An Enemy Within (27 page)

‘Yeah, our boy’s a Bible freak.’

‘You want me to see if we can take it further?’

Kowolski sighed. ‘No, doc. Our trip’s on a tight schedule. Maybe some other time.’

‘As long as you’re aware the engine might just pack up before your journey’s over.’

‘Right,’ Kowolski said, replacing the receiver. He blew out his cheeks, finished his drink and put his glass down with a thud.

Just what he needed – a kid who might go off the rails at any minute.

*  *  *

Alex was on a high. The orders for her work just kept rolling in. Sitting at her desk, she allowed herself a smile. Kowolski had promised her the exhibition would be successful and he was right. There was nothing like a burst of good publicity to ramp up the reputation. She flipped through her diary, entering her latest assignment; a week’s photo-shoot in Hawaii on a calendar for an international company based in New York. Her only downer, that Northwood had somehow wiped her emails. But she’d resigned herself to losing that particular battle and pushed it to the back of her mind.

It was Steve who had really set her heart alight. Two days and nights together put the seal on their relationship. Their parting was a bitter-sweet affair.

‘Wish we could roll the clock forward a few months so I’m out of there,’ Steve said at the airport, holding her tight.

‘Tell me, Mister Lewis,’ Alex said, pulling away lightly, her head to one side, ‘was it worth all that time, money and effort flying here when you could have been in Kuwait for a few days touring the galleries?’

He gave her an extra squeeze, kissed her firmly. ‘No contest, your honour,’ he laughed loudly, his face alight.

She glanced around her apartment, decided a spot of tidying up was needed. A stack of newspapers and magazines littered the sofa. She’d been avidly monitoring the McDermott coverage, his photograph adorning every front page. One picture was particularly pleasing; her photograph of the lieutenant with the
little boy that the
New York Times
requested from her exhibition and used big. Alex cut that page out for her portfolio.

Her mobile bleeped, signalling an incoming message. Checking it, she gasped. A short note from Greg telling her he’d had enough and was returning to Australia. He enclosed a number for Farrah al-Tikriti, saying that she and the boys had moved to Jordan.

Alex sat down, cradling the phone and staring blankly at the text. For the last few days, Iraq had been blissfully far from her mind. A sudden stab of remorse flickered through her as she thought of the family without their beloved Aban. His death had saddened her beyond words and she couldn’t begin to imagine what it had done to his cherished wife and children. Now they had to find a new life for themselves in a foreign country.

She looked at her watch, let out a deep breath. It was early evening in Iraq, Jordan on a similar time difference. Should she call Farrah? What would she say? Words, any words, she knew would be inadequate. Eventually steeling herself, she dialled the number and waited, her heart pounding.

‘Hello, Farrah al-Tikriti.’ The voice was weak, quizzical.

‘Farrah, it’s me, Alex Stead in New York.’

‘Oh, Alex,’ Farrah said softly, despair all too evident. ‘You are so kind to call.’

‘Dear Farrah, I was so so sorry to hear… it’s the least I can do to speak to you. Greg tells me you are in Jordan.’

‘Yes, we came, we had to get out. They are killing each other now, just as Aban warned.’ The mention of her husband’s name started Farrah sobbing.

Alex gulped, the tears welling. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, we are safe here. I have arranged schooling for the boys.’ Farrah started crying full flow, her words soon spluttering into a mournful wail. ‘There were marks on the body, horrible red marks, deep bruises. He is at rest now but what they did to him…’

Alex wound up the conversation, totally disconcerted, an empty feeling inside that made her feel nauseous. She hoped she hadn’t sounded trite. But what could anyone say or do to make the poor woman feel any better? Taking a tissue from a drawer, she dabbed at her eyes. ‘The bastards,’ she spat, sinking into a chair. Richard Northwood and his group of thugs had contributed to Aban’s death without a doubt – just as much as if they had killed him, like Farrah claimed.

Her chin taut, she got up and walked wearily to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face. Looking in the mirror, Alex reaffirmed the vow she’d already made to herself: if there ever came an opportunity to strike back, then, by God, she would take it with both hands.

*  *  *

From his billet window close to the airfield, McDermott watched as the numbers of troops began to swell on the apron. Every couple of minutes, small groups of soldiers exited a process centre, its double doors opening automatically and flooding the tarmac with light from within the building. Further away, a C-5 Galaxy stood motionless, engines thrumming, the big beast stark against the night sky, its nosecone up so that it looked like a giant bird of prey that had come to grief.

With trembling hands, he stashed several more items into a bug-out bag, hastily acquired that afternoon from a store on the base’s mid-post mall. He secured the last item, a pack of glow sticks, and fastened the bag, content it resembled a fair attempt at a survival kit. On the airfield, an Abrams tank inched forward up the nosecone ramp and was soon swallowed into the aircraft’s belly.

McDermott took a deep breath and stared into nowhere. He just knew this was his moment. He’d been so patient, so trusting, waiting for God’s guidance. But, as the end of September had drawn almost to a close, his despair intensified and
he’d felt his will wavering. As hard as he’d prayed, doubts still flickered, barbs of confusion tormented.

Then, at once, like a miracle, everything slotted into place; the Lord suddenly offered him the opportunity. In triumph, he could now set out on his journey of atonement.

Chatting to a younger fellow officer who’d witnessed McDermott’s presentation, he’d discovered the guy was bound for Iraq with his men that evening on their first tour. The C-5 he was looking at right now would be refuelling at the Rhein-Main airbase in Frankfurt, flying on to Basra and, finally, Baghdad.

‘I might just join you,’ McDermott said, suddenly flushed with the idea.

‘You serious?’

‘Why not? I have a piece of paper that gets me on to any flight, any time,’ he said, tapping his top pocket. ‘I have to get back sooner or later – special assignment,’ McDermott smiled. ‘But you don’t say anything to anyone, now.’

‘No, sir,’ the officer said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand to zip his mouth. ‘It’d be a real privilege to fly with you, though.’

McDermott picked up his bag, stopped at the door and glanced around the room. A surge of excitement rippled through him and he clicked his heels, laughing out loud.

Gently closing the door behind him, he marched purposefully down a sweep of corridors and into the processing centre. The room was empty. Through the glass doors he could see the troops, now in single file, about to board the aircraft. He stepped out on to the tarmac and tagged on to the end of the line.

Up ahead, the younger lieutenant was checking his men aboard from the top of the ramp. His face broke into a grin when he spotted McDermott.

‘Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,’ he said.

McDermott reached for his pocket. ‘You need my credentials?’

‘I think we all know who you are, sir. Stow your bag and take a seat.’

Within minutes, the C-5 lumbered out on to the runway. Moments later, it took its short take-off and they were airborne. McDermott felt as if he were floating, a curious sense of well-being pervaded his soul. He closed his eyes and saw a baby smiling at him.

Presently, he was joined by his new-found friend who sat in the next seat. McDermott studied him. Did he once look like this, full of the enthusiasm he now saw shining in the young man’s face? The eagerness, the fervour, the innocence?

‘Well, we’re all ready to go and kick ass out there,’ the man said, nodding to himself. ‘Yes, sir, we sure as hell are ready.’

McDermott looked the man in the eye, smiling serenely. ‘Just make sure you temper your wrath with mercy, my friend. ‘‘If the spirit of the ruler rises up against thee, leave not thy place; for yielding pacifieth great offences’’,’ McDermott said, blinking several times. He reached for his Bible. ‘Now, I have some reading to do,’ he said, brusquely.

The young officer gulped, pulled a face that held signs of disappointment. ‘Sure thing, Lieutenant,’ he muttered as he got up to return to his own seat. McDermott watched him slope off, arms hanging loosely at his side.

*  *  *

It was cooler now it was dark. A rare wind blew welcome gusts of air through the gap in the wall of the Basra city morgue. Abu Khamsin finished his cigarette and took one last gasp of the breeze, then lifted the mask to his face once more.

He could never quite get used to the smell of death, even though he was now considered an old hand. Working originally in Baghdad in the place they called ‘the slaughterhouse’, he had leapt at the chance of a transfer to Basra for more money. Baghdad without dear Aban and his family held nothing for him.

It was also better now it was dark; no pitiful, wailing relatives to confront, no witnessing the pain and terror in their eyes as they sought the remains of their loved ones.

In one room, corpses were now being stacked on top of each other to save space. One section had been casually divided for body bits; the major part of anyone’s remains stored in its appropriate place, bottom half or top.

It was a system that seemed to work. Earlier in the day, a family identified the lower body part of a young man from the patterned socks they’d bought him for his recent eighteenth birthday. Abu Khamsin had to guide them to the other pile of ‘top bits’, then let them rummage among the grisly mound. There, they found the boy’s arm, identifying it from the cheap wristwatch still attached. He felt so embarrassed by their gratitude as they left – carrying their haul away in a black trash bag for burial.

No longer did he want to hear from grieving brothers and mothers and fathers details of their loved one’s lives. Too personal. Too upsetting to hear of the young man due to get married and shot dead for overtaking an army convoy on his rush to the wedding. Too horrifying to learn that a mother and her three daughters had been crushed to death in their car by an Abrams tank that did not stop at a busy road junction.

No, it was much quieter now it was dark.

He brushed flecks of ash from his red-stained apron and walked back inside, glad he’d managed to buy a new pair of sturdy boots with thick-tread soles to stop him slipping on the blood-puddled floor.

There would be three trucks tonight, big Russian-made open-backed diesels that would be stacked high to trundle the unclaimed spirits on the arduous 200 mile journey north to Najaf, the sacred city. There, the bodies would be dumped, without ceremony, in a mass grave just outside the city.

But Abu Khamsim knew that, in that wondrous place, the
eternally-open arms of the beloved saint, Ali Ibn Abi Talib, would take them to his merciful bosom.

And then to paradise.

*  *  *

McDermott felt safer behind the sunglasses. Unsure as to how far his fame had spread, he wanted to take no chances even if he seemed to be the only US soldier at Basra airport. Wearing them also meant he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with anyone, encourage a conversation. But no one gave him more than a casual glance, accustomed as they were to the movement of troops of a dozen nationalities. Surrounded by Brits, he joined a line passing through what he anticipated was some form of immigration. He handed in his common access card, hoping that would be sufficient. It was quickly returned after only a cursory examination.

Outside, a melee of vehicles swarmed like insects around a lamp. Walking away from the main terminal exit, he melted into a quiet area where the shadows of the growing darkness made him almost invisible. Then he watched and waited.

After fifteen minutes, a Chevy SUV headed slowly his way, gliding to a halt on the opposite side of the road. McDermott strained his eyes to count its occupants but was unable to see through its darkened windows. He heard the driver’s door slam shut, could just about make out a figure standing near the front of the vehicle. The driver lit a cigarette. From the glimmer of the man’s lighter, McDermott deduced he was Iraqi and civilian.

Waiting a little longer, McDermott took a deep breath, exhaling ever so slow, half-convinced the driver might otherwise hear him. He reached for his revolver, his heart starting to hammer, gently unclipped the holster and withdrew the gun.

The driver coughed, a rasping sound that, even at distance, grated on McDermott’s ears. Then he flicked his cigarette butt high into the air and got back into the vehicle. Seeing the telltale red glow cartwheel to the ground, the lieutenant rushed to
the passenger side, dropped his bags in the road and yanked the door open. The man’s black moustachioed face, surprised at first, quickly turned to wide-eyed terror as he stared into the barrel of McDermott’s gun.

‘Ya’allah,’ McDermott barked, throwing his bags into the back and sliding into the passenger seat.

Urged ‘let’s go’ by the lieutenant’s command, the driver started up and pulled away, his hands shaking at the wheel.

As they approached security at the airport entrance, McDermott lowered his window. He gestured for the driver to do likewise, pushing the pistol hard into the man’s ribs. Two British soldiers appeared, one either side. McDermott gave his crispest salute. Each soldier opened a rear passenger door and glanced in. Satisfied, one gave the thumbs up to the control booth to raise the barrier.

At a crossroad, the driver stopped and began gibbering, throwing his hands up excitedly.

‘Shamaal, Baghdad,’ McDermott said, waving the gun at him.

They drove in silence with little traffic, hitting the main road north. After several miles of open desert, McDermott ordered the driver to stop. Fearing the worst, the man began blabbering, a stream of spittle drooling from his lips. McDermott waved the pistol at him, gesturing for him to get out. When the interior light came on, he could see the man had tears in his eyes.