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

evening that McKay had a chance to see the photos in the Iraq National Journal . As had already been arranged, she had entered a café near the hospital just after six o’clock, taking a seat near the back. She carried a copy of the Arabic edition of the newspaper since no English editions had been available at the newsstand. Now sipping some tea, she unfolded the paper and scrutinized the photo.
    While she could see the vague image of Ghaniyah in the background, since the Iraqi woman had been wearing a hijab, it could’ve been anyone. Something good to be said about their damned head coverings after all, McKay thought. She put the paper on the chair at an adjacent table, and a minute later Ghaniyah entered the café, removing the newspaper to sit down just a meter away from McKay. The restaurant had very few patrons, which suited their purposes quite well. When a waiter came to the table, Ghaniyah ordered some tea and black bread.
    Holding her tea cup in front of her lips, McKay said quietly, “We may have a problem.” She could see Ghaniyah look at her in surprise, and she quickly hissed, “Don’t look at me.” From her peripheral vision she could see Ghaniyah glance away. “That paper ran a photo of what happened yesterday. You’re in the background. We’re worried there may be more to follow.”
    Now sipping the tea, she saw Ghaniyah unfold the newspaper and study the pictures. No one in the café was paying any attention to the two women, so McKay continued, “If that happens, we’re pulling you out.” Ghaniyah didn’t say a word, seeming to be engrossed in the photo. “It could be anyone. The hijab helped shadow your face.” Still nothing from the attractive young woman, so McKay said, “You look at the chest?”
    Taking her lead from McKay, Ghaniyah held her tea cup close to her face, blocking any sign that she was talking. “It’s just a chest. With her clothes.”
    McKay felt a tinge of disappointment. “Did you look under the drawers? Pull them out and check that nothing is taped to the bottom. A note, perhaps?”
    “There is nothing but her clothes,” Ghaniyah replied adamantly.
    McKay thought a moment. “That’s the only chest?”
    “Yes.” Her voice was filled with contempt.
    “I’ll need to come by. Tomorrow.” McKay knew that although Ghaniyah had given her aunt’s name and address to Gonz, the CIA hadn’t been able to locate her home. Which meant they were dependent on Ghaniyah.
    “I’m telling the truth,” Ghaniyah responded.
    “I’m off at two this afternoon. I can be there after that.”
    “Did you see my aunt?” Ghaniyah whispered.
    “No. I didn’t have a chance.”
    “She is very sick. I don’t think they know what’s wrong.” The waiter seated a young couple fairly close by, and Ghaniyah continued in hushed voice. “I’d like you to help her.”
    Instead of answering, McKay stood and fished out some money from her wallet, leaving it on the table. As she turned to leave, she faced Ghaniyah. “I’ll do what I can. We’ll leave tomorrow about two-thirty.”
    A moment later McKay was gone.

Baghdad, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 9:17 p.m.
    Although quite a few people in the crowd had flashlights, Maaz found it still very hard to see exactly what it was. He stood on the bank of the Tigris River, very close to the concrete bridge that spanned high above him. Suddenly the crowd started shouting, and he heard the roar of an engine. He turned away from the bridge just in time to see a large Nissan truck skid down the rocky embankment toward the river, heading directly toward them.
    “Faris!” Maaz called out.
    “I’m right behind you,” he heard his son reply. He turned to see Faris holding his young brother. He put a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder as they watched the truck approach the crowd which had parted slightly. A moment later, a row of spotlights mounted on top of the truck cab blinded the mob, many whom had to turn away or put up a hand to block