Read Online Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) by M. H. Sargent, Shelley Holloway - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: M. H. Sargent, Shelley Holloway
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the lab tech told him. “Maybe get something useful.”
“Not exactly handwriting,” Gonz said looking at the block text.
“You’d be surprised. For one thing, I’ll lay you odds the writer had a secondary education somewhere in the West.” When Gonz raised an eyebrow, he explained, “Look at the ‘Before.’ It’s a little off. I think the writer first made it a small b, then realized it was a new sentence and capitalized it. He’s very exact. Like the ‘had to have.’ He’s well educated. Knows English quite well.”
Gonz stepped closer to the monitor. Sure enough, he could see that the lower part of the letter looked darker. Retraced. “He?”
“Probably,” the tech said. “Most women won’t write like this for very long. They slip. Make it more cursive. Plus they don’t print as hard. This was written with force.”
“You checked the woman we brought in?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s been checked three times.” He laughed. “It’s not her. I even had her write a small ‘b’ and then asked her to capitalize it. She didn’t write this.”
“She says she didn’t even know there was a note. Swears by it.”
“Probably just the messenger,” the technician agreed. “For the record, we’ve never had any kind of note before.”
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“I dunno, but I talked to one of our analysts. He wasn’t surprised by the message. Said that line of thinking dates way back in Islam. Hundreds and hundreds of years. If someone doesn’t speak the truth, off with his head.”
Gonz nodded. “What else you get?”
“Okay, the writer is most likely male, educated in the West. No DNA, no fingerprints. Not too surprising. But the paper is what’s the most revealing.” He clicked on the mouse and the same faint letterhead Gonz had seen before appeared. One more click and it was clear as day. Written in Arabic.
“Here’s the translation,” the tech said. The screen changed. Now it read “ Thamer’s Sidali’ia. ”
“The word ‘ sidali’ia ’ means pharmacy.” Another click of the mouse and the words ‘ Thamer’s Pharmacy’ appeared. “Thamer is a male first name. Like if we’d found a note saying ‘Mike’s Pharmacy.’”
Gonz quickly looked at the technician. “Do we know–”
“Yep. It’s a pharmacy in Jadida. Suburb of Baghdad. Owned by a Thamer Rayhan. Been there for nearly thirty-five years.”
“And this guy Thamer?”
“We’re still working on it. Nothing came up, but who knows?”
Gonz turned to the technician. “So, the note came from what? A pad of paper from this pharmacy?”
“Small receipt tablet. Carbon copy. Maybe one of two sheets. One of three. Usually white, then yellow, then pink.”
Gonz nodded. “So we’re looking at the middle carbon?”
“We won’t know for sure until we get to the pharmacy and find the writing pad this came from. But yeah, that’s what it looks like.”
“So, yellow copy might be the customer’s?”
“Normally, I’d think so. But there’s only one thing on it besides their note to us.” He clicked the mouse. “Look at this.”
The screen changed as the right corner of the note zoomed into view. Arabic handwriting. Very faint. “Appears to be someone’s name.” The technician flipped through some notes near the computer. “Could be ‘ Aref .’”
“ Aref ?” Gonz repeated.
“Again, a male first name. But that’s a bit dicey since it’s so faint. We’ll still see what we can do.”
“That it?”
“All I can do from here. It goes in a pouch to Langley in a few hours. See what they come up with.”
Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 1:19 a.m. (Three Days From Sunday)
Someone was pounding on his door. Hard.
Adnan’s heart thundered as he lay in bed. The Americans? Or even the Iraqi Security Forces? Like his sister, he had seen the news on television. He too had been horrified to see his own legs on television as the head rolled to a stop near his feet, blood
“Not exactly handwriting,” Gonz said looking at the block text.
“You’d be surprised. For one thing, I’ll lay you odds the writer had a secondary education somewhere in the West.” When Gonz raised an eyebrow, he explained, “Look at the ‘Before.’ It’s a little off. I think the writer first made it a small b, then realized it was a new sentence and capitalized it. He’s very exact. Like the ‘had to have.’ He’s well educated. Knows English quite well.”
Gonz stepped closer to the monitor. Sure enough, he could see that the lower part of the letter looked darker. Retraced. “He?”
“Probably,” the tech said. “Most women won’t write like this for very long. They slip. Make it more cursive. Plus they don’t print as hard. This was written with force.”
“You checked the woman we brought in?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s been checked three times.” He laughed. “It’s not her. I even had her write a small ‘b’ and then asked her to capitalize it. She didn’t write this.”
“She says she didn’t even know there was a note. Swears by it.”
“Probably just the messenger,” the technician agreed. “For the record, we’ve never had any kind of note before.”
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“I dunno, but I talked to one of our analysts. He wasn’t surprised by the message. Said that line of thinking dates way back in Islam. Hundreds and hundreds of years. If someone doesn’t speak the truth, off with his head.”
Gonz nodded. “What else you get?”
“Okay, the writer is most likely male, educated in the West. No DNA, no fingerprints. Not too surprising. But the paper is what’s the most revealing.” He clicked on the mouse and the same faint letterhead Gonz had seen before appeared. One more click and it was clear as day. Written in Arabic.
“Here’s the translation,” the tech said. The screen changed. Now it read “ Thamer’s Sidali’ia. ”
“The word ‘ sidali’ia ’ means pharmacy.” Another click of the mouse and the words ‘ Thamer’s Pharmacy’ appeared. “Thamer is a male first name. Like if we’d found a note saying ‘Mike’s Pharmacy.’”
Gonz quickly looked at the technician. “Do we know–”
“Yep. It’s a pharmacy in Jadida. Suburb of Baghdad. Owned by a Thamer Rayhan. Been there for nearly thirty-five years.”
“And this guy Thamer?”
“We’re still working on it. Nothing came up, but who knows?”
Gonz turned to the technician. “So, the note came from what? A pad of paper from this pharmacy?”
“Small receipt tablet. Carbon copy. Maybe one of two sheets. One of three. Usually white, then yellow, then pink.”
Gonz nodded. “So we’re looking at the middle carbon?”
“We won’t know for sure until we get to the pharmacy and find the writing pad this came from. But yeah, that’s what it looks like.”
“So, yellow copy might be the customer’s?”
“Normally, I’d think so. But there’s only one thing on it besides their note to us.” He clicked the mouse. “Look at this.”
The screen changed as the right corner of the note zoomed into view. Arabic handwriting. Very faint. “Appears to be someone’s name.” The technician flipped through some notes near the computer. “Could be ‘ Aref .’”
“ Aref ?” Gonz repeated.
“Again, a male first name. But that’s a bit dicey since it’s so faint. We’ll still see what we can do.”
“That it?”
“All I can do from here. It goes in a pouch to Langley in a few hours. See what they come up with.”
Jadida, Iraq Thursday, April 13th 1:19 a.m. (Three Days From Sunday)
Someone was pounding on his door. Hard.
Adnan’s heart thundered as he lay in bed. The Americans? Or even the Iraqi Security Forces? Like his sister, he had seen the news on television. He too had been horrified to see his own legs on television as the head rolled to a stop near his feet, blood
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