An Enemy Within (30 page)

Taking a gulp of the water, she went over the plan in her
mind. Farrah told her Abu Khamsin would take her north out of Basra, on one of his weekly trips to Najaf driving a large truck. At a crossroad near to al-Qurnah, a friend would rendezvous with a vehicle for Alex’s use. The man wanted American dollars. Then she was on her own. It was madness, she realised. But she had to stake everything on the co-ordinates.

She just knew McDermott was alone with his Bible in the Garden of Eden, the only place he wanted to be – just as he’d once told her. The feeling was so strong within her that she refused to believe any other notion.

*  *  *

At five minutes before midnight, Abu Khamsin returned. Alex, dressed in black from head to toe, stood up. She gave him a twirl. He frowned, studying her.

‘Yes,’ Abu Khamsin said, cocking his head to one side. ‘And now you have brown eyes.’

He lowered his voice to explain there was a night-time curfew but that he had special dispensation from the military for his truck-load of unwanted souls on the journey to Najaf. In a mass grave outside the city, they would be taken to paradise.

Privately, this engineer-turned mortuary attendant knew such trips were soon likely to be halted. He had overheard his superiors voicing their concerns that a growing lawlessness in the countryside meant respect for the dead was a diminishing factor of daily life in Iraq. A driver had been stopped and threatened on a recent journey. But Abu Khamsin was still a willing volunteer, the bonus in his meagre monthly pay packet just too tempting to resist.

‘Wait. I will return quickly,’ he said, slipping out of the room. Entering the toilet, Abu Khamsin locked the door behind him. Rolling up his sleeves, he ran the cold-water tap, washing himself thoroughly three times.

‘Allahu akbar,’ he murmured just loud enough to hear himself, his hands raised to the side of his head. He continued in
prayer placing great faith and trust in the merciful Allah to guide him through the night. When finished, he raised his eyes to the ceiling. He felt an impostor, for he had not prayed in years. He hoped he had remembered the words correctly to see them safely on their journey.

Tonight was a special night and he had a feeling he would need all the help he could muster.

*  *  *

A heavy green tarpaulin covered the contents of the open-backed truck. Alex glanced at the bulk of the cargo, stark against a moonlit night. She shuddered, wondering about the myriad strands of life each poor soul had left behind, forever burdened with an everlasting grief. Abu Khamsin led her to the passenger side, slamming the door shut behind her.

He turned the ignition key, sparking the rough diesel engine to start almost as if roused from a heavy slumber. Forcing the cumbersome gear lever forward, the gearbox grated loudly in complaint.

‘Sounds reluctant,’ Alex said.

Abu Khamsin glared at her, his forearms straining to turn the steering wheel.

Five minutes into the journey, he turned to Alex. ‘I wanted to tell you that when Farrah asked me to help you I was against the idea. Especially when she said you were American.’

‘I guess you don’t like us?’

‘You have destroyed our country – how could I like you? Let me tell you how they are behaving. They are building a bridge in Baghdad that was destroyed in the invasion. I could rebuild it for ten million. The Americans are charging fifty million. They are raping us still.’

‘Just hang on a second and let’s get something straight,’ Alex countered sharply, eyes flashing. ‘Not all Americans are happy with all this – especially me. I’m just as pissed off with it as you are, okay?’

He glanced at her, speaking quietly. ‘Farrah said you were kind to her and my dear Aban. More than that I did not ask. I do not know why you are here in this dangerous place.’

‘If I told you, would it make any difference?’

‘No,’ he said, dropping a gear and stamping on the accelerator.

*  *  *

The lieutenant pulled the blanket tighter around him and over his head. His back resting against the rough wall of an abandoned house, he switched on a pocket flashlight and began reading from his Bible. Outside, the wind began to pick up, sending occasional dust flurries through the open window frames.

Whispering the words, he focussed on Leviticus,
chapter 23
. At verse 27, his voice grew more urgent as he rocked to and fro repeating the passage: ‘On the tenth day of this seventh month there shall be an atonement: it shall be an holy convocation unto you; and ye shall afflict your souls and offer an offering made by fire unto the LORD.’

His body coursed with a tingling sensation, euphoria unlike any other earthly feeling he had experienced. The sensation had been building steadily since he found this place. Earlier, in the fading light, he leaned against the thick wooden frames of a long-since used doorway to gaze out on a landscape that had captivated him for all of the day.

He smiled to himself, a realisation that, at last, he had found his Eden. The garden stretched out into the distance. All around him he saw paradise; a lush landscape of swaying palms and fruit and olive trees, of clear streams gurgling through fields of corn and wheat and brightly-coloured birds of a dozen species. The idyll was just as he had imagined. The peace enveloped him. He felt safe in the protection of its cocoon.

Suddenly he stopped reading, frantically pushing up his sleeve to reveal his watch. He shone the flashlight on it, staring hard
and tapping the timepiece for reassurance as he measured the second hand ticking away. He’d told himself a hundred times today that it was October. He definitely knew it; October 2003. And the date on his watch said it was the sixth.

He continued looking to see if the number changed, in case someone was tricking him. But it stayed working exactly the same as it had been a minute ago, and the minute before that. He nodded his head vigorously to himself. Yes, it meant it was still the very early morning of the sixth of October 2003. He’d worked the day out perfectly some months ago – or was it years ago? At the moment he just couldn’t remember nor did he want to try.

His biblical calendar told him it was the tenth day of the seventh month.

The Day of Atonement.

23

They were no more than a mile from the hospital when a barrage of floodlights lit up the whole of the quiet road ahead. Abu Khamsin fished in his top pocket, producing a crumpled piece of paper.

‘Checkpoint,’ he whispered. ‘Stay silent.’

Alex strained to see beyond the dazzle as the truck ground to a halt. Two armoured cars, parked across the road in a wedge formation, blocked the way. Several British soldiers appeared.

Abu Khamsin proffered his pass. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said, shielding his eyes from the flashlight one of the soldiers shone into the cab. ‘I have the usual consignment – and I have brought my dear wife for company on the long journey ahead.’

The soldier briefly studied the paper and handed it back. He glanced at Alex. She felt his eyes on her but dared not move, staring resolutely at a small chip in the truck’s dirty windscreen. She gulped, her throat dry.

Risking a look in the passenger wing mirror, she could make out one of the soldiers climbing on to the back of the truck. He moved with the nimbleness of youth, hopping on to the sturdy rear mudguard and quickly hoisting himself on top. She heard him cursing as he struggled to untie one of the tarpaulin’s anchor ropes.

Pulling the cover back a touch, the soldier suddenly shrieked. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he shouted, quickly leaping to the ground. He hurried into the darkness, retching loudly.

‘That’ll teach you to be too nosey,’ the officer in charge shouted, laughing. He turned to Abu Khamsin, shaking his head. ‘It’s his first night on roadwatch – never seen the likes before.’

Barking an order into his radio, the soldier stood back. Seconds later, one of the armoured cars roared into life, reversing off the road on to the verge.

‘Mind how you go,’ the soldier nodded, waving them through.

Alex let out a deep breath as they set off, only realising then how tense her body had become. She took out her cell phone, wondering whether to switch it on. Not yet, she told herself, best to conserve the battery. She pulled the niqab down from her face, turned to look at Abu Khamsin, his features set in grim concentration.

‘I guess our cargo’s not a pretty sight – it must be hard,’ she said.

Abu Khamsin remained silent for a minute, eventually clearing his throat. ‘At first it was difficult. I used to have nightmares. Then…’ His voice trailed off.

‘Then?’ Alex persisted.

‘I became used to seeing the dead, to handling the bodies.’ He sighed, the sigh of a man weary of life itself, despair in his very existence. ‘It is the facing of their loved ones that is now the nightmare. They gather outside the mortuary, crying and wailing. The noise is pitiful and never leaves you, even after they go away. I pray to God it will all end soon.’

Alex was lost for words. She felt tempted to sympathise, to tell him of her own nightmare, one that had tormented her relentlessly since Kandahar, but she felt the gesture inadequate. Instead, she focussed on the road ahead as they motored into the countryside, the wind whipping up occasional showers of sand that rattled on the windscreen like the roll of a snare drum.

*  *  *

In the car from the airport to the Pentagon, Gene Kowolski brooded. He’d been unable to make contact with Alex, trying her number a dozen times since his plane landed. His gloom intensified still not knowing where McDermott was or what he
was up to and, because of it, what sort of reception he would receive when he got to his office.

He was surprised to see Carl Whittingham waiting for him when he arrived. Kowolski hadn’t seen him since that day outside the Abu Ghraib palace when he’d first mentioned the name of Matt McDermott and the plot that would ensue. To Kowolski, it all seemed an age ago.

‘What gives, Carl?’ Kowolski said, putting his briefcase down on a chair.

Whittingham rubbed his chin. ‘This McDermott stuff – it’s causing a pail-full of fucking grief.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Kowolski said, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Your idea though, wasn’t it?’

Whittingham looked at him, sheepishly. ‘I had to spill. It’s gone right to the top.’

‘Yeah, well it wasn’t my idea either, as much as I’d have liked the credit if it hadn’t turned out this way,’ Kowolski said, loosening his tie. He was about to take off his jacket when Whittingham, agitated, glanced at his watch.

‘There’s a meeting in the boardroom.’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

Kowolski sighed and set about making himself presentable. ‘Lead the way, Carl.’

The bespectacled figure standing with his hands behind his back gazing out of the window was instantly recognisable. He didn’t flinch as Kowolski and Whittingham entered the room.

‘Sit, gentlemen,’ the man said, maintaining his posture. Several moments passed before he spoke again. ‘The colours are quite remarkable at this time of year, don’t you think?’

Whittingham shifted in his seat. Kowolski smiled inwardly. He knew the routine. Rank meant power. And power meant the subservience of others. Without wishing to appear hostile, deep down Kowolski no longer gave a fig for the game.

The man eventually moved away from the window, sitting at
the head of the large table. He pursed his lips, leant back, putting his hands behind his head. ‘Well, Gene, this soldier business has gone way off beam.’

‘Sadly, yes. You might call it an unknown unknown,’ Kowolski countered.

The man stared at him over the top of his glasses. Kowolski stared back, hoping his expression was as neutral as he intended.

‘Well, it’s over as far as you’re concerned. The whole idea emanated out of Langley – I’ve tossed it back in their court.’

Kowolski tried not to smile even though a sense of relief swept over him. Inside, he felt himself laughing. He stroked his chin, took a laboured breath. ‘If that’s what you think best, chief.’

The man stood up to signal the meeting was over. ‘You’re doing a good job over there, Gene. No doubt you’ll be anxious to get back.’

Smiling meekly, Kowolski watched him leave the room. He resolved immediately that his resignation letter would be on the appropriate desk within the next twenty-four hours. The guy had done him a great favour. If people wanted to think he was quitting in a huff over the McDermott issue, then that was fine. The subject was bound to come out in the usual office gossip. In reality, he was off the hook and now joyously free to pursue his other plans. Wouldn’t those who knew him get a shock when he turned poacher and began seeking out the truth for a change?

*  *  *

Abu Khamsin brought the lorry to a gradual halt and cut the headlights. The road ahead should have been clear all the way to their rendezvous point. But he was sure he had just seen the flash of a light at some point in the distance.

‘What is it?’ Alex said.

‘You’re going to have to get in the back, quick,’ he said, the tension rising in his voice.

Alex turned round. There was no back of the cab, just a solid wall of metal behind her seat.

‘Not…’ she said, the realisation dawning. He was asking her to hide in the back, under the tarpaulin, among their deathly cargo.

‘No choice, be quick,’ he demanded, his fear palpable.

Opening the driver’s door, he leapt to the ground. Alex shivered, the cold chill of the strong wind compounding the alarm that suddenly struck her.

‘Take this, wrap it round you,’ he said, handing her a blanket.

She wanted to protest but realised it was futile. Within seconds, Abu Khamsin undid a section of the tarpaulin. He held out his hand and pulled her up, creating a space just big enough for Alex to scramble inside. Hurrying back to the cab, he selected low gear and moved slowly forward.

The darkness consumed her. She gagged at the smell, a stinking mass of bodies in various stages of putrefaction. Trying desperately to close her mind, she screwed her eyes so tight they hurt. At the same time, she pulled the blanket around her trying to take short breaths through her mouth. But she could feel the panic rising, claustrophobia taking charge. She was sure she wasn’t getting enough air. A dull heavy ache settled on her chest, slowly crushing as she sunk lower into the morass. Visions of her Kandahar nightmare flashed into her head.