenger wheel of her father’s old truck. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Ghaniyah got out of Yusuf’s truck and hurried over to the girl. She could hear the hissing release of air, as the girl firmly held an end of the stick on the tire’s air stem. Following the girl’s initiative, Ghaniyah quickly removed her knife and used it to depress the air stem on the rear tire. Air quickly escaped.

Ghaniyah stood and anxiously looked across the field. Yusuf and the rancher were at the base of the hill, heading back. “Quick, go back inside!”

Not waiting, Ghaniyah scrambled behind the wheel again, starting the ignition. Yusuf’s truck roared to life. Luckily, it was an automatic transmission and with one foot on the brake, the other lightly touching the gas, she put the truck in gear. She took her left foot off the brake, stepped on the gas with her right foot and the truck suddenly lurched forward with great power, angling toward the house. Horrified, Ghaniyah quickly wrenched the wheel and stomped on the brake. She knew she’d have to back up. She found the reverse gear. Slowly this time, she turned the wheel and gave the truck just a little gas. It still backed up faster than she intended, and she quickly realized she was going the wrong way and pulled the wheel in the other direction.

Just then the passenger door flew open.

Ghaniyah gave a startled cry.

The girl climbed in, awkwardly landing on the suitcase. “Hurry, they’re coming!”

In no frame of mind to argue with the girl, Ghaniyah stepped hard on the gas and the truck obeyed, careening backwards. Suddenly the truck smacked into something, the sound of screeching metal filling the air.

“What was that?” Ghaniyah cried out.

“The doctor’s bike,” the girl said with a grin.

Ghaniyah cursed under her breath, stopping only long enough to put the truck in drive.

“It’s okay,” the girl told her. “He’s not a very nice man.”

With the truck in drive, Ghaniyah cranked the wheel in the other direction and put her foot on the gas.

The truck took off down the dirt lane.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Gonz shouted from across the room as he stumbled from the back of the Marco Polo 5 building in the early morning light.

The incessant shrill beeping had now awakened Peterson who had fallen asleep with his head on his desk. He quickly sat up, a slime of drool smeared across one cheek. As his eyes slowly came into focus, he saw an instant message flashing on the monitor. He wiped his face with the bottom of his Army T-shirt, then grabbed the mouse to click on an icon.

“That our guy!?” Gonz shouted as he navigated the various tables and chairs between himself and Peterson’s desk. He heard McKay curse behind him and turned to see her kick the offending chair with her boot, sending it flying into the back wall of a temporary workstation cubicle. While Gonz had been sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor, McKay had chosen a small cubicle where she had set up a collapsible cot.

“Think so!” Peterson yelled as the alarm continued.

“What’s he saying!?”

Heisman had heard the alarm, too, and had crawled out from under Peterson’s desk where he had fallen asleep on the floor. Now kneeling in front of Peterson’s desk, he was focused on the monitor. Not waiting for
Andrew
to translate, Heisman shouted over the noise, “He says ‘
The rancher is dead. All are dead. Ghaniyah will soon die, too.
’”

Heisman pulled himself to his feet. McKay silently came up from behind them, rubbing her shin, which had collided with the chair. The piercing beep of the computer alarm continued. “Turn that off!” McKay shouted. Still groggy, Peterson clicked on an icon and the shrill alarm went silent. Peterson had purposely set the alarm on loud, fearful that they might sleep through a softer setting.

Another beep sounded when
Andrew
completed its translation of the message. A box on the monitor now displayed the English text, “
The farmer has died. All have died. Ghaniyah will die soon, too
.”