Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) by M. H. Sargent, Shelley Holloway

offices since the week they had moved in, and she was astonished to see the changes. There were flat-panel monitors on many desks in the main room, larger electronic equipment she didn’t recognize in a glass-enclosed area marked “Graphics,” and some sort of conference room on the opposite side.
    The biggest change was the number of employees. She knew that when Dr. Lami invested his own money into starting the newspaper just a few years ago, he had only two employees. Now how many were there? She actually started counting. She had just gotten to twelve when she heard, “You just missed him, Daneen.” She looked to see Fadhil, the young man Maaz had brought to the house for dinner several times, talking to her. “Went to get a new camera.”
    “That’s wonderful,” she replied, secretly happy he wasn’t there. “I saw the picture he took in today’s newspaper.”
    “Did you see his photo credit?”
    “His photo credit?” she asked, clearly puzzled.
    Fadhil led her to the nearby kiosk where he grabbed a paper. He pointed to Maaz’s full name in tiny font just below the picture. “Not bad, eh?”
    “Wow,” she marveled. It seemed so strange to see her husband’s name in a newspaper.
    “He’s doing very well. That’s why Dr. Lami’s getting him a good camera.”
    “He takes good pictures?”
    “Really good. Would you like to see?”
    “Yes, please,” she answered. This was the exact reason she had come to the newspaper after leaving Adnan. She followed Fadhil to his desk, which sat fairly close to the entrance. The monitor was pitch black, but he moved the mouse and it came to life. “This is yours?” she asked.
    “Yep. I do a lot of the paste-up, copy editing, cropping photos and all the computer stuff that anyone needs here,” he explained with an easy smile. He sat down and clicked on one program, then another. “Here it is.”
    Daneen watched the slide show of Maaz’s pictures taken of the American two-star general at a podium, then the severed head, which she still found gruesome to watch, and finally two pictures of Ghaniyah. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she stepped closer to the monitor for a better look. Both photos were fairly close-up, one with her hands handcuffed as she sat on the ground cross-legged, and another of her walking away from the camera, but turning to look back at something. The slide show stopped on that photo– a photo which clearly showed her beautiful face. There was no doubt. It was Ghaniyah.
    Finding her voice, Daneen asked, “Who is the woman?”
    “Don’t know. We’re working on it. Probably be in tomorrow’s paper, maybe the day after.”
    She could only stare at the screen, grateful that Maaz had never met Ghaniyah. In fact, the only time Adnan had brought Ghaniyah to the house was one time last summer – a day when Maaz was busy at work. The truth was that her brother and husband had nothing in common. While Adnan had gone to university, Maaz had been content to work odd labor jobs. Whenever they were together, there seemed to be a chasm that only Daneen could fill, bridging the gap. It was awkward, but she loved both men.
    “Are you all right?” she heard. Then again in a louder voice, “Daneen, are you all right?”
    Daneen tore her eyes away from Ghaniyah’s image and said, “Yes.” She touched him on the shoulder. “Thank you for showing me.” She started to leave, then turned to the young man. “Those photos? You can send them places by computer, yes?”
    “E-mail, you mean? Yes. The one in today’s paper we sent to the A.P.” He saw her puzzled look and said, “Associated Press. Money from just one picture like that can keep us going for awhile. We’ll get more when we publish the rest.”
    Daneen gave a slight smile. “I see. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work.”
    Fadhil watched her leave sensing that something was wrong. He wondered what it was.

Basra, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 6:06 p.m.
    It wasn’t until early