An Enemy Within (28 page)

Quickly sliding over to the driver’s seat, McDermott slammed the door shut and sped off. A feeling of euphoria immediately swept over him. He slapped the driver’s wheel with his hands, thumping the padded leather and emitting a series of loud joyous whoops.

He would soon be at his goal. And whatever happened to him from then on, it would simply be God’s will.

21

Kowolski twisted his fingers in fury and frustration. McDermott was missing – gone more than twenty-four hours – yet he couldn’t tell anyone. They should have been on their way to the West Coast by now and he’d had to cancel the media shows there, trotting out the lame excuse that his boy was feeling under the weather and that they’d try to catch up.

He sat, stunned, unable to think straight. McDermott’s room was empty when he’d visited, the bed not slept in. An envelope addressed to Kowolski contained a hurried, scrawled note. It said simply, ‘I have to atone for my sins – sorry.’

But what the fuck did that mean?
After his conversation with the doctor, Kowolski felt McDermott was capable of doing just about anything. Discreet enquiries revealed he had not been seen leaving the encampment and his name wasn’t on the passenger log of three outgoing flights. But there was no way Kowolski could raise a hue and cry about the disappearance, organise search parties or the like. As their hosts had reminded him, Fort Hood covered some 350 square miles. Where would you begin to look?

He shook his head in disbelief. Surely the kid hadn’t gone off to some quiet corner and topped himself? Maybe he’d just wanted a break from the tour and was chilling out someplace. After all it was pressure-barrel stuff. His instinct told him to give it a little longer.

But the more he tumbled the situation in his mind, the more he worried. If the kid didn’t appear, wouldn’t they turn round and blame him for pushing the soldier too far? All his carefully-nurtured work would be in vain. As if suddenly cognisant of the repercussions, he let out a gasp, swallowing hard. The whole
shebang was turning into his worst nightmare. There was no way he could keep the lieutenant’s non-appearance secret, either. The very nature of his scheme involved every facet of the media.

He turned on the television, tuned into to a daytime chat show that was starting shortly and where McDermott should have been appearing. Leaning forward, shoulders hunched, he switched up the volume. The show opened with a still; Alex’s picture of McDermott with the little boy. The anchor revealed that the country’s number one hero had become unwell so would not be appearing. They wished him a speedy recovery, moving on to the next item.

Kowolski pursed his lips. What should he do? McDermott didn’t depend on alcohol so wouldn’t have gone on a bender. Women appeared to hold little interest, either. It was most unlikely he’d be found in any of the bars of the locality – word would soon get back. He considered the possibility of a chat with the military police chief on camp, but discarded the idea. The last thing he wanted was the hint of scandal associated with the President’s boy.

Then the thought hit him between the eyes. Of course McDermott wasn’t your ordinary Joe. Kowolski had used the very words that summed up the lieutenant: a Bible freak.

He picked up the phone and spoke to a receptionist. ‘Say, how many churches or chapels do you have on base?’

‘Just one moment, sir,’ the woman said. A moment later, she came back: ‘My colleague and me just counted ten, sir. But it could be eleven if you count the spiritual centre. You should find them all on the chaplain section of our website.’

‘Thanks,’ Kowolski said, immediately switching on his laptop. The chapels would be all over camp, taking hours to visit even with a driver at his disposal. He decided the best thing would be to use the phone, casually mention that McDermott had said he was off to pray but hadn’t specified which church. ‘Is he with you, perhaps?’

The task took him longer than he envisaged. He got a couple of cleaners in two of the places who seemed not to understand what he was talking about. Striking them off his list, he reasoned the chapels must be closed if they were being cleaned.

On another call, the man he spoke to seemed anxious to discuss McDermott’s Silver Star. He prattled on for several minutes before Kowolski had to cut him short.

At the end of the session, he was no further down the line. Wherever McDermott had gone, it now dawned on Kowolski that it wasn’t at Fort Hood. He shook his head. What did the lieutenant have to atone for anyway? The kid had everything going for him if only he’d be smart enough to see.

He put in a call to McDermott’s home. They hadn’t heard from him for several days. They asked if their son would be able to visit his home town. ‘Folks are mighty proud of our boy. We could put on a civic reception with a band an’ all,’ his father said. Kowolski promised he’d see what he could do.

Stumped as to where to go next, Kowolski finished off the rest of the half-bottle of whisky and turned in for the night, restless for what seemed like hours before finally drifting off.

*  *  *

Alex stared at her mobile phone, puzzled. Kowolski had sent a message with a number to call – but to make it from a public box. Quickly dressing, she left her apartment and walked the two blocks to the kiosk armed with plenty of coins.

‘Alex, thanks for calling back so promptly, how’s it going?’ Kowolski said, his voice flat.

‘Good. Plenty of work coming in thanks.’

‘Listen Alex, I need to know that you’ll promise me this call is confidential, right?’

She hesitated for a few seconds. Confidential? He sounded quite desperate.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Completely off the record.’

‘You heard from the lieutenant?’

‘No, but I’ve seen the coverage. You must be pleased – he’s everywhere.’

‘Yeah,’ Kowolski sighed. ‘Everywhere but here.’

‘And where’s ‘‘here’’ if I may ask, and what’s with all the secrecy?’

‘Fort Hood, Texas. And our man’s… well, he’s gone missing, Alex.’

She gasped. Did she hear correctly? ‘Jesus, you mean missing as like he’s gone AWOL?’

‘Very nearly two days. The reason I’m calling, Alex, is to see if you’d have any idea where he might have gone. I know you don’t like what I’m doing but I need your help.’

Alex blew out her cheeks. ‘Jeez.’

Kowolski outlined developments since McDermott’s disappearance. ‘He left a note saying he needed to atone for his sins. God knows what that’s about.’

‘Oh shit,’ Alex said, a chill running through her. Quickly debating with herself whether to tell Kowolski the truth or to keep up the charade, she reckoned it was time he knew what he was playing with. She took a deep breath and ploughed on. ‘Listen, Kowolski, I didn’t want to be the one that told you this…’

‘Go on,’ he said, an octave or two lower, the despondency clear.

She launched into how McDermott had broken down in her room, his guilt, how screwed up he was. When she finished the full story, she heard Kowolski sigh long and loud. Several seconds of silence passed. She wanted Kowolski to come up with a suggestion, some great piece of analytical thinking that might help solve the problem.

But all he could do was to groan. ‘No wonder the kid was cracking up. Sheesh, what a God-awful mess,’ he finally said.

‘Yeah,’ Alex said, sympathising. ‘He told me you didn’t know anything about it which means you’ve been suckered, Kowolski – we all have.’

‘Well, there’s the CIA for you. And people call me devious,’ Kowolski said.

‘The CIA?’

‘Your friend and mine, Richard Northwood. The conniving sonovabitch.’

‘Northwood,’ Alex spluttered. ‘My friend?’

‘Well, ex-friend, then. Who d’you think put your name forward for the Rumsfeld job?’

‘The bastard,’ Alex said, the realisation dawning.

*  *  *

She hurried back to her apartment, slammed the door in a temper. Sitting at her desk, tears welled. So Northwood was behind everything. And he’d recommended her for the Iraq trip. Christ, she could have been killed out there – lots of journalists had died. A sudden chill enveloped her. My God, was that what he’d wanted? A nice clean and tidy end to their affair? Or was she supposed to be grateful to him for thinking of her?

And there was poor McDermott, a young man broken. Did Northwood know of the lieutenant’s soul-destroying secret?

Her mind in turmoil, she tried desperately to think straight. McDermott AWOL. He’d be court-martialled without doubt. She envisaged the disgrace, the unfathomable dishonour he’d bring to himself and his family. What torment the man had had to suffer. Some of her final words to Kowolski echoed in her mind, ‘You
don’t think he’d do anything stupid do you?’

Was McDermott the type to hurt himself? Alex couldn’t answer the question. She was fond of him, a misguided soldier duped into a war on false pretences by those who should have known better. A cohort of political elite had betrayed the trust of the people like an enemy within. But was that foe inside everyone? Was it there, lurking, awaiting the opportunity to rise up, a manifestation of harm and injury to oneself? Alex had come very close to self-destruct after falling for Northwood’s charms. Kowolski himself had bulldozed an intense path of
conviction only to now veer away with a sudden loathing for his actions. He’d admitted to her that his heart wasn’t in the job any more.

‘You going back to Baghdad?’ Alex had asked.

‘I’ve had a bellyful. Have you heard the word, metastasis?’

‘Sounds medical.’

‘Yeah it’s the spread of a disease. My old man died of cancer, went all over his body. I’ve felt a metastasis in Iraq, a sort of creeping feeling in my being. It’s been telling me I shouldn’t be there.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ she said with a shudder. Alex moved to a chair by the window, gazing out across the street almost absentmindedly. Suddenly she sat upright, a flash of a thought entering her head. She’d been replaying some of her conversation with Kowolski. ‘God knows where the kid is,’ he’d said several times. Now, the phrase struck a note, slightly discordant at the moment as she concentrated on the strands of her memory aiming to hit full pitch. She thought back to a conversation she’d had with McDermott. Then, a smile spread on her face and she laughed to herself.

‘Of course. God knows exactly where you are,’ she said aloud, switching on her computer. ‘And so do I.’

*  *  *

The midday news anchor laid it on thick. Over a twenty-five second piece of VT, showing McDermott having the Silver Star pinned on his chest, the effusive voice boomed that the latest polls showed the President’s popularity rating had shot up more than six per cent – an unheard-of leap.

Richard Northwood sat on the edge of a desk with several of his staff watching the bulletin. He stroked his nose almost absent-mindedly. Of all the agendas on his plate, success on this one was paramount. His efforts would not be forgotten, it had been heavily hinted.

Northwood reckoned he’d make assistant director by the end
of the year. And if the President were to be re-elected in a little over twelve months, who knew what would happen? New terms of office often meant a new broom. Dare he think of deputy director of the whole CIA by Christmas 2004?

Cutting to a scene outside the gates of the White House, a reporter opined: ‘The President’s high approval is believed to be down to one man – Second Lieutenant Matthew McDermott, the nation’s hero of Iraq. I’ve just spoken with several White House aides who say pledges of donations to the re-election campaign have intensified in the last four or five days. They forecast that at this rate, they will attract more than half the forecast eight hundred million dollars cost of the campaign before this year is out.’

One of Northwood’s staff answered a phone call. ‘It’s for you, sir, a Gene Kowolski.’

Northwood bounced off the desk. ‘I’ll take it in my office,’ he said, strolling out.

Several minutes later, grim-faced, Northwood replaced the receiver. The news from Kowolski wasn’t good. Not good at all. In fact, fucking infuriating, as he told him. McDermott’s disappearance spelt trouble. Big time. It meant there was a rogue elephant on the loose, badly injured and liable to do anything.

The lieutenant’s charade must never be made public, not now, not ever. Too much depended on it. He cursed his old college buddy, Walter Douglas, too. The major had obviously been eager to please but had suffused fact and fiction. He would be forced to deal with him at an appropriate moment.

He called his tech boys. ‘Check the movements of Alexandra Stead over the past three days and report back immediately.’

The surveillance technicians at Langley, when not actively monitoring a subject, relied on a remote movement activator, a system that allowed them to watch a recording of the red-dot figure on a map. At full-speed playback, it took only minutes to indicate Alex had not ventured more than 200 yards from her
apartment. Her phone taps over the past week revealed nothing that would tie her in to McDermott.

Northwood slumped back in his chair. ‘Fuck,’ he said out loud, kicking the waste bin and watching disinterested as its contents scattered all over his office floor.

*  *  *

Alex excitedly jotted the numbers down from the web page on her screen. She cast her mind back to the Central Park runner’s guide at the Carlyle she’d found in McDermott’s pocket with the writing on the back, which she’d thought might be a telephone number. The main figures she easily remembered, 31 and 47, her current age and her father’s birth year. Those tallied with the approximate co-ordinates on the map of Iraq she was now viewing.

After an hour’s work, checking and cross-referencing, she sat back and rubbed her eyes. She had a good idea where McDermott had fled. During the rest of the day, the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced he was back in Iraq.

Should she tell anyone? Not yet, she decided. Kowolski had made the right noises recently but she wasn’t sure she could trust him, nor what he might do. McDermott was obviously teetering on the edge. She didn’t want to be the person who helped push him over the top.