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

by M. H. Sargent

  Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 4:08 p.m.

  Daneen was glad that her husband had such a likable personality. Now she just had to adopt that same good nature and easy smile. She opened the glass entrance door, which was stenciled with the words Iraq National Journal in a crescent shape, and entered. She stood there, transfixed. Daneen hadn’t been inside the newspaper offices since the week they had moved in, and she was astonished to see the changes. There were flat-panel monitors on many desks in the main room, larger electronic equipment she didn’t recognize in a glass-enclosed area marked “Graphics,” and some sort of conference room on the opposite side.

  The biggest change was the number of employees. She knew that when Dr. Lami invested his own money into starting the newspaper just a few years ago, he had only two employees. Now how many were there? She actually started counting. She had just gotten to twelve when she heard, “You just missed him, Daneen.” She looked to see Fadhil, the young man Maaz had brought to the house for dinner several times, talking to her. “Went to get a new camera.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she replied, secretly happy he wasn’t there. “I saw the picture he took in today’s newspaper.”

  “Did you see his photo credit?”

  “His photo credit?” she asked, clearly puzzled.

  Fadhil led her to the nearby kiosk where he grabbed a paper. He pointed to Maaz’s full name in tiny font just below the picture. “Not bad, eh?”

  “Wow,” she marveled. It seemed so strange to see her husband’s name in a newspaper.

  “He’s doing very well. That’s why Dr. Lami’s getting him a good camera.”

  “He takes good pictures?”

  “Really good. Would you like to see?”

  “Yes, please,” she answered. This was the exact reason she had come to the newspaper after leaving Adnan. She followed Fadhil to his desk, which sat fairly close to the entrance. The monitor was pitch black, but he moved the mouse and it came to life. “This is yours?” she asked.

  “Yep. I do a lot of the paste-up, copy editing, cropping photos and all the computer stuff that anyone needs here,” he explained with an easy smile. He sat down and clicked on one program, then another. “Here it is.”

  Daneen watched the slide show of Maaz’s pictures taken of the American two-star general at a podium, then the severed head, which she still found gruesome to watch, and finally two pictures of Ghaniyah. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she stepped closer to the monitor for a better look. Both photos were fairly close-up, one with her hands handcuffed as she sat on the ground cross-legged, and another of her walking away from the camera, but turning to look back at something. The slide show stopped on that photo– a photo which clearly showed her beautiful face. There was no doubt. It was Ghaniyah.

  Finding her voice, Daneen asked, “Who is the woman?”

  “Don’t know. We’re working on it. Probably be in tomorrow’s paper, maybe the day after.”

  She could only stare at the screen, grateful that Maaz had never met Ghaniyah. In fact, the only time Adnan had brought Ghaniyah to the house was one time last summer – a day when Maaz was busy at work. The truth was that her brother and husband had nothing in common. While Adnan had gone to university, Maaz had been content to work odd labor jobs. Whenever they were together, there seemed to be a chasm that only Daneen could fill, bridging the gap. It was awkward, but she loved both men.

  “Are you all right?” she heard. Then again in a louder voice, “Daneen, are you all right?”

  Daneen tore her eyes away from Ghaniyah’s image and said, “Yes.” She touched him on the shoulder. “Thank you for showing me.” She started to leave, then turned to the young man. “Those photos? You can send them places by computer, yes?”

  “E-mail, you mean? Yes. The one in today’s paper we sent to the A.P.” He saw her puzzled look and said, “Associated Press. Money from just one picture like that can keep us going for awhile. We’ll get more when we publish the rest.”

  Daneen gave a slight smile. “I see. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  Fadhil watched her leave sensing that something was wrong. He wondered what it was.

  Basra, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 6:06 p.m.

  It wasn’t until early evening that McKay had a chance to see the photos in the Iraq National Journal. As had already been arranged, she had entered a café near the hospital just after six o’clock, taking a seat near the back. She carried a copy of the Arabic edition of the newspaper since no English editions had been available at the newsstand. Now sipping some tea, she unfolded the paper and scrutinized the photo.

  While she could see the vague image of Ghaniyah in the background, since the Iraqi woman had been wearing a hijab, it could’ve been anyone. Something good to be said about their damned head coverings after all, McKay thought. She put the paper on the chair at an adjacent table, and a minute later Ghaniyah entered the café, removing the newspaper to sit down just a meter away from McKay. The restaurant had very few patrons, which suited their purposes quite well. When a waiter came to the table, Ghaniyah ordered some tea and black bread.

  Holding her tea cup in front of her lips, McKay said quietly, “We may have a problem.” She could see Ghaniyah look at her in surprise, and she quickly hissed, “Don’t look at me.” From her peripheral vision she could see Ghaniyah glance away. “That paper ran a photo of what happened yesterday. You’re in the background. We’re worried there may be more to follow.”

  Now sipping the tea, she saw Ghaniyah unfold the newspaper and study the pictures. No one in the café was paying any attention to the two women, so McKay continued, “If that happens, we’re pulling you out.” Ghaniyah didn’t say a word, seeming to be engrossed in the photo. “It could be anyone. The hijab helped shadow your face.” Still nothing from the attractive young woman, so McKay said, “You look at the chest?”

  Taking her lead from McKay, Ghaniyah held her tea cup close to her face, blocking any sign that she was talking. “It’s just a chest. With her clothes.”

  McKay felt a tinge of disappointment. “Did you look under the drawers? Pull them out and check that nothing is taped to the bottom. A note, perhaps?”

  “There is nothing but her clothes,” Ghaniyah replied adamantly.

  McKay thought a moment. “That’s the only chest?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was filled with contempt.

  “I’ll need to come by. Tomorrow.” McKay knew that although Ghaniyah had given her aunt’s name and address to Gonz, the CIA hadn’t been able to locate her home. Which meant they were dependent on Ghaniyah.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Ghaniyah responded.

  “I’m off at two this afternoon. I can be there after that.”

  “Did you see my aunt?” Ghaniyah whispered.

  “No. I didn’t have a chance.”

  “She is very sick. I don’t think they know what’s wrong.” The waiter seated a young couple fairly close by, and Ghaniyah continued in hushed voice. “I’d like you to help her.”

  Instead of answering, McKay stood and fished out some money from her wallet, leaving it on the table. As she turned to leave, she faced Ghaniyah. “I’ll do what I can. We’ll leave tomorrow about two-thirty.”

  A moment later McKay was gone.

  Baghdad, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 9:17 p.m.

  Although quite a few people in the crowd had flashlights, Maaz found it still very hard to see exactly what it was. He stood on the bank of the Tigris River, very close to the concrete bridge that spanned high above him. Suddenly the crowd started shouting, and he heard the roar of an engine. He turned away from the bridge just in time to see a large Nissan truck skid down the rocky embankment toward the river, heading directly toward them.

  “Faris!” Maaz called out.

  “I’m right behind you,” he heard his son reply. He turned to see Faris holding his young brother. He put a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder as they watched the truck approach the crowd
which had parted slightly. A moment later, a row of spotlights mounted on top of the truck cab blinded the mob, many whom had to turn away or put up a hand to block the glaring lights.

  “Higher, higher!” someone shouted. There was a chorus of instruction shouted at the truck driver, and a moment later a passenger climbed out of the truck window and scrambled onto the hood. He leaned across the windshield and manually adjusted the powerful spotlights, one by one. Suddenly there was a gasp from the crowd. Maaz turned to face the bridge, which was now lit up like it was daytime.

  It was a truly gruesome sight.

  The headless body had been hung by its ankles from a middle trellis of the bridge. He wore only pants and his arms hung down, as if reaching for the water below.

  “Is that a person?” Faris asked softly.

  “Let’s go,” Maaz heard Dr. Lami say. He turned to see his boss take the baby from Faris. Their eyes met. “We’ll be at the car.”

  “I want to stay,” Faris protested.

  “No, you go with Dr. Lami. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Who is it?” Faris asked. “Where’s his head?”

  “Go with the doctor,” Maaz insisted. He could see Faris was about to argue, so he said firmly, “Now.”

  The crowd suddenly started to enthusiastically chant “Death to the infidel! Death to the infidel!” Maaz saw Faris take another look at the body, then trudge after Dr. Lami who was making his way up the steep slope. After waiting a few moments to make sure Faris was indeed leaving, Maaz turned back to the bridge. He used the camera slung around his neck to zoom in on the body. As he gently touched the shutter button, the Nikon’s auto-focus adjusted the lens and the flash automatically popped up. Maaz wasn’t sure he needed the flash, but he correctly presumed the camera knew better than he did. He quickly took a series of pictures from various angles. He even took a picture of the still shouting crowd for good measure. He then pressed another button and viewed the images he’d just taken on the LCD display on the back of the Nikon. He could see that all the pictures were indeed good. He took a few more pictures, over-riding the flash. When he checked, these were a bit dark, but they did have an edgy, artistic feel.

  There was a sudden skirmish and more shouting from the mob. Maaz saw that the Iraqi Security Forces had arrived and were trying to dispel the crowd. Not wanting to lose his camera for a second time, Maaz knew it was time to leave. He quickly moved away from the truck’s bright spotlights, disappearing into the night.

  Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 10:03 p.m.

  To make it look like a robbery, Adnan had broken a window on the side of the building using a rock. He continued using the rock on the glass, in order to create a large enough opening through which a burglar could have entered. Then he and his sister had entered through the front door using Maaz’s extra set of keys. It had been Adnan’s idea to also take the computer’s monitor and a small television set, just to further ensure the look of a chance robbery.

  Daneen felt terrible guilt, but she knew they didn’t have a choice. If the newspaper printed pictures of Ghaniyah, the girl would be doomed – if she wasn’t raped and tortured by Shiites while in prison, al Mudtaji would have her killed. Daneen had reminded Adnan that if Ghaniyah had indeed brought the severed head to the checkpoint, she was most likely in an American-run prison. Adnan certainly hoped so. A prison run by the Iraqi Security Forces was simply unthinkable.

  Daneen found it ironic that while much of the world thought that the Americans were cold, heartless thugs, who often tortured their prisoners, she, like many Iraqis, knew the truth – making naked prisoners form a pyramid or making them wear a dog’s collar and leash were simply forms of harassment and humiliation, not true torture. The Iraqis knew torture only too well from years of oppression under Saddam Hussein, and now by some rogue Shiite members of the Iraqi Security Forces. In fact, it hadn’t been that long ago that the U.S. soldiers actually found nearly 200 detainees held in an Interior Ministry bunker. They were all malnourished, many severely beaten.

  If Ghaniyah had been arrested, Daneen prayed she had been taken by the Americans. It was her only chance for survival.

  She now carried the monitor while her brother juggled the CPU and the television set. They had already walked a good distance from the newspaper office using side streets, and had been fortunate that they had not seen a soul. Her arms were aching, and she longed to put the monitor down. “How much further, Adnan?”

  “We’re almost there,” he answered, looking over his shoulder at her. “You okay?”

  She nodded in reply. She couldn’t help but wonder what Maaz’s reaction would be when he discovered that the computer containing his photographs had been stolen. Judging by his anger at the Iraqi Security Forces when they had confiscated his camera, she was sure he’d be impossible to live with. She consoled herself that if he was irate, she could just go to the bedroom and lie down, feigning sickness from her “pregnancy.”

  Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 11:14 p.m.

  The four men from the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines wore night-vision goggles which enabled them to look around the inside of the dark building quite easily without using flashlights. Gonz glanced at Peterson and Heisman who sat together at a desk working on a computer.

  “Shit!” Gonz heard one of the Marines say through his earpiece. The voice continued, saying, “Got a broken window. East wall.”

  “Double check security!” Gonz hissed into his headset. “Now!” As the group had entered through the front door, which Heisman had easily picked, the Marines had quickly gone room to room, making sure the office building was secure. But obviously they had missed something. As he headed toward the east wall, Gonz could feel the blast of fresh air.

  “West wall secure,” one Marine reported.

  Another voice echoed through his earpiece. “South end secure.”

  “North end secure. Repeat, north end secure.”

  Gonz approached the Marine who was peering out the broken window near a desk on the east wall. He looked over his shoulder at Gonz and shook his head. No one was out there. As the Marine stepped away from the window, they could hear the crunch of broken glass under his heavy boots. “Broken from the outside in. My guess, tonight. Whoever uses this desk would have seen all the glass. And felt the hot air coming in. There’s no way this happened before tonight.”

  Gonz nodded. Shit. Was it just a coincidence that they broke in the same night as some burglar? As Gonz quickly headed across the room toward Peterson, another Marine said, “Got something near the front entrance.” Gonz changed direction and joined the man who used a yellow filtered flashlight to focus on the floor. “Missing CPU.” Gonz could see a bunch of plugs that now just dangled to the floor and the visible imprint of a CPU on the carpet. He took the man’s flashlight and trained it on the desk. While a very fine dust was settled on the desk, the outline of a monitor footprint was clearly seen. The Marine saw it, too. “Stole the CPU and monitor?”

  Gonz said, “See if you can tell if anything else was taken.” The man nodded and left. Gonz went over to Peterson, whose hands were flying across the keyboard. Heisman stood next to him, passing a large magnet over 3.5" floppy disks.

  “What have we got, guys?” Gonz asked.

  “Using the software interface to destroy the data now.” Peterson kept typing.

  “You found the photos then?”

  “No problem.”

  “Yeah, no problem cause I’m here,” Heisman chided him. “He can’t read their shit.”

  “Who can?” Peterson argued.

  Gonz looked at the monitor. All the icons were in Arabic.

  “How long?” Gonz inquired.

  “Five minutes, tops,” Peterson replied. “But I found some Compact Flash memory cards, too.” He could see Gonz didn’t understand, so he said, “Magnet won’t do the trick. I’ll scrub them with an overwrite of their own stuff. Fill ‘em up that way.”

  “Check online?”

  “
Done,” Heisman told him. “The two photos already in print were sent to the A.P. Nowhere else. No other photos sent anywhere.”

  “Good. What else then?”

  Peterson nodded to Heisman, still working with the magnet. “Just erasing all the disks. Hate to do this to them, but there are disks everywhere. Don’t have the time to see if they put the photos on one.”

  Gonz nodded. He didn’t like hurting the newspaper either. It was one of the few Iraqi newspapers that was actually pro-democracy. While that was a bit of bad luck, they had had some good luck, too. First, they had been lucky to retrieve the digital camera that the Iraqi Security Forces still had in their possession. The digital card was missing, and the Iraqi police had insisted that the camera had never had a memory card. Of course, Gonz hadn’t trusted them, but once inside the newspaper office, Peterson had quickly found three camera memory cards inside a desk drawer. Gonz had popped them in the camera and found the one with Ghaniyah’s pictures. The other two were returned to the desk drawer.

  They were lucky again to be able to find the photos on the newspaper’s main server. Peterson was erasing all traces of the photos now. The only remaining question was, why did someone break in and take just one computer? The office was filled with computers.

  Why that one?

  And did it have the photos on it?

  Chapter Eight

  Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 11:38 p.m.

  Standing in the dark alley, Daneen watched as Adnan removed a screwdriver from his pocket and quickly detached the protective CPU cover, exposing the inner workings of the computer. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Taking out the hard drive.”