An Enemy Within (23 page)

He considered his latest remark to McDermott that, below them, he could only see hate and fear. He was sure the Washington cabal viewed such notions in the abstract. Not for them the heartbreaking surety of death and destruction. Think
the big picture
.

But hate and fear abounded in Washington, too. Among the seething myopic mass of opinion layers and policy-makers, people were afraid. From newspaper editors to the politicians themselves, hate and fear was endemic. Everyone in fear of losing their job, their status. Hating their rivals with a ferocious intensity. Kowolski had seen it all. Wasn’t his own function to allay the President’s fear he might not be re-elected? Sanitising a war to palatable sound-bites and agreeable verbiage.

And if there was a God, how did they square their belief with their actions? And how would God judge such people? Even Prime Minister Blair in Britain expounded his religious views ad nauseum. Kowolski now wondered if their fervour increased in relation to the bloodiness of the outcome of their actions.

His own role? How would he be judged? Disturbingly, such questions had begun to permeate his consciousness in recent weeks. He’d had to keep telling himself not to waver, gritting his teeth and reminding himself he had a job to do.

But it was all looking so different from just a few months ago.

*  *  *

The media turnout at the airport exceeded all Kowolski’s expectations as he looked about him, stepping from the plane on a windy, overcast day. He took a deep breath of the air, found it immediately refreshing. Standing back, he let McDermott venture out on to the aircraft’s top step to a barrage of flashing cameras.

‘Smile, Lieutenant and wave your goddamn walking stick in the air,’ Kowolski hissed from inside the open door. He counted at least a dozen TV cameras filming the scene, perhaps twice as many reporters and photographers.

Kowolski waited for several minutes before escorting McDermott slowly down the steps, over-exaggerating his show of help before two medical orderlies rushed forward to take over. Several army personnel lined up to greet them, a lieutenant-general, a home-service colonel from McDermott’s cavalry regiment, and, to Kowolski’s great pleasure, an array of civic dignitaries.

The welcome handshakes concluded, McDermott and Kowolski found themselves being ushered to a waiting golf buggy at the head of a convoy, and whisked off to the terminal’s VIP gate where a room had been set aside for a press conference.

The general, a large man with a vice-like grip, beamed before the assembled media. It had been a good while since he’d been anywhere near the limelight. Just weeks away from his retirement as a three-star general, he hoped his wife had remembered to set the TV to record. The grandchildren would get a kick out of seeing old Grandpa in all his splendour. So would he.

Waiting until the assembled throng had settled down, the general raised his frame to its full 6 feet 3 inch height and addressed the ensemble with a resume of McDermott’s ‘daring night-time’ raid on a ‘deadly bunch of killer insurgents’.

McDermott cast his eyes around the packed room. Everyone was looking at him, paying scant attention to the general. Kowolski, sitting alongside, gave him a reassuring grin.
Cameras flashed every few seconds and, near the front, television crews recorded his every move. He felt the tension building inside him, his stomach swirling, a tightness across his chest. If the air conditioning was on, it wasn’t working very well. His mouth dry, he reached for a glass of water, almost spilling it.

He gulped. The TV lights seemed to grow in intensity, almost blinding him, causing him to blink. Each time he did so, the vision of a lifeless little body flooded his mind, a pair of big brown eyes staring at him. Only now those eyes were no longer smiling. McDermott was sure their gaze held only a touching innocent puzzlement.

The questions came, thick and fast, staccato like the burst of Herman’s 25 mm cannon that rang in his ears. ‘How did you feel, Lieutenant?’ ‘Were you frightened?’ ‘How long did the fire-fight last?’

He began to answer his interrogators as if in a dream, barely conscious of his mundane words and unaware he had slumped back in his seat and away from the microphone like he was sheltering from the barrage. Some journalists at the back of the room obviously couldn’t catch every word and became restless, turning to one another with pained expressions.

Kowolski, constantly sweeping the room like a radar dish, was soon alert to the problem. Scribbling furiously for a second or two, he slid the piece of paper along the desk top. Glancing at it, McDermott saw the large capital letters: ‘SIT UP. SPEAK INTO MIC – CDE!!!’

As if shaken to life, McDermott pulled himself upright, leaning forward to the microphone. ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I was kind of reliving the moment just now. I can honestly say it was an alarming experience, in many ways a humbling one that has had a profound effect on my life. But, throughout, I knew that God was with me. I would also add that had it not been for the courage, discipline and exemplary behaviour of my highly-trained men, the mission would not have been successful.’

‘Hear, hear,’ the general said, banging the desk with a clenched sledge-hammer fist. A ripple of applause broke out. It grew louder as several in the audience stood up, encouraging others to do likewise. Kowolski jumped to his feet, followed by the rest of the top table. McDermott, smiling coyly, was hoisted from his seat and embraced in a bear hug by the general.

‘Soldier, we’re all so damn proud of you. You’re a great credit to the armed service,’ he bellowed.

As photographers jostled forward to capture the scene, McDermott tried desperately to hide the pain from his knee, which had stiffened up and was beginning to throb.

Kowolski viewed the proceedings with a measure of ambivalence; it had started disastrously. Anyone leaving halfway through to file copy for an early deadline would have missed the rousing finale. Still, he thought, it was doubtful such reporters would write anything downbeat on a hero’s story. Journalists were all pretty good at embroidery.

But would McDermott be able to handle everything else that would come his way? Kowolski hadn’t told him the half of what he planned. The offers would come rolling in and would have to be chosen with care.

One false step and he feared the kid just might crack up.

18

McDermott almost bumped into Alex as he limped out of one of the two lifts near the Carlyle’s reception desk, his walking stick slipping on the highly polished marble floor tiles. His eyes down, he didn’t see her at first, issuing a polite ‘sorry Ma’am’ for getting in her way.

‘Well, is that all you’re going to say?’ Alex didn’t move. Her head tilted to one side, a teasing, quizzical expression filling her face. He looked so different in a t-shirt and jeans.

McDermott looked up. ‘Alex!’

Pecking him on the cheek, she noticed him flush. ‘Well, look at you. Back home in one piece – almost. How’s the knee?’

‘Getting there.’ He hesitated. ‘You heard about it, Bobby-Jo an’ all?’

She nodded sadly, felt like mentioning Aban, but caught her breath.

He waved his walking stick in the direction of the hotel’s front door. ‘Thought I’d check out a couple of places.’

‘Right,’ Alex said, aware that whatever he was doing, his body language suggested he didn’t want company. ‘Well, I’ll see you later – I’m your escort at the reception this evening, don’t forget.’

He pulled a face, turned to leave. ‘People, people and even more people,’ he grumbled.

‘Hey, make sure you check out the side of the big hotel on Times Square – can’t miss it,’ Alex shouted after him.

Outside, it was one of those crazy New York autumn days; the temperature already in the high eighties, the humidity at steam-bath level. McDermott put on a pair of sunshades, felt the first trickle of sweat roll down his body. A doorman, sizing
him up in an instant, blew a sharp shrill blast on a whistle, which beckoned a yellow cab kerbside before McDermott could blink. Holding the car door open, the doorman wished him to ‘have a good day, sir,’ as McDermott slid in, careful to keep the strain off his outstretched leg.

‘Got no a/c,’ the cab driver said bluntly.

McDermott sighed, feeling the hot plastic of the car seat through his jeans. The Bradley was bad enough in the Baghdad heat although, with senses tuned to more important issues like life and death, discomfort always came second.

Now, he might as well have been sitting in an oven. ‘The public library on Fifth Avenue, and go via Times Square,’ McDermott gasped.

Despite all the cab’s windows being open, only a trickle of warm air filtered through. Traffic crawled in a stultifying mass, blaring car horns reflecting everyone’s inflamed frustration.

When they got to Times Square, McDermott was awash, his t-shirt clinging damply to his skin. He ogled the scene; crowds of shoppers packing the sidewalks, street artists entertaining gaggles of tourists, flashing signs everywhere competing with the sun. He glanced up at the towering Reuters building, dwarfing its neighbours like a concrete sequoia.

The cab stopped at a red light. He looked up again and, almost at once, turned cold. From the façade of a large hotel, a giant photograph stared down at him; a soldier with a child in his arms. It stretched several stories high. Unmissable. Beneath it, a wrap-around banner proclaimed ‘A HERO COMES HOME’.

He gulped hard at the sight of himself. Shivering, he felt the agitation rising. He fought for air, gasping mouth open and hunching his shoulders up in a desperate effort to fill his lungs. But there was no respite from the crushing sensation and, closing his eyes, he was back in Baghdad, cradling a dead baby. Its eyes fixed him, now sneering and spiteful. Their gaze burrowed deep within him, accusing, mocking. And, for the first time in all his flashbacks, the eyes were bloodshot.

Shocked, he raised a hand to his lips. ‘No,’ he murmured.

The driver peered in his rear-view mirror, saw McDermott transfixed.

‘Some guy, eh? Watched them putting it up yesterday,’ he drawled. ‘Passed it a dozen times already and I still get a lump in my throat.’

McDermott wanted to take off his sunglasses, wipe the cool sticky perspiration from his face. But, fearing recognition, all he could do was to sit back stiffly in his seat, saying nothing, his hands trembling. Relief only came when the cab finally dropped him at the library.

Taking his time and walking unsteadily up the steps of the columned building, he was forced to pause outside one of the three solid oak-panelled entrance doors. His mind swam. What had he let himself in for? This was all utter madness, a sham. He looked back down into the street. On the corner, a newspaper seller was plying his wares, too far away for McDermott to hear his staccato bark. But the billboard on the newspaper stand was plain to see. It said simply ‘Silver Star Hero’.

Steeling himself, his face set firm, McDermott entered the building, convinced that what he was about to set in motion was his only escape. He’d decided there was no other choice.

No one had left him any alternative – not even God.

*  *  *

Alex’s mobile phone buzzed impatiently. The tone annoyed her intensely. She told herself she
must
get round to changing it to something more melodic.

Kowolski’s voice sounded urgent. ‘You got the lieutenant with you there in the hotel?’

‘No. And why do you think I’m in the hotel?’ Alex resented the assumption.

‘Is he with you for Chrissake?’

‘No, he went out somewhere. I just reminded him to be back in good time for tonight’s reception.’

‘Shit. I told him to hang around. I could have had him on the lunchtime news – everybody’s clamouring for a piece of the action,’ Kowolski said, cutting the call.

Richard Northwood eyed Kowolski across the desk. ‘Do you want us to send out a search party?’

Kowolski sighed. ‘No, we’ll have to make up for lost time. I just don’t like missing any opportunity, no matter what.’

He rubbed his chin, hoping Northwood hadn’t picked up on his near-fatal blunder with Alex. He’d known she was still in the hotel because of the flashing red dot on the screen map in front of them.

One thing intrigued Kowolski about the bug in Alex’s phone. When he’d first mentioned it during a conversation with Northwood some time back, the guy hadn’t responded with much interest. But from what the technician at the screen seemed to indicate, the CIA had been tracking her movements quite regularly over the past few days.

*  *  *

Alex cast a contented look around the spacious foyer of the hotel where McDermott’s medal ceremony was to be staged. Her photographs featured prominently on smart display boards just to the right of the entrance. She’d agreed with the hotel manager that they should cordon off the exhibition until tomorrow’s official opening and the area now lay in semi-darkness.

She checked her watch. Almost time to get back to the Carlyle and prepare for tonight’s reception. Seeing Kowolski again would give her the opportunity of telling him face to face what she thought of his tricks. If nothing else, she’d feel better for giving him a blast.

‘Very impressive show.’ The voice from behind her, instantly recognisable, stopped her short. She turned, could feel the adrenalin starting to pump.

‘Richard.’

Northwood leant forward as if to kiss her cheek. Alex moved back a step. Feeling the rebuff, he glanced about him, forcibly taking her arm and guiding her to a quieter corner.

‘Let go of my arm or I’ll scream,’ she blazed.

‘The game’s over, Alex,’ he said, slackening his grip.

‘Is it now?’

‘You’d only get your fingers burned meddling in stuff against the national interest.’

Defiance in her eyes, she spat out the words, ‘And was it in the national interest to kill that poor man?’

‘The autopsy showed he had a heart problem – he could’ve gone any time. It’s the truth, believe me,’ Northwood said, his face set cold. ‘We’ve got your memory stick, Alex, and we know it’s the only one.’