Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (33 page)

“And you saw Adnan get in an ambulance...?”

“I told you that, yes,” she said impatiently.

“He had a head injury, Ghaniyah. A very serious head injury.” After a moment’s silence the American doctor continued. “Did you see the blood on his shirt? That was from a head wound. He was taken to the hospital and stitched up, but it was more serious than first thought. He has what’s called TBI – traumatic brain injury.”

The doctor was still talking, but Ghaniyah had suddenly tuned her out. Her mind raced. Traumatic brain injury? What did this mean?

Then she heard, “Ghaniyah, you there?”

“He’s in the hospital?” Ghaniyah finally managed to ask.

“And he will be for some time. Head injuries are very tricky, I’m not going to lie to you. In his case, he had a subdural hematoma... He had bleeding in both the frontal and temporal cerebral lobes...”

McKay kept her head down as she paced, the phone to an ear. “The frontal lobes are very important and are needed for everything from speech and swallowing to basic cognitive function...”

She glanced at Gonz who stood behind Peterson’s desk, waving his hand in a circular motion. Keep it up. “Right now, Ghaniyah, he’s in what’s called a medically induced coma. That means the doctors want him unconscious for his own good. The bleeding has been stopped, and they will evaluate his progress on a day-to-day basis...”

“Bada bing, bada boom, baby!” Peterson whispered triumphantly.

“You got it? Where? Where is she?” Gonz asked in a hushed voice, leaning over Peterson’s chair.

McKay quickly walked further away, so Ghaniyah wouldn’t be able to overhear them.

“Just need a few more seconds...” Peterson answered.

Gonz caught McKay’s eye and again motioned for her to keep talking.

“The good news is that right now we see no signs of bilateral weakness or paralysis,” McKay continued. “That can happen with subdural hematomas in this region of the brain...”

“Baghdad. Southwestern quadrant...” Peterson quietly declared.

“Ghaniyah?” McKay suddenly asked in a loud voice from across the room. “Ghaniyah? Ghaniyah!?”

Peterson quickly checked the computer. “She’s gone! But we got her! Pulling up the exact coordinates now...”

The printer started to hum.

Gonz looked at McKay who trudged back toward him, clearly drained. “You did good.”

“Yeah?” McKay asked, disheartened. “Then why do I feel like shit?”

The crowd was primarily Shiite, strong supporters of the cabinet minister who now held the 121st seat of Parliament and served as a prominent leader in the country’s new National Assembly. The parliamentary leader, a staunch advocate of their fledgling democracy, had been scheduled to speak on the grassy quad of the university over an hour ago, and the large audience was now growing restless.

Aref, anxious to hear the upcoming speech, had arrived a good hour before the scheduled speech time and taken up a position on the grass very close to the dais. The politician had resonated with many Iraqis, not only the Shiite, because he was often quoted as saying that Iraq was a nation only as strong as her people – and that it was the people who would decide if this new democracy was to lay the foundation of freedom for centuries to come, or end up as a footnote in the chronological history of what occurred after the fall of Saddam Hussein.

With both his eyesight and hearing not always up to par, Aref had wanted to be as close as possible so he wouldn’t miss a word. He had also brought his poster, which he felt certain the elected official would appreciate if he saw it. Although the speech was now considerably behind schedule, he was content to patiently wait. On the dais, a man stepped up to the microphone, tapped it a few times and then said, “Testing, one, two three. Can you hear me in the back there?”

A thunderous chorus of shouts affirmed the crowd could easily hear. As the crowd gradually quieted, the loud din of two helicopters overhead filled the air. Seen approaching from more than a kilometer away and flying low, Aref’s first thought was that one of helicopters was transporting the cabinet minister to the university. But as the helicopters quickly advanced he could see that they were military Black Hawks, powerful fighter aircraft seen daily flying over the city. As they passed overhead, the noise deafening, he craned his neck back to stare at the monstrous black bellies of the helicopters where two large pylon mounted rockets attached to each side of the fuselage.

A moment later they were gone.

“Twelve minutes,” Captain Kelso announced through the radio system integrated into their helmets.

Heisman, wearing full combat gear including padded gloves and a flight helmet, sat directly behind the Army pilot. He didn’t bother to respond to the pilot’s ETA. As the Black Hawk suddenly banked to the left, he watched through the large window as the last few buildings of the university began to blend in with the rest of the city. They passed over a large mosque, its gold-leaf turret glistening in the sun.

The helicopter leveled out again, and Heisman felt himself give a sigh of relief. The truth was, he hated flying. In America, or anywhere else for that matter. But he really hated flying in Iraq. Too many SAMs – surface to air missiles – had hit their marks on Coalition aircraft, bringing them down like heavy stones. No survivors. Almost every damned time. No survivors.

He knew it was a matter of control. In a Humvee, even if he wasn’t driving, he knew with a moment’s notice he could take control. He could take over the wheel, drive away from danger. On the ground, he could find cover or improvise on the fly. But in the air, he not only had to rely on the two pilots up front, but he couldn’t take over for them if they were hit. He was a sitting duck and hated it.

He tried to tell himself he was in good hands. These Army pilots had extensive training in flying low over urban areas with zero visibility. Today, they could see for miles. And the equipment was top rate. The Black Hawks had seen plenty of wartime missions, everything from infiltration behind enemy lines and Medevacing wounded soldiers from the battlefield to heroic rescue operations over land and sea, often operating in terrible weather conditions.

Besides, they weren’t alone. Directly behind them, off to their left was the other helicopter, its job to provide cover should they come under attack.

“Heisman, you copy?” he heard Gonz ask through the radio.

“Roger, five by five,” Heisman replied.

“No signal. Repeat, still no signal.”

Heisman felt a tinge of disappointment, but was hardly surprised. Ghaniyah had only turned on the cell when she made a call. Who knew if she would even use the phone again?

“Roger, still no signal,” Heisman repeated.

“We got ground backup heading to the location now. Ten minutes out. Repeat, ten minutes out.”

“Roger, that.”

Heisman knew that they were looking for a needle in a haystack. If they were extremely lucky, Ghaniyah was holed up in the target building and had been making all her phone calls from that location. More likely however, since she seemed to know the three minute tracing rule, she was moving around. The question was, was she alone or with someone else? Was she in a car or on foot?

“One minute out,” Captain Kelso relayed.

“Target coming up at your ten o’clock,” the co-pilot declared.

Heisman looked out the window to his left. City streets and buildings. Nothing that stood out.

The co-pilot studied a handheld GPS system and pointed below, “Single story white building. Air conditioner on the roof at three o’clock.”

Heisman scanned the buildings. Then he saw it. Just as the co-pilot had described. “Got it!” he confirmed to the pilots.

“We’ll get you directly over the target,” Captain Kelso said calmly. “Standby...”

Heisman could see people on the street stare at the massive military helicopter as it slowly descended straight down. Talk about a sitting duck.

“Move into position now...!” the co-pilot shouted.

Heisman quickly unbuckled his safety harness and moved over to the right side of the helicopter. He sidestepped a large coil of rope and opened the cargo door. Warm air rushed in. Looking below, he realized they were hovering just about thirty feet over the top of target building. He double-checked that the rope’s massive fastener was securely clipped onto the large round eye-hook mounted to the floor, and dropped the rope over the side.

The helicopter hovering in place, the co-pilot turned in his seat, looking over his shoulder at Heisman and shouted, “You’re a go..!”

Heisman unhooked the electronic cable to the helmet, cutting off communication to the pilots. Under the co-pilot’s watchful gaze, he gave a thumbs-up, then grabbed a hold of the rope and let himself drop over the edge.

“I want to go home,” Abasah whined again.

Both Ghaniyah and the driver ignored her, the driver concentrating on negotiating the traffic, Ghaniyah trying to figure out what to do. All she knew was that she wanted as much distance between herself and the café as possible. Once she had realized that she had been on the phone for nearly four minutes, she had immediately disconnected the line and turned off the phone. She had then dashed back into the café, telling the driver they needed to leave immediately. This had upset the girl no end since they had just gotten their food. Fortunately, the waitress overheard her and quickly arranged to have the food put in Styrofoam packages. Ghaniyah hadn’t wanted to waste another precious moment, but she forced herself to be calm, telling herself that even if the Americans could tell where she was, it would take time for them to get to the area. Once the food was put in containers, she had then given the waitress a respectable tip in appreciation, and minutes later they were safely in the truck heading north again.

“I want to go home,” Abasah repeated.

“Eat your food.”

“I’m not hungry. I want to go home.”

“You jumped in here,” Ghaniyah sternly reminded her. “I didn’t ask you to come.” Glancing at the driver who was now studying her, Ghaniyah turned away.

Fadhil was the first to see Maaz enter the newspaper offices followed by Daneen holding Badr. He leaped up to greet him, hesitating for a moment as he saw the extensive bruising on Maaz’s face, then wrapping him up in a warm bear hug. Only then did he notice the three Marines who kept a respectful, but protective distance around the family.

“Faris?” Maaz asked.

Fadhil nodded toward Dr. Lami’s office where they could see Faris through the glass partition. He was sitting in the publisher’s plush leather chair, concentrating on the computer as he tried to use the mouse.

Daneen hurried into the office and a moment later she was tightly clutching both her sons. She pulled away from Faris, tenderly touched his face and then gathered him in her arms again, holding him tight.

“Father!” Faris shouted in joy, pulling himself out of his mother’s grasp and leaping into Maaz’s arms as he stepped into the office.

“Thank God,” a deep voice said just outside the office door. Still holding Faris, Maaz heard Dr. Lami say, “I told myself, God willing, you will be okay. Your family will be okay.”

Maaz quickly put Faris down and turned toward his publisher. Upon seeing Maaz’s battered face, Dr. Lami whispered, “Dear God. What happened?”

Maaz shook his head. “They took out their frustration on me, I guess.”

Dr. Lami looked at Daneen. “You are well? They didn’t–”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Daneen answered with a shy smile, one hand on Faris’ shoulder.

“Who did this?” the publisher asked. “Do you know?”

Maaz glanced at Daneen, then said, “Al Mudtaji.”

“No!” Dr. Lami hissed. “Dear God. Your brother-in-law? What of him?”

Maaz shook his head. “We don’t know.” He nodded to the Marines hovering outside the office. “They’re taking us to the Green Zone until...” His words trailed off.

Dr. Lami nodded. “Of course, of course.”

There was a moment of awkward silence and then Daneen spoke up. “Thank you for taking care of Faris.”

Dr. Lami seemed relieved to talk of something other than Iraq’s top terrorist and replied with a smile, “Of course. What else could I do? He’s the oldest son of my best photographer.”

Maaz started to smile even though it hurt greatly, before the words resonated, and he suddenly gave the publisher a surprised double take.

“Well, you’re my
only
photographer at the moment,” Dr. Lami explained with a laugh. “So that makes you my best too. Ali was hired by the A.P.” He was referring to the paper’s only staff photographer who had not shown up for work the past week, supposedly because he was sick. Dr. Lami gave Maaz a serious look. “I’d like to have you take Ali’s place. I’ll get some stringers, of course, but I’d like you to be on staff.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Maaz stammered.

Dr. Lami looked to Daneen. “I can’t promise he will have regular hours. But his salary should help compensate.”

Maaz quickly looked to Daneen to see her reaction. She smiled and gave him an encouraging nod. Elated, he turned back to Dr. Lami and they shook hands, laughing.

“When?” Heisman asked in Arabic. “When did they leave?”

The waitress shrugged. “Maybe an hour, now?”

Once he had landed on the roof, Heisman had quickly scurried to the back of the building where he had carefully lowered himself off the edge, hanging from the lip of the roof by his hands. Then he had silently dropped to the ground with his knees bent. A clean drop. By the time the helicopters’ powerful engines had faded in the distance, he had slipped through the backdoor, his pistol in hand. Within seconds, he had found himself in a corridor that led to the back room of a bustling commercial kitchen, the workers oblivious to his intrusion. He had remained in place for just another moment, overhearing the cook shout that an order was up.