An Enemy Within (26 page)

‘How long?’ Kowolski spluttered. ‘Ten goddam minutes. You kidding me?’ He snapped his cell phone shut, striding back to the company. ‘I think we should be making our way in,’ he said. Looking for someone to confide in, he chose Steve, hanging back as Alex led the way into the hotel ballroom.

‘Problem?’ Steve said. ‘If there’s no room for me, I can always…’

‘No, you’re fine Steve, just fine,’ Kowolski said, slapping him on the back. ‘My trouble’s with the President. His guys tell me he can only spare ten minutes for the presentation.’

Steve pulled a face. ‘Alex would like it if he didn’t show at all.’

‘Yeah, well I got a job to do. Not everyone appreciates how important it is – even the man himself.’

They joined the others at a large round table near the stage. Minutes later, a small army of waiters appeared, carrying trays of food and fanning out to serve what Kowolski estimated was a gathering of around 200 people.

He glanced to the three tables on his left; the assembled media people seemed to be enjoying themselves – half the battle. Kowolski stopped a passing waiter and asked him to deposit several more bottles of wine with them. Hopefully, they’d be chilled out by the time of the lieutenant’s press conference, arranged for after the presentation.

His main concern was McDermott. Kowolski had to keep him on a short leash. The guy was becoming unpredictable. God forbid a repeat of his storming exit the night before. Excuses wore thin second time around.

McDermott had hardly touched a mouthful of his lunch. Sitting quietly between his folks, a faraway look in his eyes, he pushed the plate aside and stood up. Kowolski watched his every move, a nervousness in the pit of his stomach that meant he’d only toyed with his own food, pushing it around in ever-increasing circles.

‘Bathroom,’ McDermott said.

‘Me, too.’ Kowolski slid his chair back. He didn’t really expect McDermott to take fright and wander off but, with so much at stake, he was taking no chances. ‘Your stick, Lieutenant,’ he said, handing it to him, frowning and looking at his watch.

McDermott gave him a querulous look, felt all eyes on him as he left the room. Kowolski ushered him between tables until there was enough space to draw alongside.

‘You okay?’

McDermott sighed, blinking. ‘Guess so.’

‘Be over soon,’ Kowolski said, patting the lieutenant’s arm.

‘Before your wonderful grand tour begins, you mean?’

Kowolski gulped. He’d always found McDermott a supine sort of guy. Just lately, though, splinters of sarcasm had begun to appear, a worrying volte-face that unsettled him. McDermott’s mood carried a disdain that wasn’t merely the product of their familiarity – Alex had mentioned it, too.

‘My wonderful grand tour is going to make you famous, Lieutenant. You just think of the money and remember what I told you last night.’

McDermott stopped in his tracks. He turned to face Kowolski, a thin contemptuous smile on his face. ‘I will not be tempted by you, or your den of robbers,’ he said, hurrying into a cubicle and slamming the door shut. Kowolski washed his
hands, splashed warm water on his face, exhaling deeply. Why couldn’t his hero be some simple ordinary Joe? Someone who’d do as he was told without complicating matters – without even thinking.

Back at their table, Kowolski gave the master of ceremonies a nod to indicate he was ready for the formalities to begin. He sat forward on the edge of his seat, playing with the strap on his watch. Glancing around the room, he counted eight presidential security staff in place, easily recognisable by their sober blue suits, dark glasses and earpieces. All would be carrying the Sig Sauer .229 secret service revolver, two or three of them an Uzi sub-machine gun or the Heckler and Koch MP5.

Then the general strode forward, planting himself at the lectern. He began regaling the audience with the ‘many fine and courageous deeds of our brave men and women serving their country out in I-raq.’

‘But we’re here to celebrate and congratulate just one man, a man who represents all those I’ve just spoken about,’ the general said, looking about him as if to dare anyone to differ. ‘Lieutenant Matthew McDermott, please step forward.’

McDermott rose from his seat and walked unsteadily on to the stage. Kowolski stood up briskly, leading the applause. The rest of the room took their cue and followed suit. The general clasped McDermott to his giant frame. ‘Son, see how proud they are,’ he whispered.

‘Thank you, sir,’ McDermott replied, blinking, turning red.

‘And now folks,’ the general said, ‘please welcome our commander-in-chief, the President of the United States.’

The ballroom’s PA system burst into life with the President’s traditional musical welcome, ‘Hail to the Chief’.

Alex leapt from her seat, gesturing for Steve to stay. Turning to Kowolski, she pulled a face. ‘Excuse me, I gotta go and puke,’ she scowled, rushing towards the main exit. Pushing one of the double doors outwards, she crashed it into the backs of two more secret service men guarding the entrance. Startled, she
saw their hands instinctively reach inside their jackets. Alex gave them her cutest smile. ‘I need a smoke,’ she lied, pressing on.

Outside, NYPD uniformed officers mixed with other security men, marshalling the passing crowds. A fleet of motorcycle outriders sat astride their machines, two front, four rear of the President’s armoured Cadillac DeVille, its twin flags fluttering in a stiff breeze. People stopped to ogle at a vehicle they’d only ever seen on the television news and they were quickly moved on.

Suddenly, a small group of protesters appeared, marching towards the hotel entrance. Alex heard the tinny voice on a megaphone, leading a chant:

‘Wadda we want?’

‘Out of Iraq.’

‘When do we want it?’

‘Now.’

A line of policemen surrounded the group, pushing them back towards the fringes of the onlookers.

Alex went to go back inside the hotel, but she was stopped by a row of policemen blocking the way.

‘Sorry, Ma’am, the President’s on his way out soon – stand back,’ a burly cop said.

A flurry of activity started up like a desert wind; secret agents spoke into their lapel mouthpieces, agitated and scurrying. The outriders kicked their Harley-Davidsons into life, red lights flashing. Two Highway Patrol vehicles screeched to a halt. Several others, parked at an angle, had already blocked off the traffic in Times Square, which, for a change, soon went eerily quiet.

Alex found herself behind a line of cops. People strained and jostled to catch a glimpse of the most powerful man in the world. She was pushed up against a policeman, could feel the solid power of the man.

For a few seconds, she was back in a dusty street in Baghdad,
fear rising as the shots rang out. She felt the same panic as when wedged into that doorway behind McDermott. Gasping for air, she had to concentrate to quell the breathlessness. A vision of her Kandahar nightmare flashed into her mind, a bloodied arm lay across her throat so that she couldn’t breathe. It was slowly choking her.

Frantic, she tapped the policeman hard on his left shoulder. He turned round and she slipped to his right, squeezing past him before he could react. The hotel entrance doors opened. Alex could see the President walking brusquely towards her, surrounded by half a dozen agents. One tried to grab her wrist, but she pushed him aside. The President fixed her, a look of puzzlement on his face. Alex glared at him and he avoided her gaze, walking on and scurrying through the open door of his waiting car.

She just wished she’d had her camera to hand. The sheepish look on the President’s face would have been a sight to capture.

*  *  *

On the way back to Alex’s apartment hand in hand, Steve volunteered to collect a takeaway from a well-regarded Thai restaurant on the next block.

‘Good,’ Alex said. ‘I’ll go up and make sure the place is presentable.’

Opening her front door, she rushed over to her desk. Picking up the envelope containing the Northwood email, she stared at it for a few seconds. Then she switched on the small machine on the floor and watched as the last remnants of a previous life turned to shreds and was gone.

Later, nestled on the sofa with Steve, they watched McDermott’s medal presentation on the early-evening television news bulletins. Most channels made it their lead story and some stations followed on with a piece from the post-ceremony interview.

‘This guy’s gonna’ be big,’ Steve said.

‘I’m afraid he is,’ Alex said, sighing. ‘But will he handle it?’

She turned to Steve, her face questioning. He ran the back of a finger gently down her cheek.

‘Can we forget about it all for now?’ he said. ‘I’ve got two days left of my R and R – how do you think we should spend it?’

Alex smiled, drawing him closer and letting him begin kissing her passionately.

20

Gene Kowolski trod what was becoming a well-worn path of unease on the cheap beige carpet of his room, even though he and McDermott had only been on camp a little over twenty-four hours.

Some people said the cantonment of Fort Hood had that effect on its visitors. The sheer size of the world’s largest military base and its 70,000 inhabitants meant it radiated drabness on a large scale; a sprawling mass of Texas flat land, its unrelenting uniformity like a repressive governor on the soul.

He’d felt the depression descending like a fog since passing the small town of Copperas Cove on the 190, heading east to the spread that now consumed him. The base struck him as almost as hot and dusty as Baghdad itself. Kowolski’s demeanour had not been helped by the lieutenant’s address to several hundred selected troops, a short presentation billed ‘My Heroism in Iraq’.

Kowolski watched frowning as McDermott faltered, forgetting many of the points they’d rehearsed. He glanced round the conference hall straining for any sign of a negative reaction. But the audience, while not exactly overwhelmed, seemed surprisingly receptive. For a moment, he wondered if he’d been too hard on McDermott, expected too much from the guy. Was Kowolski’s coaching, his urging, that difficult to comprehend? Perhaps so, after all, McDermott was a soldier, not a politician.

Dissecting the performance afterwards, Kowolski still couldn’t get away from thinking the lieutenant’s frame of mind had deteriorated in the week they’d been on the road. The media response didn’t reveal that, of course. True to a man, they cheered and burnished the emerging star until it shone as a
beacon to the thousands of men and women serving in Iraq. Those soldiers waiting to embark for their first taste of the action, too, could not have failed to be inspired by the media’s embellishment. Newspapers and television pushed McDermott to the fore, the glorification of one soldier’s deeds like a salve for the nation’s conscience. Even his home town was now festooned with yellow ribbons on every street and municipal building, each bearing the lieutenant’s name in blue. Makers of the two-dollar strips of cloth were working hard to keep up with demand from the rest of the country.

Although it was still too early to measure the McDermott effect on the President’s popularity, the latest opinion polls were a major source of irritation. Kowolski grimaced as he devoured the statistics, showing a slip in the ratings of three per cent. And this before the President made an appearance in Congress to ask for more funds to sustain the war. Kowolski heard the amount being sought for next year was more than 80 billion dollars. People were beginning to get restless, impatient as to how long the bloody mess of Iraq was going to feature in their lives.

He forced himself to take stock of his situation. Once the McDermott road show finished, he knew he’d have to return to Baghdad. The thought now filled him with dread. Initially, he’d envisaged a three-month stint there – six months max – returning to Washington to a bucketful of praise for a job well done. The chaos of Iraq was already entering its seventh month and, from what he’d picked up, it was going to go on for a good deal longer.

Pouring himself a whisky, he threw it back in one, his mind lurching one way then another. Could he face the chaotic dissonance of Baghdad again? The bombings, the shootings, the destruction? How much longer could he hold out? He’d gone there full of it: full of optimism, full of himself. There’d even been a tinge of excitement that he’d be working in the middle of a war zone – perhaps the same buzz that drove media correspondents from country to strife-ridden country.

But he now knew it was a mirage, the reality too stark, too brutal to initially imagine. It wasn’t just the McDermott situation that had deflated his enthusiasm. In a way, the lieutenant’s strange behaviour only magnified a growing realisation within him. Kowolski’s time away from Iraq had given him time to think. For the first time in this present role of his working life, he seriously wondered if he wasn’t cut out for the job. First-hand experience led him to second-hand thoughts. The reality of Iraq had torn away the mantle of his misconceptions in a way he’d never imagined.

He let out a sigh, turned his head slowly side to side to ease the stiffness in his shoulders. Replenishing his drink, he checked the time and picked up the phone to the camp’s medical centre. Under the pretext of sending McDermott for a check-up on his knee, Kowolski had arranged for a psychiatrist to carry out the examination, see if he could subtly deduce the lieutenant’s mental state.

‘You had time to form an opinion on our boy?’

‘Ah, yes,’ the doctor said. ‘The good news or the bad?’

Kowolski took a slug of his drink. ‘Might as well let me have both barrels.’

‘Well, his knee’s fine providing he doesn’t over-exert himself. Mentally, I’d say he’s in something of a mess.’

‘I figured that, but how bad?’

Kowolski heard the doctor draw in breath. ‘Hard to say without a thorough examination of his mind. Could be paranoia, might even be paraphrenia.’

‘Para what?’

‘He admitted to having hallucinations. I asked him how he was sleeping, he muttered something about a baby – seemed to be tormented about it. Couldn’t press too much, of course. Mentioned God a couple of times.’