He rolled back on his side. The back of his head hurt like hell. He wanted desperately to touch it, to see if he was bleeding, but of course, he couldn’t. Bits and pieces of the last – what? hour? two hours? – came back to him. He had been at the Palestine Hotel, taking wedding pictures. The groom was the nephew of his boss, Dr. Lami who owned The Iraq National Journal – a well-respected daily newspaper that came into being after the fall of Saddam.
Maaz had stayed several hours, taking pictures of the joyful wedding party and many guests. Pictures of cutting the cake. Pictures of the bride and groom enjoying their first dance as husband and wife. Pictures of the various guests dancing. He had even gotten a picture of Dr. Lami dancing with his four-year-old granddaughter. Dr. Lami would love it. He had a very soft spot in his heart for his granddaughter.
It had been after nine at night when the party died down and he had left to go home. Although an invitation had been extended to his wife Daneen and their two sons, Maaz had thought it wouldn’t be right. He was working, getting paid to photograph the wedding, and Daneen didn’t know any of the guests other than Dr. Lami. She had agreed it might be awkward and was happy to stay home with the children.
He remembered being anxious to get back to his family that night. In another hour curfew would be in effect, and he couldn’t risk being caught on the streets. But soon after exiting the hotel with his camera gear, everything had gone wrong. A young Iraqi woman wearing traditional Muslim attire had sought his help, saying she had just been robbed, her husband beaten. Always looking for a story for the Journal, he followed her down an alley where she said her husband lay. But the alley was empty.
He had just been about to question the woman when something hard had hit him on the back of his head. He had fallen to his knees, clutching his camera protectively to his chest. He remembered a car screeching to a stop nearby and how he had looked up at the woman, as if to ask her what had happened. His first thought was that whoever had beaten her husband was now attacking him. But instead of the woman defending him from the unseen assailant, he had heard her scream, “Again! Do it again! Do it again!”
Then he had been hit over the head a second time.
The car bounced over what Maaz imagined must be deep ruts, and his head howled in painful protest. He wondered why they didn’t just leave him there behind the hotel. Why bother to kidnap him? He wasn’t anyone of importance. They had gotten the only thing he had of value, his Nikon camera. So why kidnap him?
Then he remembered. The man on the balcony. Could his kidnapping have to do with that?
He had been outside in the small, leafy green courtyard, which was dwarfed by the towering 18-story hotel. Each room had a small balcony from which guests could look down into the courtyard. The ceremony itself was over, and Maaz had just begun taking the standard photos of the bride and groom. Gradually, family members were called over to be included. He had seen the man while waiting for the groom’s parents to be brought to the courtyard. The fully bearded man had stepped out onto the balcony of a third story room. Dressed in a dishdasha – a traditional Muslim garment for men, usually white, ankle-length – and turban, he lit a cigarette. Something about the man looked familiar to Maaz. He trained his camera on the man, zoomed in quite close and snapped a few pictures. Just for fun. Or so, he had thought.
Maaz tried to rack his brain about the man. Who was he? He remembered being prompted by some sort of familiarity about the man. But what was it? The car lurched swiftly over a steep ditch, and Maaz was lifted up for just a moment before crashing down, his head painfully bouncing off the hard metal of the trunk floor. He briefly wondered if the intense pain was the equivalent of what Daneen had endured giving birth to their sons. He thought it was strange that he would think of that.
Then he passed out.
Chapter One
Al-Anbar Province, Iraq
“You are an incredibly stupid man.”
Maaz looked at the woman. Hatred burned in her eyes as she glared at him. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall with his knees drawn up before him. With his arms no longer bound behind his back, he rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into his skin.
He had awakened an hour ago, just after dawn, with his head throbbing in pain. Instinctively, his hands had gone to the wound on the back of his head and he had felt the dried blood crusted on his scalp. Slowly the events of the night before came back to him. He had been kidnapped, thrown into the trunk of a car. Bound and gagged. That was the last thing he remembered. Someone must have carried him to wherever he was now and put him on the mattress. He had been surprised and grateful to have his hands free, the gag removed. He had quickly looked around. He was in some sort of small bedroom, lying on a soiled mattress on the floor.
“Up!” a gruff voice had commanded. Two men had suddenly appeared, standing over him. Each wielded a machine gun and wore a long keffiyeh, a traditional Muslim headscarf for men, wrapped across his face, hiding his identity. Slowly rising, his head screaming in protest, he had glanced out the bedroom’s grimy window and saw what looked like a flat agricultural field with palm groves dotting the landscape in the distance. He had immediately presumed he was somewhere in the Euphrates River Valley, an area that had once been ripe with prosperous farms. Now it was ripe with insurgents.
As he had been escorted down the hallway at gunpoint, his heart had raced and his legs had felt weak. Stepping into a large main room with sparse worn furniture, Maaz had noticed the sunlight spread across the dilapidated wood floor. With startling clarity he had realized that the sun was now up which meant that his wife Daneen would be awake, preparing the boys’ breakfast. Surely, she must now know that he was missing. She would raise the alarm. All he had to do was stay alive.
At first Maaz hadn’t even seen the woman. One of the men had pointed his rifle toward the far wall and had told him to sit. There was no chair, but Maaz had obeyed, sitting on the floor. The sun was at a sharp angle and for a moment he hadn’t been able to see through the glare. It wasn’t until he had raised his hand to block that sun that he had seen her.
She had stood not five feet away, staring down at him. The same woman who had coaxed him into the alley near the Palestine Hotel. However, she was no longer wearing the traditional Muslim attire. Instead, she wore khaki pants and an opened flannel shirt over a T-shirt, as her long, dark hair fell free over her shoulders. Most astonishing, a handgun was holstered to her waist and she wore a knife sheathe around one thigh, the knife handle within easy reach. He couldn’t help but stare at her, his hand remaining in place to block the sun’s glare. He had never seen anything like it. Of course, he had seen women in Western-style slacks. But not like this. Dressed just like a man. And armed. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that she was from the American Army. He had seen a few of their female soldiers, dressed as this woman was. But with her dark complexion and flawless Arabic, he knew she wasn’t American.
“So, you are stupid?” she prodded him, her tone mocking. “You think I can’t see through your lies?”
“I’m telling the truth,” Maaz firmly answered, meeting her gaze.
“No, you’re not.”
“It was in my pocket. My jacket pocket,” he repeated again.
The woman looked at one of the men who held Maaz’s Western-style sports coat. All they had found were his house keys in a front flap pocket and his wallet and new cell phone in the inner breast pocket. The man had removed the few Iraqi dinars from the wallet, pocketing them. He had tried to pinch the cell phone too, but the woman had berated him, telling him to put it back. She obviously didn’t want to take the chance that his cell phone calls could be traced. Most bizarre was that the man obeyed her without question. This told Maaz that she was the leader of this small group. But it didn’t make sense. Never would an Arab woman have this kind of hold over any man. It didn’t make sense.
“Where is it?” the woman demanded.
“It was inside my breast pocket whe
n I left the hotel,” Maaz countered, matching her intense look.
“Why wasn’t the memory card in the camera?”
Maaz shook his head. “I always pull it out.” When she gave him a look of disbelief, he went on, explaining, “I’ve had Iraqi police take my camera before. It was close to curfew. If I didn’t get home in time, ran into trouble, they would’ve confiscated it. Believe me.”
The woman looked again at the man holding the jacket as he carefully turned out each pocket.
“All it had was wedding pictures,” Maaz finally said.
The woman glared at him sharply. “I think not.”
“I swear. I’m a photographer. My boss, it was his nephew’s wedding –”
“Shut up!” the woman screamed in frustration.
“It probably fell out when you put me in the car!” Maaz protested. “Look in the alley. That’s where it probably is.”
“You better hope not,” the woman tersely responded. She turned to the other man. “Strip him!”
The man stepped over to Maaz and roughly pulled him to his feet.
Jadida, Iraq
“Ah, shit!” Adnan cursed in Arabic under his breath as the inside lights flickered once then went out completely. The small pharmacy was plunged into darkness, the only ambient light coming from the glass store-front windows.
“We’ll use the generator,” Thamer calmly responded. The rolling blackouts had become a way of life ever since the Americans had invaded the country. The causes of these power failures were varied. Sometimes it was due to a flaw at the power station. But more often than not it was due to a car bomb or suicide bomber that not only took lives, but also knocked out important power lines at the same time. Not to mention that electrical grids were constantly under attack by insurgents. It seemed that as soon as the Coalition forces and local power companies rebuilt them, they would come under attack again.
“We can’t,” Adnan fumed. Thamer gave him a quizzical glance and Adnan continued, saying, “No diesel. I waited over two hours last night, got almost to the head of the line and they closed down. No more diesel.”
“Shit,” Thamer mumbled. Most of the time they had been able to stay open simply by switching over to their diesel run electric generator. The machine had cost them plenty, but had more than paid for itself by allowing them to remain open.
“Exactly.” Adnan quickly saved the data he was inputting on his laptop computer and shut it down. Unfortunately, the computer battery didn’t hold a charge for more than an hour, which meant he was dependent upon uninterrupted electrical power to keep up with their business transactions. The constant power outages were especially frustrating to Adnan since the only change he had made to the pharmacy after buying out Thamer’s interest was to keep all their records on the computer. This had eliminated much of Thamer’s thick files, which had accumulated over the years. It also allowed them to go online to track pharmaceutical shipments sent from Turkey, pinpointing the exact date when medications were due to arrive at their shop. Even though Thamer had scoffed at the use of a computer at first, he had soon come to realize that it was a very advantageous tool. Except when the power went out.
“I have candles,” Thamer announced, disappearing toward the back room.
“Didn’t know we had any,” Adnan responded.
“That’s why you still need me.”
Adnan couldn’t help but smile. The truth was, while he had been thrilled to buy the shop just six months ago, it still felt like it was Thamer’s shop. And Adnan had never worked without Thamer at his side. First as a pharmacist apprentice, then as a fully licensed pharmacist in his own right. Having always relied on Thamer for his experience and good judgment, he had been relieved when Thamer asked if he could still work a few days a week “just to keep himself busy.”
Adnan stood behind the pharmacy’s long counter at the back of the store, looking out the front glass window as pedestrians went about their business. He liked standing behind the counter, which was raised a good eighteen inches off the floor, since it allowed him to see everything that was happening in the store. Customers seeking pharmaceutical prescriptions came to the back counter to order and pick up their medications, while a cash register was located on the main floor, between the west wall and the back counter. Although it meant constantly going up and down the three steps between the main floor and the pharmacy dispensing area, Adnan liked the layout.
The front door opened, and the old-fashioned metal doorbell attached to the top of the door chimed. Adnan looked up, surprised to see his sister Daneen step into the shop. He grinned in delight. He and his sister were especially close, and he adored his two nephews. It just made him long for Ghaniyah to have their first child.
“Don’t suppose you have any diesel on you?” he teased her.
She walked toward the rear counter with a sober face, not responding in any manner to his comment. He immediately knew something was wrong and quickly headed over to the steps at the end of the counter. He pushed through the waist-high pedestrian gate, saying, “What is it? Are the boys all right? Has something happened?”
Daneen met his gaze as he stood in front of her, but words failed her.
“What? What’s going on?” Adnan asked, his hands on her shoulders.
“It’s Maaz,” she finally managed to say.
“What? What happened? He was hurt? Where? What happened?”
“He didn’t come home last night.”
“What? From where? He was on assignment?”
“No, no. Dr. Lami’s nephew got married. He took pictures of the wedding.”
“Where? Where was this?”
“The Palestine Hotel.”
Adnan knew that the hotel was only about twelve miles from their home in the Jadida neighborhood of Baghdad. “Maybe it went late. Curfew is now at eleven –”
“I called the newspaper. Dr. Lami said everyone left close to ten.”
“Did he see Maaz leave?”
“Yes, no, I don’t know,” Daneen said in confusion.
“Maybe he stayed on. Then the curfew was in effect, so –”
“Then why didn’t he call? And why wasn’t he home by six this morning?” Daneen retorted. “He would’ve come home right away!”
“Look, I’m sure he’s fine. There’s been some sort of mix-up –”
“Like what?” she scoffed. “No! Something happened! Something happened to him! He would never stay out all night! He wouldn’t do it! And not call!? No!”
Adnan gave her a tight smile. “He probably stayed a bit later at the hotel. Then he was picked up for violating curfew. He’s probably being released right now.”
“No, no. Something is wrong! Something has happened! I can feel it!”
Baghdad, Iraq
Rick Gonzalez, better known simply as Gonz, glanced over at Dr. McKay as they exited the Humvee. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing her high cheekbones. Her full lips were tightly clenched, and he could tell from her furrowed brow that she was already concentrating on the task at hand. Her beauty never failed to amaze him. He had told her how beautiful she was just two nights ago when they had been able to sneak away for a few quiet hours. Looking at her now, he realized that she held his heart. If he was honest with himself, McKay had had his heart for some time now and something told him she always would. In fact, his heart might as well be in her black medical bag that she carried by her side. It was hers to do with as she pleased.
They passed a young Army private who was dry heaving beside the road. They both knew that wasn’t a good sign. Since most soldiers in Iraq had seen death while on duty – Iraqi civilians, insurgents or fellow servicemen – the body lying on the road up ahead wasn’t an ordinary sight. An Army sergeant quickly approached them, cutting off their path to the body.
“Lieutenant Collins,” Gonz told him. “M.I.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, studying Gonz and noticing the yellow pencil wedged over Gonz’s right ear. He g
lanced at Gonz’s lapel, which had the cover name Collins stenciled over the pocket of his Army fatigues. Both he and McKay were wearing their standard Army uniform, which was routine anytime they left the Green Zone. The fact that they were CIA agents was not something they wanted to become public knowledge. Even among the Marines and soldiers they often worked with. Their cover was M.I., or Military Intelligence, and although there would probably be some actual intelligence officers investigating this death, it provided ample cover for them to step in now.
“What have we got?” Gonz asked.
“It’s Briggs, sir.” The sergeant was referring to Marine Corporal Jason Briggs who had been captured eight days before after his four-man patrol had been caught in an ambush. The other three soldiers had been killed in the ensuing firefight, but Briggs had been abducted.
Gonz nodded. “What time was he found?”
“Oh-nine-thirty nine, sir. We immediately closed down the road, started diverting traffic.”
McKay started to head over to the body sprawled on the ground near the paved road, about fifteen feet away, but the sergeant suddenly blocked her path. “I wouldn’t, ma’am.”
McKay stared at him for a moment, then said, “But you’re not me, are you?”
She started off again, but Gonz reached out, grabbing her by the arm. He ignored her annoyed looked and turned his attention to the Army sergeant. “Cleared?”
“Yes, sir. No booby-traps, sir.”
Gonz let McKay go with a simple nod. Then he said to the sergeant, “Thank you, sergeant.” He quickly caught up with McKay. A moment later he understood why the young private had lost his breakfast.
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 31
