An Enemy Within (21 page)

Now, they knew his rules and, by God, he would do his utmost to see they stuck to them.

In his pre-war paper to the White House, he had called for ‘sophisticated and subtle manipulation’ to control the flow of information and images emanating from Iraq. There was simply no room, he said, for the alternative view.

For Kowolski now, however, it was a case of so far, so good. The gung-ho coverage of the TV networks at home was as gratifying as he had envisaged, while the majority of
newspapers had taken their lead and acquiesced. There would be no more mistakes with the media as in Vietnam, nor as for the Brits in the Falklands.

And on no account would there ever be pictures of our slain men and women coming home in body bags, draped with the flag. Those press ‘freedoms’ were well and truly over.

His only negative of any consequence so far; no one had uncovered the slightest whiff of WMD. He had seen the weapons inspectors’ classified reports and, like them, seriously doubted there were any. The spectre of their absence had not yet hit the news pages, so that was a bonus. Only one or two of the more shrewd political columnists had broached the subject; their ramblings confined to columns on the inside pages. Hardly anyone had time to read such smart-ass political comment.

Kowolski’s ongoing worry was that some writer scratching his fanny on a slow news day might just broach the subject with his home editor after reading such a column. It was a potential front-page landmine. He knew they all copied off each other, sneakily window dressed a theme to make a piece sound new. The ‘exclusive’ tag was old rope these days. In Kowolski’s view, very few of the whole rotten barrel had an original thought in their heads.

Although WMD was a potential booby-trap, he was quite at ease to push the subject to the back of his mind. For now. But he knew, sooner or later, he’d have a battle on his hands trying to deal with the public fallout when the reality dawned.

*  *  *

Alex gunned the motor to a few miles per hour over the speed limit. The highway north was quiet so she flicked on the cruise control of the hire car. Ahead of schedule on her work for Kowolski, the idea of a short visit to her parents had become a priority; she needed relief from the pressures building up around her. There, in the quiet little town of Stamford, she hoped she might be able to switch off from the turmoil within.

She thought of Steve Lewis. He’d been a rock these last few weeks, their phone conversations and emails becoming more intimate. He was a great listener, reassuring her, cajoling, teasing. Smiling to herself, she wondered at his patience as she’d poured her heart out to him; his calm, measured advice acting to quell the panic that often threatened to overwhelm her.

Now, he knew everything: about her affair with Northwood, what she’d done to counteract his threat over Aban and his top-secret file, how stupid she felt about letting Kowolski use her to his own ends. Was it possible she was falling in love with a guy she hardly knew? But, surely, she did know him? Wasn’t he the man who’d already spoken of his fondness for her, how he wished he could be near her – not some 5,000 miles away, ‘spitting sand’ in his desert outpost and counting the days until his release from service?

This man, so unlike the standard military cut she’d worked with, was a different animal. Those kindly eyes that seemed to crinkle when he laughed, his laidback manner, yet his ambition and determination to set up his own business endorsed her view that he was a good man. She wished Steve could be with her now, driving him to meet her folks, secretly hoping for their approval. Something inside her desperately needed him at her side to see everything through. Thinking about him, the journey seemed to pass in no time, adding to her guilt that she didn’t make the trip more often.

Turning into the driveway, she was pleased to see the flagpole on the front lawn bare. Devoid of the Stars and Stripes, it was an action of protest her father had taken when the first bombs dropped on Iraq. She didn’t see eye to eye with her parents’ views on a variety of issues, but, she guessed, that was a generation thing. Taking down the flag must have been difficult for both of them. But she was proud of their stance. ‘To hell with what the neighbours think,’ he’d told her on the phone. ‘I’m not gonna fly that flag until we’re outa there.’

Turning off the ignition and grabbing her bag, a shudder ran
through her as she asked herself how she would explain her work for Kowolski. The President’s name was now spoken with disparagement in this house.

So, how would she tell them that, within a couple of weeks, she’d be party to bolstering this man’s reputation?

A feeling of dread enveloped her as she got out of the car.

*  *  *

‘What is it, honey? A man?’ Alex, curled up on a sofa, managed a half-smile. Her mom was so damn intuitive. Apart from the usual jibes about wanting grandchildren before they reached the ga-ga stage, her parents had given up asking about her private life. The subject had become a running joke because Alex always steered such hinted conversation away from the topic. And her mom and dad now knew to keep their counsel.

‘Why d’you say that?’ Alex said, irked, as if an unwritten rule had been breached. She stole a sideways glance at her mother, returning her gaze out of the large picture window to the backyard lawn where her father was riding a mower.

‘Hun,’ her mom said, sitting on the edge of the sofa, ‘this is your mother speaking – perhaps I know you better than you think… so?’

Alex sighed. ‘Yeah, I’ve met a guy… do you believe in, well, sorta love at first sight?’

‘Sure. It happens. Look at Grandpa – he always said he fell for Nana first time he clapped eyes on her.’

‘Hmmm…’

Her mom stroked the back of Alex’s hand. ‘C’mon, baby, out with it.’

For the next half hour Alex recounted her meeting with Steve. How they had corresponded, talked for hours on the phone. Even when she became exuberant, and her dad walked in, she continued, regaling them both with her innermost feelings. So lost in words, she failed to see her dad exchange a look with his wife. One that seemed to say, ‘Wow, this girl’s got it bad.’

Later, after talking some more, Alex had her best night’s sleep for ages.

*  *  *

It was over breakfast the next day that she told them of the Kowolski business.

Reluctant at first, she gave her parents a blow-by-blow account of the events, at one stage unable to hold back the tears.

‘What a bastard,’ her father said.

‘Frank!’ Her mother gasped.

‘Well, what a snake, then,’ he said, admonished.

He got up and put his arms gently on Alex’s shoulders. ‘Never mind, baby. What do I always tell you?’

‘Something’ll turn up,’ Alex said, sniffing.

‘It will, hun,’ her mother said. ‘We’re sure it will – right, Frank?’

‘You bet,’ he said, reaching for the coffee pot and topping up Alex’s mug.

A little later, sitting in her father’s den catching up on her emails, her mother popped her head round the door.

‘Thought you might need that thing you sent me, honey.’

‘Thanks, Mom,’ Alex said, taking the memory stick and putting it on the desk. When her mother left, she sat looking at it, lost in thought. She didn’t have the time or the inclination to do anything with Aban’s material at the present. It would have to remain her ace up the sleeve. At one stage, she’d thought about telling her parents about the whole business, but decided against the idea. It would be unfair to burden them with something she alone must handle. But it wouldn’t do any harm to glance at the file again, remind herself of its bombshell contents.

She got up, gently closing the door, and returned to the computer inserting the stick. Tapping a few keys on the keyboard, she waited.
Nothing
. She swallowed hard. The stuff was
on here – she’d checked, made doubly sure before posting it. Maybe she’d hit a wrong key. She withdrew the stick then reinserted it. Biting her bottom lip, she could feel the panic rising in her chest.
Still a blank screen
.

Frantic, Alex repeated the procedure with the same empty results. She asked her dad to help. He tried several times to load the stick, each effort unsuccessful.

‘Hope it wasn’t that important, Alex,’ he said, resigned.

Alex just shook her head, unable to comprehend what might have gone wrong. An empty feeling verging on nausea gripped her, spinning her inside out.

Then the sudden realisation of her own powerless insignificance; that she was but a mere speck in the momentous forces ranged against her. Something had happened beyond her control. She had no idea what. But her body still trembled with an overwhelming sinking acceptance of defeat. She stared helplessly at the worthless stick – the only copy she had made.

*  *  *

Alex headed for Manhattan late afternoon, her heart heavy, mood sour. Being around her folks had initially calmed her. Now, her thoughts in turmoil, she needed someone to confide in, someone with a sense of sangfroid, like Steve. Staring ahead at the rippling shimmer of brake lights stretching into the distance, all she could think was that she needed him.

Traffic going into the city crawled like cattle herded into a narrow corral. A late summer storm had dumped torrents of water on the road, which collected in deep pools on the underpasses causing motorists to meander from lane to lane. Her phone rang. She ignored it. Seconds later, its familiar alert tone told her someone had left a message.

It was unnaturally dark when she finally parked up. Great gloomy clouds threatened overhead and a smell of newly-drenched dust filled the air. Her phone beeped again, impatient to be silenced. Making sure the car doors were still locked, she
reached for this nagging piece of technology, saw a voicemail beckoned, and called the service.

‘Hi Alex, it’s me, Greg. Listen babe, I don’t know how to tell you this… it’s about Aban… I’m sorry, but he’s dead. They say he had a heart attack while being questioned… I just don’t know any more than that – don’t know what to think. I’ve only spoken briefly to Farrah – she’s devastated. She thinks they killed him.’

The shock hit Alex like a tornado, the force lifting her aimlessly high into the air, battering and shaking her whole being, flinging her feelings in a crazy, haphazard maelstrom then hurling her down with cruel abandon.

Numbed to the bone, all she could do was to drop the phone – and scream.

17

The grief, the tears, and the desolation had begun to wane. She’d been tempted by the thought of alcohol over the last few days, but her resolve stood fast. Now, Alex felt consumed by an all-powering rage. Her whole being bristled with an intense loathing of Richard Northwood and his ilk. How could she make them pay for their contemptible blind loyalty to an administration such as this and for the consequences of such loyalty? Especially Northwood. He’d promised her Aban’s protection yet, obscenely, hadn’t lifted a finger. The poor man was dead because of him.

Fearful that her phone might be tapped, she’d spoken with Steve from a public pay phone that had cost her a small fortune. Urged to recall the minutiae of her movements, he’d asked her to accept that the CIA most likely knew about Aban’s email from the off and had placed her under surveillance.

‘The post office counter clerk, the blind guy – hey, do blind people walk round listening to music? Someone switched that memory stick, Alex and one way or another, they got you. Accept it, you can’t win them all.’

While relieved to have shared her worries, Alex was in no mood to let the matter lie. In fact she now found herself doubly determined to hit back. When and where, she couldn’t answer. She simply knew she must.

Alex was also wrestling with herself to call off the whole McDermott show. But her pictures were ready and, try as she might to ignore them, professional pride wouldn’t allow it. At least, she determined, she should go and view them.

Kowolski called her just as she was leaving for the lab in a supine fit of reluctance.

His voice was different, softer, much more subdued. ‘I heard about your friend – I’m so sorry. This thing’s getting harder for everyone out here. There isn’t a day goes by now without…’

‘You know they killed him,’ she said, her eyes welling up.

‘Alex, I don’t know that and neither do you. They say he had a weak heart – it could’ve happened any minute.’

‘God knows where they kept him, what they did to him. It’s what his wife is saying,’ she stormed.

‘You spoken to her?’

‘No, I can’t get through. It’s what I hear. I’ve arranged for flowers but I don’t know if…’ she began to cry, soon sobbing full flow.

Kowolski sighed, a long labouring breath. ‘Listen, I’ll see what I can do – I’ll recommend compensation for the family, see they’re cared for. I’ve already spoken with Richard Northwood – he’s as shocked as anyone.’

Alex glanced at the letter sitting beside her computer. ‘No he’s not. He’s just a cold calculating bastard. You all are.’

‘That’s not fair, Alex.’

‘And I suppose your plan to bolster the President is just an afterthought? I’m sick of it all, everything.’

‘Hey, hold on a minute.’ He hesitated a few seconds, his voice dropped a notch. ‘You remember when you got that picture published, the one of that poor mother with her dead son?’

‘Well?’

‘It had an effect on me, Alex, got me thinking – not that I expect you to believe me. Maybe I’m not as tough as you think. And, boy, could I do with a break from all this. But, remember how you responded when I bawled you out? You said, ‘‘It’s what I do.’’ Well, this is what I do, Alex. It’s a lot tougher than I imagined and I might not like the job as much as I thought I did, but I set out with a goal in mind and I have to see it through. I need you to understand that.’

She was stunned by his admission, not knowing how to respond. ‘I gotta go to work,’ she finally said, hanging up.

In the cab to the laboratory, Alex stared at the thick metal security grill separating the cab from the rear-seat passenger, a fact of big-city life. You could see the driver, talk to him, but make no closer contact. Kowolski’s revelation sounded almost like a confession. So the war was getting to him. Shame others weren’t out there to taste the vile concoction they’d created. Perhaps she’d been wrong to sully him in the same breath as Northwood.