Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (29 page)

“What do I say?” Peterson asked, frantic. His hands poised above the keyboard.

“Just a minute,” Gonz replied.

“Who is the farmer?” McKay asked.

“Shit,” Heisman mumbled. “Who’s the ‘all?’ ‘All are dead.’ What ‘all?’”

“Focus on what it’s
not
saying,” Gonz said. “He says Ghaniyah will die soon. If they had her, she’d be dead. So it looks like she got away. Agreed?”

“Yeah,” Heisman said as McKay nodded her head.

“We need to say something!” Peterson told them impatiently.

“So Ghaniyah’s alive and she has the ricin,” Heisman observed.

“Farmer was probably the seller of the ricin. Expendable,” Gonz remarked.

“Sounds right,” McKay agreed.

“We need to say something!” Peterson repeated.

“We say that the game’s over,” Heisman announced. “Ghaniyah is working for us, not al Mudtaji, we will have the ricin and that’s it. Game over.”

“I say that?” Peterson asked. “Game over?”

Heisman thought for a moment. “Al Mudtaji has used references to chess in the past. So let’s say, “This is checkmate. Game over. Ghaniyah is working for us. We have the ricin.”

“But we don’t,” McKay argued. “We have no idea where it is.”

“
I
know that,
you
know that,” Heisman retorted, gesturing to the computer. “But this idiot doesn’t.”

“Let’s give ourselves some elbow room,” Gonz said. He touched Peterson on the shoulder. “Say, ‘Checkmate. Game over. Ghaniyah is working for us.’”

Heisman agreed. “Yeah. Fine.”

Peterson quickly typed the text. He looked over his shoulder at Heisman. “Okay?”

“Yep,” Heisman said. “Give it to
Andrew
.”

Peterson hit the translate button and the text instantly appeared in Arabic. He hit the send button.

“I’d like to know more about the farmer,” Gonz said.

“We ask, we let them know we don’t know shit,” Heisman said.

“So Ghaniyah is out there somewhere with the ricin and her brother’s men are tracking her down,” McKay shuttered.

“All the more reason we get to her before they do,” Gonz said.

Sitting at the small kitchen table, Adnan stared at the photo of himself in the paper. He had instantly recognized the photo – it had been taken several years ago by a family friend. Daneen had put a framed copy on her living room side table. He had been given a copy too, but Ghaniyah had swiped it when she had come to his apartment one evening and found it in a kitchen drawer he used for odds and ends. It was a very complimentary photo, and she had been appalled that he had just stuffed it in a drawer.

Now the photo had been made public for the whole world to see. Which meant that he might now be recognized if he left Aref’s apartment. And he’d have to leave if he wanted to talk to Daneen. In fact, he felt a desperate need to see both his sister and her husband. Daneen could help him figure out what to do and convince Maaz to help. The front page photo was taken by Maaz which meant that his brother-in-law had met face-to-face with one of al Mudtaji’s men. Maybe the man had given Maaz a tip about what they were planning to do with the ricin. If Adnan could find out what the plan was, maybe, just maybe, he could find Ghaniyah.

“That’s it?” Aref asked as he spooned hot cereal into two bowls.

“That’s it.” Adnan had just finished reading the two articles aloud since Aref’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be.

“Why didn’t they interview me? I was arrested too.” He placed a bowl in front of Adnan and handed him a spoon.

Adnan smiled. “Be grateful.”

“You think it’s true? About there being a note in the man’s mouth? And what it said?”

“Yeah.” He took a small bite of the cereal which was very hot.

“They think you wrote the note?”

“I gave them a handwriting sample, and I think I passed.”

“You know who wrote it?”

Adnan did. There was no doubt it was the work of Sharif. But he told Aref, “No.” He glanced at the front page of the paper again. The photo looked like Sharif, although he knew it could be anyone. It was simply the backside of a man. If he could talk to Maaz, he could find out for sure.

“Well, I know you didn’t write it.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

Aref scooped a spoonful of cereal in his mouth, saying, “I know.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Adnan admitted, eating greedily now that the cereal had cooled a bit.

“You’re welcome to go with me.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to hear a Parliamentary Cabinet Minister. He is giving a speech. At noon. I want to show him my poster.”

Adnan nodded. “He’ll like it.”

“You can come.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You can stay here. I’ll get some more food. I –”

“No, no. I’ll be leaving.”

“But where will you go?”

“Best you not know.”

Aref seemed to think about this for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll give you some money.”

“It’s okay –”

“You have money?”

Adnan reluctantly shook his head no.

Aref suddenly got up and went to a cupboard. He pulled out lots of food stuffs. Hidden in the back was a small soup can. Prying off the metal lid, he pulled out a thick roll of dinars. He peeled off half the roll and offered it to Adnan.

“No, no –”

“What you don’t spend, you bring back, eh?” When Adnan made no move to take the cash, Aref said, “I have no son. You are like a son. Please.”

Adnan finally accepted the cash. He knew he would need it.

“You have a plan, don’t you?” Aref asked.

Adnan smiled. It wasn’t much of a plan. The first part was simply to find his sister and brother-in-law without getting arrested. Then it suddenly occurred to him. His photograph in the paper had obviously come from Daneen, which meant that she was fully aware of his arrest. However, the paper was clearly in the dark about his escape, which meant Daneen probably didn’t know either. But the Americans knew only too well that he had slipped through their hands. Had they connected him to Daneen and Maaz? If so, were they watching his sister and brother-in-law right now? Just waiting for Adnan to show up?

“We need petrol?” Ghaniyah asked, leaning across the girl sitting in the middle of the truck’s bench seat.

“It’s fine,” the man replied, keeping his eyes on the road.

“How much do we have?”

“Almost half a tank.”

“We’ll stop,” Ghaniyah announced. “My sister can use the break. We’ll get gas anyway.”

The man simply nodded. So far, so good, thought Ghaniyah. She shifted her legs, trying to find a more comfortable position, but with her suitcase wedged onto the passenger side floor, there wasn’t much room for her long legs. She glanced at the man. At first she had thought he was very old, perhaps even 70 years of age, but now she thought it was just the premature deep wrinkles in his face. He certainly didn’t carry himself as an elderly man might, and now he seemed quite content just to drive.

Upon leaving the ranch, Ghaniyah’s first thought had been to get to a bus station. She would leave the girl behind, giving her enough money to take a taxi back home, and she’d be on her way to Baghdad. Then she had remembered that the town of Ash Shatrah was a good fifty kilometers south. Besides the fact that she didn’t want to go south when she needed to go north, the more she had thought about it, the less she liked the idea of being on a bus. For one thing, both the rancher and Yusuf would be looking for her, and since she had already asked the rancher to take her to the bus station, that would be the first place they’d look. In addition, she wouldn’t be able to control where the bus went, who got on, and who might be waiting for her to disembark later. As she had slowly gotten used to the feel of the truck, she had decided to keep heading north, gambling that they could somehow get to Baghdad safely.

She and the girl had exchanged few words, although Ghaniyah had learned that the girl’s name was Abasah. When they had arrived in the small city of Ar Refa’i, the girl had pointed to a man standing alongside the road with a cardboard sign marked
Al Mahmudiyah
, a city just south of Baghdad. Politely telling Ghaniyah that it would be better to have someone else drive, Ghaniyah suddenly stomped on the brakes, making the truck fish-tail before coming to a complete stop. She had quickly told Abasah that they would tell the man they were mother and daughter, heading to Baghdad to be with an ailing relative. Ghaniyah would explain that her husband’s cousin was to have driven them, but he fell ill and her husband was now waiting for them. Abasah had quickly scoffed at the mother/daughter scenario, insisting instead that they were sisters.

But the man hadn’t seemed to care what their story was. He had shown Ghaniyah a valid driver’s license and gave her a brief lecture about the dangers of driving all the way to Baghdad by herself. He and Ghaniyah had quickly come to terms – he would drive the two women to Baghdad and Ghaniyah would give him bus fare back to Al Mahmudiyah, plus a small fee for his driving services.

He had carried only two items, a rolled up newspaper and a small paper bag, which Ghaniyah imagined held his belongings. After tossing his cardboard sign into the truck bed, he had stashed his paper bag inside her aunt’s chest which had bounced a good meter from the back of the cab. Her aunt’s clothes had gathered near the tailgate, and Ghaniyah had carefully put them back in the chest. Then she had wrestled with her suitcase, struggling to fit it onto the passenger side floor. The man had politely offered to put it inside the chest also, but Ghaniyah had firmly replied that it stayed with her. He had simply shrugged and gotten behind the wheel.

A large petrol sign appeared just off the highway. “We’ll stop here,” Ghaniyah said.

The man flipped on the turn indicator as he looked over his shoulder and moved from the fast lane to the slow lane. As they slowed behind a large truck, Ghaniyah noticed the rolled up newspaper sitting on the dashboard on the driver’s side.

“May I see your paper?”

The man leaned forward and handed it to her. “I’m done anyway, but the cartoons.”

“Are they good?” Abasah asked.

“Sometimes.” The exit approached and the man stayed to the right, taking the exit.

Ghaniyah was surprised to see that the paper was
The Iraq National Journal
. The same paper that had a picture of her in the background the day she had brought the head to the checkpoint. The headline sent a shiver through her. “
Al Mudtaji Warns of Large Pending Attack: Note Placed in the Mouth of Decapitated American
.”

“You have some money?” the man asked Ghaniyah.

But she didn’t respond, her face buried in the paper.

“He needs money,” Abasah politely said. When Ghaniyah still didn’t respond, the girl pulled the newspaper down so she could see Ghaniyah’s face. “He needs money.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Ghaniyah asked, her mind in a haze. She had been so engrossed in the article that gave details about al Mudtaji’s note and Thamer and Adnan’s arrest, that she hadn’t heard Abasah or the man behind the wheel.

“You have some cash?” the man asked. “For the petrol fee.”

“I want a Popsicle,” Abasah announced.

Ghaniyah took out some dinars from her dress pocket, surprised to find her hands shaking. She willed them to be still and handed the cash to the driver, saying, “And get some bottled water.”

“And a Popsicle!” Abasah insisted.

Ghaniyah shrugged. To the man she said, “And some Popsicles.”

“Yeah!” Abasah screamed with delight.

Ghaniyah quickly flipped through the paper to the inside page where the picture of Adnan hit her like a bolt of lightening. There he was, staring back at her. Her eyes watered as she looked at the photograph, remembering that she had had a framed copy in her small apartment. She marveled at how handsome he looked.

Tears streaming down her face, she silently vowed that they would be together again. She was sure of it. If for no other reason than she had the poison.

She held all the cards.

It was days like this that Marine Staff Sergeant Michaels hated his job. All the reporters, both print and broadcast, had seen
The Iraq National Journal’
s front-page story and were now demanding answers. Had a note been placed in the decapitated American’s mouth? Did it say that there would be a huge attack on Sunday? Did that mean today? And if so, where? Inside the Green Zone? At the hotels, where the journalists were stationed? What kind of attack? A series of car bombs? Mortar bombs? Surface to air missiles on military aircraft? Civilian airliners?

The questions went on and on. Too numerous to answer, too incessant to ignore. Which had brought him to the door of Marco Polo 5 where he once again found himself talking to the man dressed in Army fatigues, but who he secretly believed was CIA.

“It’s simple,” Gonz told him. “There was nothing in the mouth. Nothing whatsoever.”

“So, then –”

“So, no note. No countdown to today. No big attack, at least that we’ve been given a heads-up on.”

“So, it’s just al Mudtaji–”

“Doing his thing,” Gonz said finishing the staff sergeant’s sentence. “Getting everyone all upset, when there’s no reason to be. Okay?”

The staff sergeant nodded, although it was obvious he wasn’t quite sure.

“No note, no countdown,” Gonz repeated. “If there is an attack, we don’t know what kind, the target, nothing. So, no news.” Gonz patted the Marine on the back and headed back inside MP-5.

Back inside the secure building, Gonz felt anything but confident. While Langley firmly believed there would be an attack with the ricin within the next 18 hours, they still had no idea exactly what al Mudtaji planned to do with it. Since it could be mixed with food quite easily and not even tasted, Heisman had arranged for some Military Intelligence staff to check all incoming food stuffs. Water mains were under heightened surveillance since it seemed quite plausible that al Mudtaji would taint the city’s water supply just as he had done at the aunt’s well in Basra.