Uncomfortable by everyone staring at her, she lifted the lid of the teapot and poured in the hot water. “I don’t know. Maybe she had not been true to her husband, so he gave her to al Mudtaji.” No one said a word, so Daneen pressed on. “Maybe she was simply told to do it. Maybe her brother, her father, maybe they are in with al Mudtaji. They told her to take the head. She doesn’t, well...”
“What?” Colonel K.C. asked. “You mean they threatened her?”
“Exactly!” Daneen answered.
“Depending upon her crime,” Duqaq explained, “Her family could decide to put her to death.”
“Or worse,” Daneen said. She noticed this surprised the American, so she explained. “In our culture, if a woman disobeys her husband, or if she is young and unmarried and disobeys her father or a brother, they can make her life a living hell. They can force her to do as they please.”
“Not everyone acts like that,” Maaz corrected. “This is a very diverse country with many different beliefs. Different values. Not everyone, not all men, would do that.”
“True,” Daneen agreed with a tight smile. “But we don’t know her background. Who she is or why she did what she did.”
“And you think that’s what happened to this woman?” Colonel K.C. asked. “That she acted against her will?”
“I don’t know,” Daneen replied. “No one does. So, I think we shouldn’t be in judgment of her. That’s all.”
“Very interesting,” Colonel K.C. said. “I presumed she was al Qaeda. But perhaps not. Perhaps that is why...” His voice trailed off as he looked in his empty tea cup.
“Even so,” Fadhil said, “It wouldn’t change anything.”
“Au contraire,” the American journalist said. “Au contraire. If, as Daneen here says, this woman was forced to do it, then we have an entirely different line of questioning for ourselves.”
“Such as...?” Maaz asked.
“This is war,” Colonel K.C. mused. “If one side is using you, you get caught, the other side will use you just as quick.”
Chapter Twelve
The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 6:38 a.m. (One Day From Sunday)
As Gonz made his way down the stairs to the soundproof basement, he was glad McKay was in Basra. Although he didn’t relish coercion techniques, he knew they had very little chance of gaining important information by any other means. He just wished some U.S. Congressmen could understand that. As Heisman had once said, “How about we take one of those Congressmen’s family members, then say, ‘Oh, an al Qaeda terrorist has your loved one and we’ve caught the terrorist and asked oh, so nicely where your beloved family member is being held, but guess what? He just spit in our faces. So sorry we couldn’t learn more. Hope your loved one comes home soon. With their head still attached to their shoulders.’” Then Heisman had laughed long and hard.
As Gonz walked across the cement floor, he saw that Heisman and three men from Military Intelligence were already in the room, preparing the suspect. He was a little bit late, conferring with Langley on the interrogation. It had taken a few hours, but he had now been given the green light for what was commonly referred to as “compelled interrogation.” There really wasn’t a choice in the matter. They were quickly running out of time.
He looked at Adnan who was stretched out on his back, tied down to a long plank of wood. The Iraqi was blindfolded, his arms strapped to his sides, his feet bound by heavy leather straps at the end of the board. The plank now sat at a 45-degree angle, his feet near the floor. Much like a child’s teeter-totter, the plank was balanced on a central fulcrum which would allow them to tilt Adnan back.
Gonz caught Heisman’s eye, and the big man shook his head. Adnan still hadn’t fully answered their questions. Now it had come to this. Gonz stepped forward and said, “We’re a go, men. We’re a go.”
Bound and blindfolded, Adnan remained stoic, not uttering a word or even moving a muscle, although Gonz knew he had to be frightened.
After he and Heisman had questioned the young man and Thamer, four Special Forces soldiers had quietly taken both men into custody. Gonz and Heisman had then gone to the home of Aref, only to learn that he has a tendency to put his life on the line by hanging around known insurgent target areas. Both old men, Aref and Thamer, were being held nearby, and Gonz felt certain that they had nothing to do with al Mudtaji.
Adnan, however, seemed to be an enigma. He had yielded no information from simple interrogation and been given a meal and allowed to sleep in a comfortable bed on the first floor. While Gonz was sure the man knew more than he was willing to divulge, something struck him as peculiar – something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It had bothered him all night and left him with very little sleep.
Gonz stood over Adnan and removed the blindfold. The Iraqi blinked quite a bit and looked at the men in the room. As Gonz studied the man’s face, he suddenly knew what it was. While Gonz had interrogated a number of al Qaeda suspects before, they all had one thing in common – a hatred in their eyes that was clear as day. This man did not have that. Instead he looked at Gonz with the same mournful eyes a sad puppy at a humane shelter might have. As if to say, “I don’t want to be here. Please help me.”
“I’m sorry,” Gonz heard himself say, a bit surprised by his own words.
“I have done nothing wrong,” Adnan softly replied. This had been his mantra since he had been taken into custody.
“I just want whatever information you have on al Mudtaji. What he’s planning for tomorrow. Then I won’t have to do this.”
But Adnan didn’t reply this time. Instead he simply closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the plank, as if he were about to take a nap.
“Coming through, sir,” one of the men said, and Gonz quickly moved out of the way. The man carried a large watering can and placed it on the floor. The sound of the water sloshing over the container and onto the floor seemed to awaken Adnan, and his eyes grew big at the sight of the watering can. Suddenly he started to squirm, but the restraints were tight, his fidgeting pointless. The same man quickly wrapped Adnan’s head with a wide swathe of cheesecloth. Adnan was upset now, crying out in Arabic, but his voice was nearly muted by the tight fabric across his face.
Gonz looked over to one of the men who now held a video camera, focusing it on Adnan. He glanced at Gonz. “Rolling.”
“Let’s do it,” Gonz said to the men.
“Gimme a one to ten,” said the man who had brought in the watering can.
“Four,” Gonz replied after some thought. The scale was simply a way of determining the severity of the interrogation technique. One, the lightest interrogation, ten the most intense.
Heisman then placed his large hands on the plank, tilting it so that Adnan was soon level with the floor. A moment later, Adnan was tipped back, his head down, his feet up. With his feet higher on the plank than his head, his lungs would also be higher than his mouth, making it impossible that he would actually take in great amounts of water directly to the lungs and drown. However, Adnan would have no way of knowing this. And even if he did reason this out, with the tight cheesecloth over his head, breathing would be extremely difficult, making him feel as if he was about to be asphyxiated.
Gonz had been trained to resist an inquisition using a variety of interrogation techniques, so he had in fact, undergone waterboarding preparation. He knew for a fact that it was a truly terrible feeling.
But it also worked.
Even the toughest opponents usually lasted no more than thirteen and a half seconds. It was a quick way to get answers without leaving any marks on the body.
“Go,” Gonz said. The man who had brought in the watering can, now lifted it over Adnan’s head and began to pour water onto the Iraqi’s face. Adnan instinctively tried to get away, but the firm bindings kept him in place. After what Gonz knew felt like an eternity, the water pouring was stopped and Heisman tilted the plank so that Adnan was perpendicular to the floor. They could hear the
gasps, as Adnan tried desperately to breathe through the cloth.
“Again,” Gonz said. The plank was tilted back again, Adnan’s head lower than his feet, and water was poured over his face. This time Gonz said harshly, “Al Mudtaji! Tell me what you know and this stops!” There were grunt noises along with the gasps and Gonz said to the men, “Stop.”
Heisman brought the plank level as the man on the other side used surgical scissors to cut away the cloth over the mouth and nose. Adnan gasped for air, drinking in as much oxygen as humanly possible. Not letting up, Gonz demanded, “Tell me! Tell me about al Mudtaji!”
Adnan wheezed a few words in Arabic and Heisman swiftly translated. “Yes, I will say. I will say.”
“C’mon! English!” Gonz charged. The truth was, he hated waiting for the damned translation.
“Yes,” Adnan panted in English. “I was there...”
“Where?”
“At the beheading. Of the American. I was in the Ring of Allah.”
Gonz and Heisman exchanged glances. “You’re part of his inner circle?”
“No!” Adnan panted. “No, never.”
Gonz looked to the men. “Again.”
“No!” Adnan cried out.
“Then tell us or we do it all again,” Gonz said. As Adnan still gasped for air, Gonz stepped closer to the Iraqi. “I’m not Muslim, but I know the Ring of Allah. That’s a great honor. Al Mudtaji put you there for a reason.”
“I helped,” Adnan panted. “I helped.”
“What do you mean, helped?”
“What you said before. I got the medication. For his heart. I got it.”
“What was it?” Gonz asked, knowing that the medical examiner had found traces of a Turkish ACE inhibitor.
“For his heart. To keep it working.”
“What type of medication!? Exactly!” Gonz challenged.
“ACE inhibitors... We get from Turkey...” Adnan continued to gasp for air.
“So you’re a part of his cell?”
“No!” Adnan vehemently denied. “No, never.”
“You were there. In the Ring of Allah.”
“Because I had no choice! I helped him, but only to get close. Not because I believe. I don’t!”
“You’re lying,” Gonz said, rising. He nodded to Heisman and the plank started to tip again.
“No!” Adnan screamed. “I went for Ghaniyah! That’s all!”
Gonz motioned for Heisman to stop. The plank was tilted to a perfectly flat level. “Go on.”
“My Ghaniyah,” Adnan blurted out. “He took her. I knew he had her, so yes, I went. I helped. I gave the American the drugs. It kept him alive. But that is all.” Exhausted, Adnan’s voice trailed off. “That is all I did... That’s all...”
Basra, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 9:03 a.m.
“I don’t understand the delay,” the man said in very good English.
McKay couldn’t help but glance across the conference table at the English-speaking nurse to see if she would speak out, pointing a finger at McKay for the delay. After all, the nurse had confirmed McKay’s worst-case scenario the day before: Ghaniyah’s aunt wasn’t the only one with symptoms of severe nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, and bloody stools. The two other women, one man and two children shared a common factor with Ghaniyah’s aunt – they all used the same well water.
In fact, it would be perfectly understandable if the Iraqi nurse gave a recapitulation to the official from the Ministry of Health, blaming McKay for not acting faster. But the nurse sat in silence across the table from the government official, a rotund middle-aged man who wore a western-style business suit with an Arab-style head covering. On the table in front of him was a large stack of papers. Although the papers were all in Arabic, McKay knew that they were copies of each patient’s medical chart.
She glanced at Dr. Nichols who sat next to her, but it was impossible to read his face. She simply didn’t know him that well.
“Why the delay?” the official asked. “I don’t understand the delay.”
“It was my fault,” McKay answered looking directly at the government representative. “I wanted to confirm my hypothesis with blood, urine, and stool analyses.”
The official thumbed through the stack of papers as if searching for something, so Dr. Nichols quickly explained, “Dr. McKay had a theory, but wanted physical substantiation.” The official looked at Dr. Nichols who continued, “Physical evidence. So she ordered the tests. That took a while, yes, but Dr. McKay didn’t want to raise unfounded concerns.”
“Exactly,” McKay confirmed. “The results from those tests came back positive late yesterday afternoon, and we immediately contacted you.”
The official nodded. Looking at McKay, he asked, “You think it is poison?”
“I’m honestly not sure, but that is my best guess,” McKay replied.
“What kind of poison?” the official asked.
“I don’t know.”
The nurse spoke in rapid Arabic. She saw McKay’s questioning look and explained, “I just said that we need an answer very soon. The youngest child is very sick.”
McKay nodded and said to the Ministry of Health representative, “The child she speaks of, almost two years of age, has severe kidney distress. If we don’t find out what the cause is, know how best to treat him, he could go into kidney failure.”
The official just nodded again, studying the papers in front of him. Finally he looked to Dr. Nichols. “You tell the Americans?”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Nichols answered, surprised by the question.
“You tell the Americans?” the official repeated, clearly annoyed. “What is going on here? This unexplained sickness? That it may be poison?”
“No,” Dr. Nichols insisted.
“You?” the official asked McKay. “You tell the Americans?”
“No,” McKay responded, glancing at Dr. Nichols.
The Iraqi official flipped through more pages. McKay, Nichols, and the nurse exchanged impatient glances. McKay had felt somewhat guilty that they hadn’t contacted the Iraqi officials sooner, but now she was glad that the CIA had a head start on finding out exactly what was in the well water. If this man was any indication of government response, it would be some time before the well water was analyzed.
Just minutes after arriving back at the hospital late yesterday afternoon, McKay had gotten a text message instructing her to go to the post-surgical room on the third floor. When she got to the room she found it empty except for a young Iraqi man mopping the floor. Expecting to see an American, she was surprised when the man had softly said, “The Denver Broncos will be in the next Super Bowl,” the prearranged code Gonz had given her. Heisman’s favorite NFL team.
The Iraqi was Gonz’s man in Basra. McKay had then handed over the water samples, which the man had quickly placed in a backpack. He had then swiftly walked out of the room, leaving his mop and bucket behind.
She guessed that by now the water samples had been in Kuwait more than twelve hours. With any luck, she’d hear something very soon. The six people affected by whatever toxin was in the well water, including Ghaniyah’s aunt, were all in critical condition. The next 24-hours were crucial.
The official studied McKay for a moment before inquiring, “When the tests came in, no one could find you.”
McKay’s heart skipped a beat. She had been gone for more than four hours, retrieving the water samples and taking apart the old woman’s dresser, searching for any kind of clue that would tell them why Iraq’s foremost terrorist wanted it. “I went back to my hotel,” she answered. “I had the start of a migraine.”
“A migraine?”
“Yes.”
“You take medication for it?”
“Yes, but it can take a while to take effect.”
“I told Dr. Nichols as soon as the blood tests were back,” the nurse explained.
“And I called the Ministry of Health,” Dr. Nichols remarked, appearing somewhat put out. “Whatever delay you’re tryi
ng to blame on this hospital is nothing compared to the delay right now by your department not acting.”
The official gave Dr. Nichols a long look. “We will investigate this, be assured, Doctor.” He then looked at McKay. “I just find it curious that you asked the nurse here to see if there were any other patients with these symptoms... nausea, loose stools, severe stomach cramps. What made you suspect there would be more?”
“I asked our first patient if she had eaten or drank anything abnormal before coming in. I originally thought it was a simple case of food poisoning.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said her diet hadn’t changed. The only thing that was strange was that some man had come to fix their well. She said there was nothing wrong with it.”
The government representative contemplated this for some time. Finally he said, “I see.”
Dr. Nichols defended McKay saying, “Look, Dr. McKay did everything by the book on this. She’s an excellent doctor.”
“Just one more question,” the official announced, flipping through more papers before looking at McKay. “You worked for nearly a year in Kenya. Close to Wajir, I see. You like it?”
“It was fine,” McKay replied stiffly. Why was the man questioning her about her cover story? It was supposed to hold up to scrutiny from fellow Western doctors. Not some stupid Iraqi official.
“It’s nice there near Lake Rudolf.”
McKay didn’t say a word, unsure where the man was going with such questions.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” the Iraqi pressed.
“Sure,” McKay finally said.
“Wajir is near the Eastern coast, Doctor,” the official bluntly corrected her. “Nowhere near Lake Rudolf. Perhaps you weren’t in Wajir after all.”
Chapter Thirteen
Basra, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 9:12 a.m.
McKay’s heart thundered. “You’re right. I wasn’t in Wajir.”
The official had a smug look on his face. Dr. Nichols and the nurse were clearly surprised. McKay went on, “If you read carefully, I was posted ‘near Wajir.’ That’s because I was flown in on a crop duster and dropped off at a tent city. ‘Near Wajir.’ No running water. No electricity. A tent city for AIDS victims. If there was a lake nearby, I never saw it. What I did see was a lot of HIV positive children, most of them orphans, and a hell of a lot of sickness.” She glared at the official. “And for the record, very little hope.”
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 14
