McKay grinned. Ghaniyah was absolutely correct, she thought. But instead of agreeing with the Iraqi woman, she said, “I never really thought of him that way.”
“Oh, please,” the Iraqi woman responded. “He is a nice looking man. Very nice looking. He’s –”
“A hunk,” McKay volunteered.
Laughing, Ghaniyah offered, “Exactly.”
McKay quickly sent the photos to Peterson’s e-mail just as Gonz had directed her a couple of hours ago via another text message. She had no idea why they wanted photographs of the dresser, but it didn’t matter. As she had explained to Ghaniyah, she was following orders.
“Is he married?” Ghaniyah asked.
“I don’t know,” McKay replied lamely. The truth of the matter was that Gonz was single, and they had come very close to having an affair almost a year ago while working closely together in Kirkuk, but Gonz had suddenly put the brakes on, saying they had to remain professional. Since then, their relationship had been all business. In fact, McKay made a point to never share anything personal with him again and Gonz had done the same. Which left them with a strictly professional relationship – just as Gonz wanted. She knew that having an affair while working in the middle of a war’s hot zone was stupid, but the truth was she had very strong feelings for him. Attraction yes. But also something more.
As if reading her thoughts, Ghaniyah said, “Well, maybe after the war, yes?”
McKay ignored the talk about Gonz saying, “We need to pull out all the drawers.”
Ghaniyah quickly pulled out the top drawer, and McKay helped her put it on the floor. Then McKay carefully removed each clothing item, inspecting it closely before stacking it nearby. McKay looked at Ghaniyah. “Why does your brother want this? There has to be a reason.”
“Half-brother,” Ghaniyah reminded her defensively.
“Sorry.” After clearing out all the clothes, McKay tipped the drawer up on one end, running her hand across the smooth bottom.
“I looked,” Ghaniyah offered. “You told me to check the bottom.”
“I know,” McKay said. She then double-checked the side panels. Nothing. “Okay, next one.” The two women quickly inspected the remaining four drawers. Just more clothes. Nothing hidden in the clothes. Nothing in the drawers themselves, no papers taped to the bottom panels, nothing even remotely out of place. McKay then checked the dresser shell, making sure there wasn’t something, anything, attached to the wood or written on the furniture. It was bare.
“Any ideas? Any idea why al Mudtaji wants this so bad?” McKay inquired again, frustrated. Ghaniyah gave another shrug. “Doesn’t make sense,” McKay continued. “He sends you down here. Alone. Tells you to bring back the dresser. Why?” Ghaniyah shook her head. McKay felt her cell phone vibrate in her skirt pocket and quickly took it out. The display read, “Call from Lt. Collins.” Gonz’s cover name. And he was calling this time. She answered, saying, “Yes.”
“Can you talk?” Gonz asked, meaning could she talk freely? They both knew the line was secure.
“Yes. We’re at the house. I got the water sample, and we’re just checking on the chest of drawers now.”
“Anything?”
“Women’s clothes.”
“You went through the clothes?”
“There’s nothing, Gonz. Trust me.”
Dead silence for a moment. Then, “Any writing? Even just one or two words? Maybe on the inside of a dresser panel? Or the bottom?”
“It’s clean,” McKay responded curtly. She didn’t like being second-guessed.
“Just thinking out loud.”
“I sent Peterson some photos just now,” she told him, all business.
“Good.” Again there was silence. “It’s just strange. We should be able to pick up on something.” More silence, then, “I feel like we’re missing something.”
“Look, I hear you.” she said in a softer tone. “I’ve been asking Ghaniyah, but she’s at a loss too. I know it doesn’t make much sense.”
“I do have one theory.”
“Yeah?”
“On the way to Baghdad, al Mudtaji has her stop and pick up something. Put it in the chest, it’s out of sight.”
“Like what?”
“Weapons. How big are the drawers?”
McKay looked at the dresser drawer at her feet. “Two and a half feet wide. Maybe eight inches in height.”
“How many drawers?”
“Five.”
“Put some weapons in it, she gets stopped, it might not get the once over. She says it belonged to her aunt.”
“Maybe,” McKay volunteered, her voice flat.
“Keep on Ghaniyah. Maybe she’ll remember something. Anything.”
“Right.” She wanted to tell him not to worry. They’d figure it out. But for all she knew they were on a wild goose chase.
“Can you get the water samples to the Basra air field by seventeen hundred?” Gonz asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah. We’re almost done here.”
“I’ll have our man there send you a text so you can find him. He’ll send it at sixteen hundred.”
“Got it.” McKay headed over to the window and looked out at the barren landscape. “Any progress on your end?”
“The note in Quizby’s mouth was from Thamer’s pharmacy. We’re about to go in right now.”
“Too bad we don’t have the torso yet, or we could–”
“We do have it. It was dumped last night,” Gonz quickly interrupted. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“Just another possible coincidence,” McKay responded. “Remember when he was taken, there was talk that he had a serious heart condition? And that his medication was found in his hotel room? Unless he had more meds on him when he was kidnapped, that means he didn’t have long to live, never mind that he was a DUCK.”
“And he was held nearly three weeks,” Gonz said, continuing her line of reasoning.
“Exactly, so unless he had some sort of miraculous recovery, which I doubt very much, his body should show trace amounts of an Iraqi or European type ace inhibitor, maybe beta blockers or blood thinners like warfarin and heparin.”
“Which would have been prescribed by a doctor.”
“And most likely dispensed by a pharmacy. A pharmacy like Thamer’s Pharmacy.”
Her back to Ghaniyah, she didn’t see the Iraqi woman blanch.
Jadida, Iraq Friday, April 14th 1:12 p.m.
Gonz pocketed his cell phone and told Heisman about McKay’s thoughts on Quizby’s possibly being given Iraqi heart medication. “She’s good,” Heisman said with a grin. “She’s very, very good.”
Gonz smiled to himself. If he told McKay how great an asset she was, she would probably balk. He quickly called Peterson telling him to find out exactly what kind of heart condition Quizby had, what type of medication he had been on, and then relay that information to the medical examiner’s office inside the Green Zone where an autopsy was probably already in progress. He knew the medical examiner would most likely do a full tox screen, but he told Peterson to make sure.
He hung up and looked at the pharmacy which was just down the street from where they sat in the Humvee. They had seen the young man leave the café and go into a small nearby mosque for midday prayers. Not wanting to draw more attention to themselves than necessary, they had waited for him near the pharmacy. Now, he was approaching. Gonz suddenly said, “Let’s do it.”
He and Heisman got out of the Humvee and headed down the street.
“Sorry,” Adnan said contritely as he stepped up behind the pharmacy counter. “I went for Salatu-l-Asr.”
“I hope you said Salatu-l-Asr for me as well,” Thamer replied with a wink as he placed a sticky instruction label on a vial of pills.
“No such luck,” Adnan replied easily. He stepped up to a small closet and retrieved his white smock, which he wore only when inside the pharmacy. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“I hate all the gymnastics involved in Salaat,
” the older man said grumpily.
Adnan laughed. “A young man’s prayer, eh?”
“You laugh. Wait until you’re my age. Stand. Hands over your stomach like you have a belly-ache. Bow. Then kneel. Face to the ground. Sit back up. Kneel again. But now with your foot out. Kneel face down again.” He waved his hand, dismissing the thought. “Ridiculous.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” Adnan told him, suddenly serious.
Thamer stopped what he was doing and gave Adnan a stern look. “Do you know what’s in your heart?”
Adnan wasn’t sure what Thamer meant so he just shrugged. “I guess.”
“No, tell me,” Thamer insisted. “Do you know what’s in your heart? Do you have evil thoughts? You want to hurt someone? Hurt yourself? You harbor hate and ill will?”
“No.”
“Well then, you know your heart. Now, you think Allah, Allah who is great, you think in all His infinite wisdom, He knows what’s in your heart?” Before Adnan could answer, Thamer forcefully replied, “Of course. So do you think you have to do all that calisthenics just so He knows what’s in your heart?” Another wave of the hand. “No.”
“I just meant you shouldn’t say it’s ‘ridiculous.’”
“All right, it’s tiring. For an old man like me, it’s tiring. My body is old. But my heart is true, and I have to believe Allah sees that.”
Adnan nodded. He wasn’t all that surprised by his mentor’s outburst. Though they typically took breaks at noon and mid-afternoon, when most devout Muslims offered their daily prayers, he knew Thamer rarely participated in the rituals anymore because of his aching back. “Maybe I should give you some pain pills,” Adnan said playfully.
Thamer laughed. “Don’t tempt me. Don’t tempt me.”
The front door opened and Adnan looked up to see two American officers enter. One was a nice looking white man, the other a large black man. Their Army fatigues said both were lieutenants. Unlike the day of the beheading, when Adnan helped an American soldier find eye drops, he wasn’t frightened this time. “See what they want,” Thamer told him.
Adnan briskly walked down the two steps to the main floor and approached the men. “May I assist you?” he asked in English.
“We need to speak to you,” the white man replied. “And your boss.”
Suddenly Adnan’s heart thundered. He stood for a moment, unmoving. The black man addressed him in Arabic, “Thamer. He is Thamer, correct?”
“Yes,” Adnan replied in Arabic.
“We need to speak to both of you,” the black man continued. Nodding to the front door he said, “You may want to put the closed sign in place.”
“I don’t understand,” Adnan muttered in Arabic.
“Put the closed sign in place,” the black man repeated.
Adnan glanced over his shoulder at Thamer, but the old man was busy filling another prescription. Adnan quickly went to the door and flipped the plastic sign that hung from a hook on the glass door.
“You are Thamer?” the black man called out in Arabic. Thamer looked up in surprise, but didn’t answer. Heading to the steps, the black man looked over his shoulder at Adnan. “Both of you, if you please.”
The black man walked up the two steps and joined Thamer who finally said in surprise, “What’s this?”
“Just a few questions, sir.”
Adnan looked at the white man who motioned for him to follow. He reluctantly joined Thamer and the black man behind the long counter. The white man was right behind him and suddenly pulled something small out of his breast pocket and slapped it down on the counter. “Recognize this?”
Adnan looked at the object. It was a small yellow piece of paper laid out neatly inside a plastic bag. He saw the pharmacy’s name and address on the top and he immediately knew that the paper was the yellow carbon from their notepads. In the right-hand corner some very faint writing in Arabic. The black man translated what the white man had asked, and Thamer now took the plastic bag in his hands, peering at the paper inside with great puzzlement. Then he handed it back to the white man. “It’s our prescription paper, yes,” Thamer said in Arabic.
Adnan didn’t say a word. He probably couldn’t if he wanted to. His heart hammered in his chest. His mind raced.
“I don’t understand,” Thamer said. “Why have you brought this?”
“We need your help,” the black lieutenant said politely. “Tracing who the paper belongs to.”
“You remember an American was beheaded three days ago?” Gonz asked Adnan in English. “The head was found near the Green Zone?”
Heisman again translated word for word.
“You do remember, don’t you?” Gonz pressed Adnan.
“Yes,” Adnan finally said.
“Inside the man’s mouth was a note. From his killers. Al Mudtaji. You know him?”
“No,” Adnan whispered, his voice failing him.
The black lieutenant repeated the question and Thamer said, “Everyone knows al Mudtaji. He’s a traitor.”
“You know him,” Gonz confirmed in English looking at Thamer. Then he turned to face Adnan. “But you don’t. How’s that?”
“I meant I don’t know him.” He turned to Heisman and said in Arabic, “You know, personally. I don’t know him personally. But of course, everyone knows of him.”
Gonz continued, “So this paper, which comes from your pharmacy here, was found in the dead American’s mouth. Can you explain that?”
Not trusting his voice, Adnan shook his head no as the black man once again translated. Thamer then picked up the plastic bag holding the note to examine it again. Then he spoke to Heisman in rapid Arabic.
Gonz watched as the man pointed to the Arabic handwriting in the right-hand corner. Although these men would never know it, this note was not the original, but rather one taken from the notepad they had secured a couple nights ago. Gonz had then had Heisman carefully write the same exact word they had found on the original note. “Aref.” Which the CIA had concluded was an Arabic male name. He watched as Thamer went on and on, pointing to the handwritten name.
Heisman finally motioned for him to be quiet and said to Gonz, “He says this paper may belong to one of their customers. An Aref al-Balbusi. It’s his name on the paper, so it must belong to him. He lives here in Jadida.”
“He is a friend of al Mudtaji?” Gonz asked. There was more translating and then the black American shook his head.
“How old is he?” Gonz inquired.
Heisman asked Thamer who stepped over to a large Rolodex, flipping through the cards. Thamer looked to Adnan and said in Arabic, “He’s my age. No, older. Right?”
“Seventy, seventy-five.” Adnan said in both Arabic and English.
“A little old to be a terrorist,” Gonz put in.
Thamer handed the card to Heisman, rapidly explaining in Arabic. Heisman looked to Gonz and translated, “He says he knows the guy’s not a terrorist. He’s known him and his wife all his life. Says he’s a good man.”
“He is,” Adnan repeated in English. “He’s a good man. He wouldn’t do such a thing.” As Gonz studied him, Adnan felt he needed to fill the dead space with words so he continued, saying, “Maybe it’s not Aref’s. Maybe someone stole it. It only has his name. Maybe we started to write something down, then someone took the notepad.”
“And you didn’t notice?” Gonz asked skeptically.
“No,” Adnan shrugged. No doubt al Mudtaji stole it, but Adnan never saw him swipe the paper, so the truth was he didn’t notice.
“Why would someone steal paper that has your name embossed on it?” Gonz asked. “They that desperate for paper around here?”
“I don’t know,” Adnan said lamely, his will fading. “I can’t explain it.” Which was the truth. Although al Mudtaji had told him he was going to give the Americans “a message,” he had had no idea that it would be written on paper and stuffed in the man’s mouth. Or, that the paper would be from his pharmacy.
Heisman turn
ed to Thamer and said harshly in Arabic, “We think you know al Mudtaji and we think you helped him.”
Thamer stared at the black man, his face suddenly ashen. “We don’t know him. No one does.”
“No one?”
“No one we know.”
“Maybe one of our customers,” Adnan said in Arabic, his voice sounding eager to his own ears. “We don’t lock them away. Look. Here’s one.” He reached for one of their notepads lying on the counter. Showed it to the Americans. “Someone could’ve taken it.”
Heisman quickly translated for Gonz who simply shook his head. “A customer? A customer took it?”
“Could be,” Adnan replied in English.
“We don’t know anything about this,” Thamer said emphatically in Arabic. “We have nothing to do with al Mudtaji. The man’s a criminal! He should be locked up! What he does, it’s barbaric!”
After Heisman translated, Gonz looked at Adnan. “What about you? You have something to do with al Mudtaji? Something your boss here doesn’t even know about?”
“No,” Adnan stammered. “Of course not.”
“You agree with him? Death to the Americans? You call us infidels? You–”
“No!”
“What’s he saying?” Thamer asked angrily of Adnan.
“He’s asking if your friend here likes al Mudtaji,” Heisman explained in Arabic. “Believes in his cause.”
“Of course not,” Thamer answered defiantly. “Don’t be absurd!”
“No,” Adnan repeated.
Gonz stared at the younger man. He knew the young pharmacist was nervous, and his gut told him that he was their link to al Mudtaji. “Okay,” he said politely. “So someone could have easily taken a notepad.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” Adnan confirmed in English.
“Okay, let’s say I buy that. I still have another problem.” He waited a moment, watching the nervous Muslim. “The American who was beheaded? He had a poor heart. He needed medication. Medication he didn’t have with him when he was kidnapped.” There! He saw it. A brief flicker in the young man’s face. Fear? He pressed on. “He wouldn’t have lived very long without that medication. And since we’ve now found the man’s body, we’re doing tests. A toxicology screen. But I can bet you any amount of money you want that we’ll find trace amounts of beta blockers, ACE inhibitors, maybe something else. Some drug that kept his heart ticking until al Mudtaji was ready for him to die.” Gonz let that sink in a moment then added. “What do you think the odds are? Odds are that we find note paper from only one shop in all the country, and it comes from here? And odds that a kidnap victim was given medication – medication that came from here, too?”
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 12
