An Enemy Within (29 page)

Sipping her orange juice the next morning, Alex put the glass down and could not help but notice her hand was shaking. While she’d been pondering her next move, her inner self had been gnawing at her. She cupped a hand to her mouth, shocked at the frightening reality of her situation that finally emerged.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’

But there was no escape. There was only one course of action she could take. She would have to return to Iraq to find McDermott herself. And the thought absolutely terrified her.

*  *  *

Kowolski finished typing the piece and re-read it. In a dead-end street, this was the only way out. He’d had the action cleared at the Pentagon, informed the relevant people including North-wood. A press release would announce that McDermott had volunteered for top-secret special duties and been despatched immediately. A quote from an army spokesman praised the lieutenant as the embodiment of all that was commendable about the country’s armed service.

With a flourish he clicked the send key to the wire agency knowing that, within minutes, it would land on the news desks of every media outlet in the country. He expected to receive a barrage of calls from the more inquisitive of journalists and was prepared for them. The fact that the lieutenant’s mission was top secret meant it gave him carte blanche to say nothing at all.

Stretching his arms, he yawned, putting his hands behind his head. He realised he’d just carried out another one of his trademark cover-ups. He’d been doing it most of his career. His face creased into a frown. The bloody chaos of Iraq had forced him to take stock of his life. He’d seen ordinary people there, lives shattered, devoid of all hope. Spirits bent like willow, they lived burdened with grief like a different species of the human race. But hadn’t that been precisely the sub-text of his cowardly manipulation? The messages home were designed for the home media to propagate; they were only foreigners, Arabs at that. Therefore inferior. Seeing his fabrications in a new light had made him feel sick, ashamed of the lies and the falsehoods he pedalled.

He thought of Alex. She was a good woman, principled. Was the truth as simple as she believed? He couldn’t be sure, but he was now beginning to have sympathy for some of her views. They must give her more fulfilment than the tripe he was dishing out, however subtly it was dressed.

Recalling he’d asked her if she knew the word ‘metastasis’, he
chuckled to himself. He was darned certain she’d have heard of the phrase ‘poacher-turned-gamekeeper’. In due time, he planned to seek her thoughts on his latest idea.

*  *  *

Alex glanced at the phone on her desk. Kowolski obviously thought her calls were being monitored. But did he know, or was he merely being cautious? She’d never had time to ask. Despite his recent murmurings, she couldn’t be certain just how far he was tied up with Northwood. Surely they were both still on the same side, scheming and fighting for the same obnoxious ends.

Grabbing her jacket, she strode to the nearest phone booth and tried Farrah’s number. She was in luck.

‘Farrah, I wanted to see if you could help me.’

‘Of course, my dear, whatever I can do.’

‘I’m going back to Iraq,’ Alex said breathlessly, the words tumbling from her mouth so she had to catch herself.

‘I see,’ Farrah said, a note of caution in her voice. ‘You know things are not good in Baghdad. When are you going?’

‘I’m setting off tomorrow, but I’m not going to Baghdad.’

‘Then where?’

‘That’s why I need your help, Farrah. I’m going to the Garden of Eden.’

22

Alex landed in Kuwait after a thirteen-hour flight during which she’d tried to sleep, but found herself too wound up. A rousing cocktail of nervousness and exhilaration meant she’d spent hours in a semi-trance staring at the back of a tall man’s bald head in the seat in front thinking about her quest.

Studying beyond the top of the seat in moments of more lucidity, she’d imagined the man’s head to be the map of Iraq. A small scar in the middle of the pate was Baghdad while Basra lay at the base, near the top of the man’s neck. Her destination, near the village of al-Qurnah, was a little higher than the nape. Studying the lightly-tanned flesh, she couldn’t help emit a light giggle. The Garden of Eden was a freckle, just north of Basra.

Carrying only a rucksack, she skipped baggage reclaim in the arrivals hall, heading straight for a bank of telephones. Several calls later, she had organised her onward flight to Basra. Then she called Steve, feeling bad about not contacting him until now. Not knowing how he would take her news, she suspected he might be hostile.

‘You’re what?’ he bellowed. ‘Tell me this is a joke, Alex.’

‘No joke. I’ve got to do it, Steve. He saved my life and I owe him. Now he needs help and I don’t know where else he’ll get it. He’s a sick young man, liable to do anything.’

Steve let out a sigh. ‘You know where he is?’

‘Exactly – here are the co-ordinates.’

‘And what happens if you find him and he doesn’t want to budge?’

‘Well, at least I can say I tried. But if he comes back with me, gets treatment, people will have sympathy with his side of the
story. That can be a big part of his rehabilitation. The guy’s so riddled with guilt it could kill him.’

‘Alex, things have hotted up a mite since you were last here. People don’t go out to fancy restaurants any more in case the places are bombed.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Alex said, biting her lip. ‘I’ll be careful, promise.’ She made Steve repeat the co-ordinates several times.

‘You got your cell phone with you?’ he said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Should work okay in that area – the Brits have a presence protecting the oilfields. Make sure it’s always switched on.’

‘Don’t worry. I have been in dangerous situations before.’

Steve said he loved her. But Alex had already hung up. It was true; she had been in many inhospitable places, times when she seemed to repel danger like a shower off a raincoat. She knew deep down, however, the fearlessness had deserted her. A wisp of dust from a Baghdad bullet had seen to that. The tour with McDermott proved life-changing in more ways than one. Now she was faced with summoning reserves of courage and fortitude from the bottom of a rapidly-draining tank.

As she made her way to catch the military flight to Basra, a sudden feeling of panic enveloped her. Spurred on by an almost reckless desire to save McDermott, she now wondered exactly what she was letting herself in for.

*  *  *

‘We lost her for a little while but there she is,’ the CIA technician said to Richard Northwood, pointing at the map of Iraq on the screen.

‘Closer,’ Northwood said, leaning over the man’s shoulder.

‘Basra, sir,’ the technician murmured, ‘heading east into the city.’

Northwood watched the pulsating red dot. What the hell was she doing back in Iraq? There was no indication she was due to
return. Was she on another job for Kowolski? There was only one way to find out.

Hurrying back to his office, he put in a call.

‘Kowolski, your girl Alex Stead’s back in Iraq.’

‘Bullshit – she’s scared stiff of the place.’

‘I’m telling you, fact, that’s where she is – Basra. She know McDermott’s gone AWOL?’

‘Careful my friend, I’ve just put out a release to the media informing them he’s been recalled to Iraq on a top-secret mission. That’s now the official line.’

Northwood smiled to himself. Kowolski was quick to cover the angles. ‘So?’

Kowolski hesitated. ‘Yeah,’ he finally said. ‘I told her myself. But she promised she wouldn’t use the information, you know, make it public. There’s no way she’d do anything to harm the lieutenant in any way.’

‘Right,’ Northwood said unconvincingly. ‘I don’t need to remind you that journalists working on their own out there do so at their own risk. It can be extremely dangerous for them working in this sort of arena.’

‘But she won’t be…’

Northwood cut him off. ‘You realise we probably have a very tricky situation on our hands. Keep in close touch.’

Northwood put down the receiver with a frown. He tapped his fingers on the desk, his mind whirring. Unless there was some other reason – one of Rumsfeld’s unknown unknowns – Alex had returned to Iraq for one primary purpose and that was to locate McDermott. God knows what she’d do if she found him. She was a loose cannon, liable to cause untold damage. Unlike Kowolski, he didn’t trust her. Not at all.

Checking his watch, he made a call to the Ali al-Salem airbase in Kuwait, south of the Iraq border, and spoke to a colonel in charge of the air defence team. Without raising any alarm, Northwood wanted to put the base on stand-by for a possible scenario. He was assured they would be happy to comply.

‘We can send up a UAV at pretty short notice, sir,’ the colonel said. ‘Would that be an RQ or MQ?’

‘Well, it’s a fluid situation so we’d better go with the latter I think,’ Northwood replied, knowing that the MQ-1 Predator drone meant it would carry munitions as well as its array of cameras and sensors.

Sitting back after the call, Northwood put his hands behind his head, hoisted his feet on to the edge of the desk. As he told the colonel, the picture was far from fixed. The fluctuating demands of the case meant he could take no chances. But with a couple of Hellfire missiles on his side, he’d feel a whole stack better.

*  *  *

Kowolski cursed himself for telling Northwood that Alex knew of McDermott’s disappearance. He’d been caught off guard but realised now he should have been ready for it. Perhaps he was getting slow. Either that or his mind was moving to other things.

All the same, he didn’t trust Northwood. His tone, while not overly aggressive, had still been menacing. Journalists got killed out there, he’d said.
Jesus
, there was no need to remind him of that. He’d been excusing the fact for months. Well, no longer, he decided.

After the McDermott issue was done and dusted, he planned to resign. They could take the whole goddam mess of Iraq and stick it. He was tired of the charade; the conniving and downright lying. It was time for the truth. He hoped Alex would join him in his future plans.

Now, he was worried for her. Did she know what she was doing? Why hadn’t she confided in him instead of just taking off? He would have been able to offer some advice. He reflected that he’d always told her he would look after her. How the hell was he now supposed to do that?

In a sour mood, he snapped the locks shut on his suitcase and
prepared to leave Fort Hood for Washington. With McDermott’s media tour suspended, he wanted to spend a few days back at the Pentagon monitoring events in Iraq. His superiors would be expecting him to return to Baghdad at some stage, but he had set his mind against it. Closing the door behind him, he reasoned he could spin out a spell in the capital. The time would come in useful for making further plans for the future.

Fending off the media flak over the lieutenant’s sudden departure would keep him busy enough in that time. And if McDermott should reappear, it would be even more difficult to keep a lid on the whole affair. In a way, he didn’t care one way or the other.

He knew he’d told Alex he had to see the job through to the end. Right now, however, he wasn’t sure he still had the nerve or the will to do so. He felt he’d given it his best shot. It wasn’t his fault the McDermott show was based on a lie. That blemish threw a whole new light on his
raison d’être
, leaving him in a state of anger and confusion.

Arriving for his flight to DC and bracing himself for the plane ride home, he knew his immediate future lay in the hands of two people.

A sick soldier and a crazy girl.

*  *  *

Alex had her bag searched before she was allowed into the hospital. She swallowed hard, cast her eyes round the busy reception area. A young man approached, face serious.

‘I am Abu Khamsin. Farrah told me what you looked like,’ he said without offering his hand. ‘Come with me.’

She followed him along a maze of dimly-lit corridors smelling of disinfectant, hurrying in the wake of his measured stride and taking in his athletic physique and mop of unruly hair. Approaching the entrance to the morgue, Abu Khamsin stopped and opened the door of a small anteroom, bare but for a Formica-topped table and two chairs.

‘Everything is organised and arranged,’ he said abruptly with a sweep of his arm. ‘You have the money?’ His voice trailed off with a hint of reluctance as he studied her.

Alex nodded. ‘You speak very good English, Abu, and the accent?’ Alex said, hoping she didn’t sound condescending.

‘Seven years at university – I’m a structural engineer. Two years in New York for my Master’s degree.’ He ran a hand through his jet-black hair, his elegant features creasing into a grimace. ‘This is all the work I can find … but maybe tomorrow,’ he said, shrugging his broad shoulders.

Alex shook her head. ‘You’d think with all the reconstruction going on that…’

‘It is, as you call it, a closed shop. But let us not get into that,’ he said, a coldness in his voice that made her feel uneasy. He handed her a brown paper bag. ‘Here are some things you must wear.’

Suddenly he moved closer, looking into her eyes. Alex stood back, unsure.

‘Your eyes,’ he said. ‘Blue.’

‘Oh, no problem,’ Alex said. ‘I did exactly what Farrah told me,’ she said patting the pocket of her jacket in which was a set of coloured contact lenses.

‘Good,’ Abu Khamsin said, looking at his watch. ‘I have to do some more work then I will come back. You must stay here. There is a little food and drink in the bag and there is a toilet next door. We leave in the early hours.’

When he’d gone, Alex opened the paper bag; a pack of sandwiches, a bottle of water, a black abayah and a niqab. She fingered the long cloak and the face-mask nervously. The reality of her situation suddenly intensified. Abu Khamsin hadn’t hinted at anything untoward, but she’d noticed an edginess about him and he didn’t appear friendly. Putting the clothes back, she unwrapped the sandwiches and began to eat, not realising how hungry she was.