Although tempted to take it all, she knew it was better to be prudent. She peeled off three large bills, a total of nearly 400 dinars. She stuffed the money into her bra, put the remaining money roll back into the glove, and put both gloves back as she had found them. She shut the glove box and then softly closed the truck door. Carrying the suitcase, she quietly made her way around to the side of the house.
She had left the house by using the side entrance that was closest to her tiny room and most importantly, further away from where both men were sleeping. Dejected that she had failed to secure the poison, she started to enter the house when someone on the other side of the door suddenly yanked it open. Jumping back in fright, Ghaniyah nearly screamed in terror.
It was the young girl.
With her heart beating wildly, Ghaniyah watched as the girl came outside, pulling the door closed behind her. Pressing a finger to her lips for quiet, she led Ghaniyah a good twenty feet from the house, then whispered, “You want the magic food, don’t you?”
At a loss for words, Ghaniyah just stared at the girl.
“I saw you in the truck, but Papa already took it.”
Ghaniyah frowned at the girl, not comprehending.
“The magic feed,” the girl whispered with annoyance.
Still taken back, Ghaniyah finally managed to mutter, “Feed?”
“I came outside and saw him. He got mad. It’s magic feed for the goats. To make them make more babies.”
Her heart finally finding its normal rhythm, Ghaniyah asked, “In plastic bags? The feed is in three plastic bags?”
The girl nodded. “Papa hid them. I’ll show you.”
Ghaniyah allowed the girl to lead her by the hand. Her mind was racing. Surely the rancher knew the bags contained some sort of poison, but why had he stolen it? Or did he steal it? Did Yusuf tell the rancher to keep it and that’s why she was to stay behind?
The girl led her past Yusuf’s truck to a small shed she had hardly noticed before. Sliding the door open, the girl stepped inside. A moment later she reappeared holding one of the bags. She presented it to Ghaniyah as if it were a fine gift. Kneeling before the girl, Ghaniyah took the bag, saying, “I can’t explain everything right now, but I need to keep these bags with me. And it must remain a secret.”
“You’ll give it to the goats, won’t you?”
“I can’t, dear. This stuff isn’t really good for goats –”
“That’s not what Papa said. He said it–”
“I know. But I’m telling you the truth. If you fed this to the goats they would get very, very sick.”
The girl looked baffled. “Then why does Papa want it?”
“I don’t know. But you’re going to have to trust me. I need these bags. I need to take them with me and–”
“What? Where?” the girl complained in a loud voice. “You can’t leave–”
“Shh,” Ghaniyah scolded her. “Quiet. Listen, I have to go away. For just a bit, but–”
“No,” the girl protested, her voice still more than a whisper. “You’re to live here. With us!”
“Shh,” Ghaniyah hushed. “Shh. I will come back. I promise. But I have to leave first. Then I’ll come back.” Ghaniyah felt a twinge of guilt knowing that if she had it her way, she would never be back. Before the girl could ask more questions, she said, “Get the other two bags.”
The girl complied and watched as Ghaniyah laid them in her suitcase.
MP-5, The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 11:32 p.m.
It had been a long night. McKay now sat on a chair near Peterson’s desk, her feet up on another. She had never felt so tired. Gonz was lying on the floor nearby with a pencil in his mouth, his eyes closed. But he wasn’t sleeping. Or even resting for that matter. He was concentrating. Chewing on the pencil with intensity. He removed the pencil and asked, “What’s that reply again?”
Turning his attention to the computer monitor, Peterson read the translated text. “Tomorrow will be seven days from Sunday. Tomorrow will be a new day. You will see. You will not be disappointed.”
Pacing behind Peterson, Heisman said, “Okay, okay, wait a minute. Let’s think.”
“We need a time and a target,” Gonz reminded him grumpily. He hadn’t been in a good mood since they had discovered Adnan missing. After combing the entire hospital top to bottom and coming up empty, Gonz had extensively questioned the Special Forces soldiers. At first it was thought that Adnan had gotten away before they had arrived since only three groups of people had left the hospital while the Special Forces were watching: A husband and wife with a small child, the husband very short and squat, ruling out it was Adnan; two female nurses who were promptly picked up by a man driving a small Nissan, and three men using the south exit.
However, after the two Special Forces soldiers had described the three Iraqi men quite well, Gonz had felt certain that Adnan had been the younger man. The question was, how did he get the new clothes and who were the other men? Had he gotten help from the inside? Compounding his frustrations, by the time he had determined that Adnan had indeed escaped, the curfew was in effect and the streets were deserted.
Adnan was long gone.
“Let’s roll the dice,” McKay offered. “Let’s talk about Ghaniyah.”
“Ghaniyah?” Heisman asked skeptically.
“Think about it. She has the ricin, right? We know that.”
“That’s about all we know,” Gonz pointed out. “But what are you thinking?”
“Why not spook him? Tell him that Ghaniyah’s going to work with us. You know, whoever we’re posing as.”
This got Gonz’s attention. He sat up.
“Then what?” Heisman inquired.
McKay shrugged. “We can offer a deal. Maybe we just want cash. We’ll trade the ricin for some cash. Get him to come out of hiding.”
“It’s good because it shows we’re in the know,” Gonz announced. “We know about Ghaniyah, we know about the ricin. It’s good.” He put the pencil back in his mouth and started gnawing on it.
“They’re not going to meet us and show their faces,” Heisman argued. “They’re not that stupid. Plus, for all we know, he could be in touch with her.”
“Or not,” McKay said. “It might be tricky for her to make contact right now. We don’t know.”
“Exactly,” Heisman said. “We don’t know. We act like she’s with us, she’s not, we’ve blown our only chance.”
“Not really,” Peterson offered. “It’s like if you’re dating someone, you think you got it good and someone tells you he spotted her with someone else. It can freak you out.”
Gonz nodded. “It puts you in doubt.”
“Yeah,” Peterson agreed. “And then, you want to know if it’s true or not, and it really bugs you.”
“Okay,” Heisman said. “So what? We mention Ghaniyah? Say she’s bringing us the ricin.”
“Exactly,” Gonz said through the pencil. “Let’s just see what happens.”
Heisman looked at Peterson. “Tell him that seven days from Sunday Ghaniyah will be here. With the ricin. Make that my ricin.”
Peterson quickly typed on the keyboard. He hit a button and the text was immediately translated into Arabic. Then he hit the send icon. “Let’s see how you reply to that, idiot.”
The four of them waited, watching the screen. Nothing happened. Gonz got up, joining Heisman behind Peterson’s chair.
“Did it go?” Gonz asked.
“It went. We took a while to reply this last time. He’s probably just thinking.”
A new message in Arabic suddenly popped up on the screen.
“Shit!” Peterson shouted in frustration.
“What?” Gonz asked.
“He logged out.”
Jadida, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 5:46 a.m. (Day of Promised Attack)
Walking down the sidewalk, his head buried in the paper, Maaz was relieved to see that the story made the front page, just as Dr. Lami had promised. It was belo
w the fold, but his two-column photo of Thamer was sharp, the old man’s face stern, glaring defiantly at the camera. Maaz was also relieved to find his photo credit in small font just below the photo. How many times had he looked at newspaper photos, seeing the photographer’s name affiliated with such news wires as Reuters or the Associated Press? Now he had joined the ranks with his own front page photo credit. It was gratifying.
Stopping at an intersection, Maaz glanced up and realized that Faris wasn’t with him. Frantically looking around, he saw his son still at the news stand. Two U.S. Humvees had pulled up and several soldiers had gotten out, probably looking for an English newspaper or magazine. Faris was jumping up and down in front of a soldier, his hands cupped together as if he was trying to catch some falling rain.
“Faris!” Maaz bellowed.
Faris turned, saw his father, but then quickly turned back to the soldier. The man reached into his zippered thigh pocket and pulled something out. Maaz knew it was candy. The American soldiers always seemed to have plenty of candy, and the Iraqi children were now well versed in getting what they deemed as their fair share of the loot. Maaz saw the soldier drop small gumdrops into Faris’ waiting hands. The soldier’s hands then empty, he smiled, tousling Faris’ hair affectionately. Another soldier said something and both soldiers laughed. Faris promptly popped a candy in his mouth and ran toward his father, all smiles.
It wasn’t until they had gotten home a few minutes later that Maaz had finally noticed one of his photographs was headlining the lead story, above the fold. The photo depicted the backside of the terrorist who had met him near the Presidential Palace. Duqaq had written the story, describing for readers how al Mudtaji had placed a handwritten note in the mouth of the decapitated American. According to unnamed sources, the note read, Islam is the only true religion. Now you have an American who speaks the truth of Islam. Before now, he and all other Americans never spoke the truth of Islam. He had to have his head removed. Now he can speak the truth. Understand. This is the first of many American heads that will come to speak the truth Sunday.
The article went on to speculate that al Mudtaji might have warned of a planned attack to take place later in the day. However, both Iraqi and American officials denied knowing of any planned assault. The article also explained that the note was written on Thamer’s Pharmacy stationery which had led to the arrest of Thamer, Adnan, and one of the pharmacy’s customers. The newspaper quoted Thamer about his detention inside the Green Zone, and the article went on with some information about Adnan, including speculation as to why the Americans were still holding him. A grainy black and white photo of Adnan appeared on page four.
Daneen had read the articles very carefully before starting their breakfast. She now looked at Faris who sat at the dinning table simply staring at his plate. “Why aren’t you eating?”
The boy sheepishly glanced at his father, then replied, “I have an upset stomach.”
“Upset stomach?” Daneen worriedly felt his forehead with the palm of her hand.
“He’s fine,” Maaz told her. “He ran quite a bit.”
“What? Why would you run?” Daneen asked her son.
Faris again glanced at his father. Then shrugged.
“He’ll be fine,” Maaz assured her. “Just give him a few minutes to rest, eh?” He gave Faris a warning look since they both knew Faris had eaten too much candy on the way home. “Drink some water and lie down.”
Faris readily complied, drinking a tall glass of water. He then gave a belch and both father and son laughed. Still concerned about Faris’ well-being, Daneen failed to find his burp humorous. She told Faris to lie down on the sofa where she could keep an eye on him.
“If he is ill, you have to stay home with him,” Daneen said to her husband.
“What? Why?”
“Because he might have to go to the doctor.”
“He’s fine,” Maaz scoffed.
“I don’t want him home alone.”
“Where are you going? It’s Sunday.”
“I’m meeting with Colonel K.C.”
Maaz couldn’t hide his astonishment. “The colonel?”
“He wants to talk about Adnan.”
“I should be there.”
“I can go by myself.”
“Where? Where are you meeting?”
“Hotel Palestine.”
Surprised, Maaz shot her an annoyed look. “I will escort you.”
Daneen knew it was futile to argue. A Muslim woman should not be seen going into a hotel to meet a man. It didn’t matter why they were meeting, it just wasn’t done.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll take Faris if he isn’t better.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Daneen didn’t reply. She glanced at the front page of the paper, wondering about the man who was walking away from the camera. Had he seen Adnan at the American’s beheading? And if he were caught, would he implicate Adnan?
She suddenly realized that she too had an upset stomach.
58 Kilometers Northwest of Ash Shatrah, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 7:03 a.m.
Ghaniyah had no choice but to wait.
The morning had not gone as she had hoped, and now she impatiently paced outside the house, continually glancing at her suitcase which sat near the rancher’s old truck. After filling her suitcase with the bags of poison the night before, she had gone back to her small room and actually slept for a couple hours. She had awakened with a start when she had heard Yusuf’s truck rumble to life. It had been tempting to confront him, ask why he was leaving her, but it wasn’t worth the risk. She had the poison and that was all that mattered.
Less than an hour later she had emerged from the room to find the rancher’s old mother busy making breakfast. The girl was apparently still sleeping, and the rancher curtly told her that Yusuf had already left and she was to stay. Ghaniyah’s anger had been genuine as she had promptly told him that she was al Mudtaji’s sister and she had to get back to Baghdad. The rancher had shrugged, not seeming to care one way or another. She argued that if he didn’t take her to the bus station immediately, her brother’s wrath would befall the man, his family, and all his goats.
Finally, the rancher had agreed to drive her to the bus station. However, they had to wait. A veterinarian was due momentarily to look after some of the baby goats that were not doing well. The rancher promised that as soon as the doctor was finished, he would drive her to the bus station.
The veterinarian had arrived an hour or so later on a small scooter, his medical bag tied down behind him on the seat. The rancher had led him across the fields where they had disappeared over a small hill in the distance. As Ghaniyah anxiously paced near the old truck, she heard the roar of a vehicle behind her. She turned.
It was Yusuf.
She could see the rage on his face as he sped toward her, dirt swirling in the truck’s wake. Ghaniyah couldn’t help but glance at her suitcase again. She turned back to Yusuf as he cut the engine and quickly exited the truck. He marched toward her, his face contorted in anger.
“Where is he?”
Ghaniyah just shook her head, fearfully.
“Where is he!?” he screamed.
As Yusuf started toward the door, Ghaniyah finally found her voice. “He’s in the fields.” She pointed in the direction the rancher had gone. “Some of the goats are sick. He’s with a doctor.”
Exasperated, Yusuf marched off across the field.
Watching him, Ghaniyah’s heart raced. She quickly walked over to Yusuf’s truck. All her aunt’s clothes were tossed across the truck bed, the rope no longer holding the chest in place. Her mouth went dry. Yusuf had discovered that the poison was missing. He would go after the rancher, who, if he valued his life, would lead Yusuf to the shed. She glanced at Yusuf. He was making good time, nearly halfway to the small hill where she had last seen the rancher.
She looked inside the truck cab. The keys were in the ignition. Realizing she had no choice, Ghaniyah quickly went for her
suitcase. Just then the front door of the house opened. The girl stood there. Ghaniyah froze. They stared at each other for a moment, then Ghaniyah said, “Stay inside.”
“I can go with you.”
“No, you can’t. Stay inside. Please.”
Ghaniyah grabbed her suitcase and quickly put it on the passenger seat of Yusuf’s truck.
“Wait,” the girl said, quickly picking up a stick from the ground.
But Ghaniyah had no time to wait. She climbed behind the wheel. Closing the door, she watched through the side mirror as the girl knelt down beside the front passenger wheel of her father’s old truck. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Ghaniyah got out of Yusuf’s truck and hurried over to the girl. She could hear the hissing release of air, as the girl firmly held an end of the stick on the tire’s air stem. Following the girl’s initiative, Ghaniyah quickly removed her knife and used it to depress the air stem on the rear tire. Air quickly escaped.
Ghaniyah stood and anxiously looked across the field. Yusuf and the rancher were at the base of the hill, heading back. “Quick, go back inside!”
Not waiting, Ghaniyah scrambled behind the wheel again, starting the ignition. Yusuf’s truck roared to life. Luckily, it was an automatic transmission and with one foot on the brake, the other lightly touching the gas, she put the truck in gear. She took her left foot off the brake, stepped on the gas with her right foot and the truck suddenly lurched forward with great power, angling toward the house. Horrified, Ghaniyah quickly wrenched the wheel and stomped on the brake. She knew she’d have to back up. She found the reverse gear. Slowly this time, she turned the wheel and gave the truck just a little gas. It still backed up faster than she intended, and she quickly realized she was going the wrong way and pulled the wheel in the other direction.
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 22
