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

by M. H. Sargent

  Now the girl shyly looked up. She nodded, then looked to the ground again and asked, “Who is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Your brother.”

  Taken back, Ghaniyah wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl quickly responded. “It was wrong of me.”

  “No, it’s okay. He’s just... He’s just a man that your father knows.”

  “Have I met him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think my father’s afraid of him.”

  Surprised, Ghaniyah asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “He didn’t bother you anymore after you...” her voice trailed off.

  Ghaniyah nodded. The girl’s father, undoubtedly one of al Mudtaji’s followers, had surprised her when he had insisted on checking her suitcase and her person for weapons before she could enter his small home. That’s when Ghaniyah had indignantly told him that if he touched her or her possessions, her brother would be most unkind to the man and his family. Looking at the girl now, she felt a pang of guilt. She wouldn’t have threatened the man if she knew his daughter had been listening. But she also couldn’t take the chance that the man would find the American satellite phone or the knife, still secure in her boot.

  “It happened once before,” the girl said, still looking at the ground.

  “What did?”

  “A man came here to spend the night. He had a gun and later he robbed us.”

  Ghaniyah was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ve never had a woman here.”

  “Is that right?”

  “My father has a special phone. He keeps it in his pocket, and he can talk on it anywhere.” Ghaniyah knew the girl was referring to a cell phone and nodded politely. “The phone rings, and then he tells us we will have company. But they’re always men. Sometimes they’re not very nice.”

  “That’s a shame,” Ghaniyah replied, knowing only too well what type of men the rancher took in. His home was obviously used as a hideout quite regularly.

  “But they always pay.”

  Ghaniyah smiled. “Like a hotel.”

  “Yes, but Papa says we must never talk about the people who come here.” The girl hesitated, then volunteered. “I hope you will like it here.”

  “I already do.”

  She smiled, clearly delighted. Suddenly animated she offered, “Tomorrow I’ll show you the babies. We have fourteen babies now.” She pointed over the closest knoll. “They have a special place. You can’t see it from here. I’ll show you.”

  Ghaniyah smiled. “I’d like that, but we have to leave very early tomorrow. Before sunrise.”

  The girl gave her a puzzled look. “He said you’re staying.”

  “What? Who?” Ghaniyah asked, perplexed.

  “The man you came with.”

  “Yusuf?”

  The girl nodded. “He called someone using Papa’s special phone. Then he told Papa that he wouldn’t be traveling with you anymore. You were to be my Papa’s responsibility.”

  Ghaniyah’s stomach lurched. “What? When? When did he make this phone call?”

  “I don’t know. A while ago.” The girl’s face suddenly lit up. “It’s going to be wonderful. My mother, she’s with Allah. So it’s nice that you will live here too.”

  Suddenly a loud cow bell rang in the early evening air.

  “Dinner,” the girl told Ghaniyah.

  The girl turned, heading back to the house, while Ghaniyah stood rooted in place, unable to move at all, her mind reeling.

  Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 6:05 p.m.

  Riding shotgun in the Humvee, Gonz double-checked his Glock. Satisfied, he sat back with the gun pointed at the floor. They passed Checkpoint 3, leaving the security of the Green Zone behind them. The Special Forces captain deftly gripped both the steering wheel and his own semi-automatic in his right hand, a way of driving that was probably second nature to him now. He glanced in the rear view mirror, leading Gonz to look through the large passenger side mirror mounted on the door. They both saw the same thing – the military vehicle behind them was keeping pace, its headlights dancing across the back of their SUV. Gonz looked ahead. The lead Humvee of their three-vehicle convoy had suddenly stepped on the gas. The Special Forces captain followed suit, accelerating through the twilight shadows.

  While Gonz usually didn’t like this show of force, in this case it was necessary. He would take his CIA team into the hospital, Heisman serving as their interpreter if need be, while the Special Forces soldiers guarded all the exits. Peterson had printed a photo of Adnan taken from the interrogation video and made copies so all the soldiers on the mission knew what their target looked like.

  The captain glanced over at Gonz. “This guy going to go easy?”

  “Best to expect the unexpected.”

  The driver nodded. Gonz looked over his shoulder at Heisman who rode behind the driver with a Colt M-4 across his lap. Like Gonz, he was wearing his cover clothes – Army fatigues with his cover name stenciled above his breast pocket, a flak jacket over his uniform. Also like Gonz, he was tense, knowing that they were especially vulnerable now that they were outside the Green Zone. Not to mention that riding around in the military convoy was the equivalent of riding around with a huge bull’s-eye painted on your forehead.

  Gonz didn’t bother to check on McKay who sat directly behind him. He was glad to have her onboard and knew that she, too, was hyper-alert, looking for any sign of trouble, a Colt M-4 in her hands. She had arrived back at Marco Polo 5 just minutes after Gonz had finally gotten permission for the small convoy and Special Forces soldiers. Surprised to see her so soon, McKay had explained that she had hitched a ride on an Air Force jet, then transferred to a helicopter that had landed just 200 meters from Marco Polo 5.

  Her first question had been about Ghaniyah’s status, but they had nothing to report. Then Gonz had explained about the missile attack and how Adnan had ended up at the Yarmouk Hospital. He knew she was tired, but had asked if she was willing to come along, saying that they might be better off having an actual doctor onboard since they would be infiltrating a hospital. She had immediately agreed.

  “Right, right, right!” a loud voice barked over the radio.

  Gonz watched as the lead SUV suddenly swerved onto a wide street to the right, taking them around the Al Fatah Square. Their driver followed, keeping his foot on the gas the whole way, the Humvee leaning hard to the left.

  “Why the change?” Gonz asked.

  “Gov’s radioed ahead to some boys on patrol. He must’ve gotten word our route was compromised. Maybe just traffic. Probably nothing, but we can’t take any chances.”

  “Gov?” McKay asked from the backseat.

  The captain grinned. “Michael Diggs. From Tennessee. Says he’s going to be governor some day.”

  “Left, left, left!” the man nicknamed “Gov” bellowed again through the radio. “Stay on this four klicks, we’re there.”

  Once again they followed the lead SUV as it made a quick left turn against the red light, cutting off a small Toyota at the intersection. The captain transporting the CIA team didn’t slow either, barreling through as if it was his God-given right. Gonz looked over his shoulder. The Humvee behind them plowed through right behind them. Gonz could see the startled look of the Toyota driver. He wondered what the driver was thinking. He knew full well that anytime a convoy was stopped, the danger jumped ten-fold. Better to keep on the move and never use the turn indicators to signal your intentions.

  He just wondered if the driver of the Toyota knew that.

  Yarmouk Hospital, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 6:12 p.m.

  Adnan awoke with a start, suddenly frightened, his heart racing, his body soaked in perspiration as he panted for air.

  He looked around in the dim light, but nothing looked familiar. He fought a rising panic. Realizing he was lying down, he sat up, alarmed. His head throbbed as his eyes slowly adjusted to
the obscure light. He could see that he was not alone. The large room was filled with men of all ages on cots lined up in two long rows. A hospital ward. He was in a hospital. As his heart slowly began to calm, his memory started to fill in the blanks.

  He recalled that it had taken thirty-eight stitches to close his head wound, which accounted for his head aching now. Looking down at his immobile right arm, he could see it was in a sling. He remembered how his separated shoulder had been popped back into place by two doctors as he had lain face down on a table. They hadn’t told him what they were doing, and he had presumed they were simply inspecting his shoulder. So he had been greatly surprised when one of the doctors had abruptly manipulated it back into its socket, screaming both in protest and pain, believing whatever they had just done was worse than the initial injury.

  Breathing more evenly now, he looked around. No one was paying any attention to him. Most of the men were resting or sleeping. He staggered to his feet with some effort, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. It came back to him that he had been brought into the room by a nurse who had explained that he had a concussion and needed to rest. There was also concern that there might be some bleeding within the skull. He could remember now stretching out on the narrow cot, physically and emotionally drained. He must have promptly fallen asleep.

  How long had he been here?

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting away. At the far end of the room he could see light streaming through the opened doorway. The exit. He started to walk in that direction. As he moved down the aisle between the two rows of beds, he realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looked back at his cot. Nothing. The doctors must have thrown it away. He wouldn’t be able to sneak out half dressed. He quickly headed in the other direction, scanning the different beds. There! At the foot of one bed was a neatly folded dishdasha, an ankle-length garment with long sleeves, complete with a keffiyeh, a traditional Arab head scarf. Perfect! He looked at the old man in the bed. He was in a deep sleep. Adnan silently lifted the clothes off the bed.

  Yarmouk Hospital, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 6:13 p.m.

  As the Humvee pulled up to the curb, Gonz could hear the anxiety in Peterson’s voice through the phone. “Sir, he’s online right this minute! Asking if I’m here!”

  Cursing under his breath, Gonz gave the phone to Heisman. “Got a fish on the line. Walk Peterson through, but keep it short. I need you inside.”

  Heisman took the phone. “Hey, Peterson. You running it through Andrew?”

  Gonz had heard enough and stepped out of the Humvee. He saw the Special Forces team from the other SUVs moving quickly down the road to the hospital half a block away, leaving just two men to watch their three vehicles. Before leaving the Green Zone, the soldiers had been given a complete breakdown of the hospital layout, after which they were paired into two-man teams, each assigned to one of the three hospital exits.

  He glanced in the Humvee. He could see Heisman talking, one hand animated as he tried to make his point. He figured Peterson should be all right. “Andrew” referred to the sophisticated CIA computer system that provided nearly instantaneous translations between English and Arabic. While this would allow Peterson to chat online with someone in Arabic fairly easily, there were nuances in Arabic that Andrew sometimes missed. Plus, Peterson had no idea how best to reel the fish in. It would be a delicate operation – they couldn’t reveal too much for fear of spooking the fish, but they needed to give enough information to keep him chewing on the bait. All of which was why he had turned the phone over to Heisman.

  Standing on the sidewalk with the Humvee passenger door open, McKay quickly unstrapped her flak jacket to leave in the vehicle along with her M-4, which she no longer needed since they had reached their destination without incident. She took off her Army jacket and replaced it with a white medical coat that was embroidered with the cover name “Dr. Wagner” over the breast pocket. Gonz knew this would leave her vulnerable to injury if they got into a firefight, but they were hoping the Iraqi doctors inside would be more willing to cooperate with another doctor – even a U.S. doctor – than a bunch of U.S. Army soldiers.

  Gonz’s radio squawked. “Blue Team in position. North exit.”

  “Roger, Blue Team,” Gonz answered.

  “Red Team, south exit. In position,” a voice announced over the radio.

  “Roger, Red Team.”

  “Green Team in place. Main entrance. Green Team in place,” another voice broadcast.

  “Roger, Green Team,” Gonz said. “Hold your positions.”

  McKay, now ready, glanced at Heisman, still sitting in the back of the Humvee. “What’s going on?” she asked Gonz.

  “We think al Mudtaji may be illiterate. We used his own website chat room to plant a seed with whoever can read, hopefully someone near the top, that al Mudtaji hasn’t got the right plan with the ricin.”

  “So we get the guy to talk, we learn what the plan is.”

  Gonz shrugged. “A long shot, granted.”

  McKay smiled. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  Heisman climbed out of the vehicle and handed the Blackberry to Gonz. “Peterson just posted a message that we need to talk later.” He glanced at McKay, then back at Gonz. “We ready?”

  58 Kilometers Northwest of Ash Shatrah, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 6:15 p.m.

  Ghaniyah was stretched out on the mat, her mind still swirling in confusion. The plan had been that she would return to Baghdad with the dresser, and if anyone stopped them, it would be plausible that she was moving items from Basra to Baghdad. Wasn’t that why Yusuf had had her put her aunt’s clothes in the chest? With her in the truck and the women’s clothes in the trunk, if they were stopped for an inspection it would be obvious that the possessions belonged to Ghaniyah. No one, and certainly not the Iraqi Security Forces, would give it another thought.

  So why would al Mudtaji suddenly decide Yusuf didn’t need her anymore? The only reasonable explanation was that he figured there wouldn’t be any checkpoints on the highway and Yusuf would have smooth sailing. Either that, or perhaps the poison was to be used close to where they were now. She knew they were fairly close to the old Iraqi air base. Were the Americans using that base now? And was that where the poison was going to end up?

  When she and the girl had come inside for the evening supper, she had expected Yusuf to tell her about the change in plans. Instead, he and the rancher had taken their meal to the main room, talking in quiet voices. Even though neither the old woman nor the girl had spoken while the three of them ate in the kitchen, she hadn’t been able to hear what the men were saying.

  After eating, the rancher had shown her to a small room off the kitchen where he had carried her suitcase. He had rolled out a thick mat and given her a small pillow and blanket. She had waited for him to tell her that she would be staying, but he had just left her there. A few minutes later she had heard the rancher say goodnight to his elderly mother and the child, then she could hear him and Yusuf talking, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  Perhaps the girl had been wrong. Perhaps the girl wanted a mother figure and the whole conversation between her father and rancher had been made up. But something nagged at Ghaniyah, and in her gut she knew it was true. Yusuf would be leaving her behind. Soon the men stopped talking, the light outside her room was turned off and the entire house became eerily quiet.

  After hearing that Yusuf was going to leave her behind, her first thought had been to get in the truck and drive off. But of course, that wouldn’t work. She had gotten behind the wheel of a car only once, while in England when the man she was with had suddenly gotten sick and stopped the car. They were outside Manchester on a rural road, and he had been so anxious to get back to the mosque in Manchester that he had told her to drive. While the car had had an automatic transmission, she had still made a near mess of things, severely overcorrecting her steering or stepping too hard or too lightly on the gas and brakes. The man had cursed her and g
otten back behind the wheel himself. Her one experience at driving told her that stealing the truck was not an option.

  Alone in the dark, small room, she thought about using the American cell phone. She could tell the American doctor where she was, or at least as near as she knew, and describe Yusuf and his truck so that he could be stopped. But if she did that, what would become of Adnan? No, she had to keep to her original plan. But how could she if Yusuf was abandoning her on this ranch?

  Then it dawned on her. The answer was simple! Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Thrilled with the idea, she almost laughed out loud.

  Yarmouk Hospital, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 6:16 p.m.

  With only the use of one arm, Adnan found that a normally simple chore, such as changing clothes, now took considerable effort. He was able to get the dishdasha on by painfully contorting his bad arm to get it through the sleeve. Next, he struggled for what seemed like an eternity to secure the keffiyeh properly with only his left hand. Finally, he managed.

  He couldn’t see how he looked, but he believed he was concealed as best could be expected – no one would be able to see his partially shaved head where the stitches had been sewn in, and both arms were well hidden in the generous folds of the sleeves.

  Impatient to escape, Adnan now headed to the opened door at the end of the room. A man coughed loudly behind him and Adnan jumped, alarmed. He glanced behind him. It was the old man whose clothes he now wore. He was propped on one elbow, hacking miserably. Adnan momentarily froze, waiting for the man to realize that his clothes had been stolen and start hollering. But the man gave another violent cough, then fell back on the cot, exhausted.

  Peeking out the door, Adnan saw only a single nurse down the corridor to his left. Luckily, she was a good thirty feet away and busy filling out paperwork. Adnan looked to his right. Just a few feet away was a door marked “Exit.” Glancing back at the nurse, he quietly went to the door. As he opened the door, it gave a piercing screech in protest. The unexpected noise prompted Adnan to plunge into the stairwell, quickly scurrying down the stairs, gripping the side railing with his good hand.