An Enemy Within (7 page)

She waited outside an elevator to take her up to the tenth floor. A weary-looking man joined her. He mopped his ruddy brow with a polka-dot handkerchief that he stuffed back into the top pocket of his safari jacket. She guessed he was a Brit.

‘These things work?’

‘Ah, sometimes not, young lady. You just arrived?’

He introduced himself as Charles Toller, from a London newspaper.

Alex shook his hand. ‘You embedded?’

‘I don’t know anyone who isn’t,’ he said. ‘The only way to get around, I’m afraid. Pot luck if you see any action and then you’ve got to be damn careful what you say otherwise they’ll pull the accreditation… You?’

‘Yeah,’ she said as the elevator doors opened.

The lift was packed and she had to squeeze in. There was an overpowering stench of stale sweat that caused her to hold her
breath, lest she gagged. Relieved when the elevator stopped at her floor, she spilled out into a gloomy corridor. Quickly locating her room, she closed the door, dumping her things on the bed when the telephone rang.

‘If you fancy a pre-dinner drink, I’ll be in the bar in half an hour,’ Kowolski said.

She was under a lukewarm shower when it rang again. ‘What now for Chrissake?’ she demanded.

‘That sounds like the good old Sheila I remember.’

‘Greg! How lovely to hear your voice. Where the hell are…’

‘Oh, about three floors down. Wondered if you fancy eating out – you won’t get much more than a boiled egg here and I know a great little place.’

She’d been resigned to grabbing a quick bite and having an early night. Greg, she discovered, was only in Baghdad for thirty-six hours. She couldn’t turn down a friend.

‘But how did you know I…’

‘News travels fast in this village of ours – see you later.’

She knew that Greg Spencer, a stringer for a host of Australian outlets, was still in Iraq because they’d spoken before she left New York. Usually in Basra with the British Army, he was due back there the following day. His good company and deprecating sense of humour dovetailed with her own take on events. Plus he was a damn good journalist who kept her up to speed.

She dried herself on an almost threadbare towel, took out a simple black jersey number from her backpack. The dress was rolled up as usual because it didn’t crease and took up so little room. It was her favourite; a half-price sixty-five dollar bargain eighteen months ago at Macy’s in Herald Square, just before she’d set off for Kabul on an assignment for
Newsweek
after the Taliban fled the Afghan capital.

When she thought about it, that three-week period seemed an age ago. She smiled to herself as she smoothed it down with her hands, remembering how the dress had helped her wheedle
her way on to a Black Hawk helicopter, taking soldiers up to the White Mountains of Tora Bora in search of Osama bin Laden.

After flirting with its commander the night before in a Kabul bar, she had bagged the flight to the al-Qaeda caves that had just been obliterated in a massive bombardment. Her only disappointment: that they hadn’t found bin Laden, the exclusive of all exclusives.

Although she considered herself a moderate feminist and would normally have disapproved of such tactics, her view was that using those alluring eyes once in a while was no bad thing. Especially for the great set of aerial shots she was able to sell from the trip.

Hurrying to the bar, she spotted Kowolski talking to a pretty blonde. She seemed to be hanging on his every word. He waved to Alex, who joined them.

‘This is Francine, a colleague from the Pentagon. Francine’s with our lot in the Green Zone.’

Alex shook her hand. ‘I hear the admin people are piling in thick and fast, Francine, that there’s trouble with billeting.’

Francine looked surprised that Alex would have heard such news already. ‘Oh, we’re doing pretty good – we got a villa.’ She returned to gaze at Kowolski. ‘Gene, you must come and see us there,’ she cooed.

Kowolski nodded almost absent-mindedly. He leaned towards Alex, took in the subtle waft of her perfume. ‘You want to join us for dinner?’

‘Thanks, but I’m already booked,’ she said. ‘Besides…’ she nodded in Francine’s direction.

‘Well, maybe some other time,’ he said, with a tinge of disappointment. ‘At least let me get you a drink.’

Just then, the tall figure of Greg Spencer appeared weaving his way through the crowd. ‘Hiya, babe.’ He handed her a glass. ‘White wine spritzer, right?’ With his free arm, he hugged her tightly, kissing her on both cheeks.

Alex introduced him. ‘One of the best writers out here,’ she said, much to Greg’s embarrassment.

‘So, what’s new?’ Kowolski chipped in, eyeing him coolly.

Greg took a gulp of his beer from the bottle. ‘Well, we got a whole crock of shit going down here, I know that for sure – people fighting among themselves, terrible brutality going on, hardship on a grand scale, some taking bribes and kickbacks, and that’s just the US army I’m talking about. As for the Iraqis, only God, or should I say Allah, knows what hell it is for them.’

They all seemed quite taken aback by the sarcasm. Kowolski drained his glass. ‘Yeah, war’s a right bastard – for everyone.’ He turned to Francine who had not finished her drink. ‘We gotta go. So long.’ He ushered her off before she could protest.

Greg watched them go. ‘I think I might have upset him,’ he said, pleased.

‘Good. They’re both with the Pentagon – it’ll give them something to think about,’ Alex smiled.

*  *  *

They took a taxi, heading south along Abu Nawas Street, running alongside the river. Several army patrols eyed them suspiciously. The remnants of burned-out trucks and buses clogged the side of the road. Palm trees, blasted by shells, lay at forlorn angles, some only stumps. Across the Tigris in the fading light, it was still possible to see the bomb damage to buildings in the distance, stark against the sinking orange sun.

‘You okay?’ Greg noticed Alex had closed her eyes.

‘A little tired – been a long day so far. And all this…’ she waved her arm in a sweeping gesture, ‘… is wearisome.’

Greg directed the driver to the al-Karradah district. Entering a residential area, Alex was struck by the houses, attractive two and three-storey villas with neat gardens. They turned into a street of smart offices and commercial buildings. ‘Seems a different world from the waste and despair only a few hundred yards back,’ she sighed.

‘I hope you don’t mind but we’re meeting company for dinner, people I owe a favour.’

He paid off the driver, took Alex by the hand and guided her to the entrance of a restaurant. The decor was up-market, welcoming. Starched white napkins lay on classic red and white checked tablecloths, twenty or so diners, mostly American.

Greg waved to a couple sitting at the back and made to join them. ‘Alex, this is Dr Aban al-Tikriti and his good wife, Farrah. Both have been very good to me.’

‘Hello Alex. It is nice to meet any friend of Mr Greg. He has been very good to us, also.’

Alex saw a man in his mid-forties, kind eyes that seemed to hold a tinge of sadness, dark hair beginning to go grey at the sides. A sober blue business suit over a lemon open-necked shirt made for such a modern appearance that Alex felt she could be on Broadway – supper after the show. His wife, her dark hair in elaborate ringlets, wore a black shawl, tastefully embroidered in red and gold, over a white silk trouser suit.

‘That’s a beautiful wrap, Farrah,’ Alex said touching it.

‘Yes. An anniversary present from my husband – from Syria. Say one thing about Saddam, we can… we could wear what we like. For how much longer, I don’t know.’

Her husband took a bread stick from a holder on the table, snapped it in two, and began chewing, waving the other half in the air. ‘There is a feeling, particularly among women, that the religious zealots might now come to the fore… people are afraid.’

Alex needed another drink. Clenching her hands under the table, she braced herself and ordered fizzy water instead. Taking several sips in quick succession, the bubbles burst at the back of her throat, helping ease the cloying grime of the day.

Her heart went out to the couple when she learned Aban was out of a job, having held a senior position in the Ministry of Commerce. They had two sons and were now living off their savings.

‘But surely they’ll ask you back,’ Alex said. ‘The new administration here must desperately need men of your experience to carry on where you left off. I mean, the country’s in a terrible mess.’

‘Maybe. Who knows? Perhaps the Americans think they can run Iraq better than we did.’

They found Aban in talkative mood. Alex was happy at first, allowing herself to be the sponge of his anxiety. It deflected her own problems for a while. But, as he unloaded his fears for the future of the country, she could feel the tension rising within her.

A waiter came to the table. Greg pointed to the menu. ‘Masgouf.’

‘A very nice river fish, Alex,’ Aban said. ‘I have forgotten what it is called in English.’

‘River carp,’ Greg replied. ‘Okay for all?’ Everyone nodded in agreement.

‘Tell me,’ Alex said, ‘what was Saddam really like?’

Aban lowered his voice, looking about him. Old habits died hard. ‘You could say good and bad, but mostly bad. I believe he operated on two levels, fear and greed. A complex man, paranoid certainly, breathtakingly ruthless. But, under his reign Iraq made good progress. Infant mortality was down, literacy up – the highest school enrolment of any developing nation – healthcare improved enormously.’

He broke off to take a sip of water. ‘But it was a dictatorship all the same, one that must be measured against the worst human rights record in the world. That was until the sanctions took effect after the Gulf War and the country headed into serious decline. Can you imagine your child with cancer and no drugs other than paracetamol to treat the pain? A few weeks ago I could not speak like this. I dared not even think it, never.’

‘A few weeks ago, Aban, you were Aban Mohammed Ali,’ Greg said.

‘Yes, it is true. Saddam forbade any of us in high positions
from using our tribal names. Instead we had to use our own first name, then of our father, and that of our grandfather. So many of us Sunnis in government, you see – but no one could identify us as such by our name.’

The waiter brought the fish, filleted it at the table.

‘And how long are you in Baghdad, Alex?’ Farrah said.

Alex hesitated. ‘Perhaps rather stupidly, I’ve just accepted a stint for a few weeks embedded with an infantry unit – in a Bradley Fighting Vehicle.’ Her face suddenly turned serious. ‘I was due to go back home tomorrow… I’m not sure I’ve made the right decision. From what you say, things are going to get a lot worse.’

The table fell silent for a moment. Alex felt everyone’s eyes on her. She gulped and bit her bottom lip, unaware her fingers had begun twisting the napkin in her hand. Farrah sensed the unease and patted her hand.

Their meal finished, they went outside. The air was thick, stultifying, the smell of American cigarettes hung heavily. ‘It would be lovely if you had time to take tea with us before you leave, Alex,’ Farrah said, kissing her lightly.

‘Thank you, Farrah. I… I do hope things improve for everyone.’

In the taxi back to the hotel, Alex found her parting words inadequate for what she really felt. She was sure that for every family like the al-Tikritis, thankfully untouched by personal tragedy so far, there were tens of thousands of other Iraqi families already forced to bear the unimaginable tortured misery of the death and destruction within their midst.

The immediate future wasn’t something Alex wanted to contemplate. She now realised going on patrol was not going to be easy for her whatever lay in store.

And she cursed herself for letting Kowolski twist her arm.

*  *  *

Gene Kowolski sucked on the swollen nipple of the girl’s right breast as she moaned, writhing beneath him, pleading with him to enter her.

‘Do it, Kowolski. Do it to her,’ Francine urged frantically as she lay naked next to him, her hand holding him tightly at his base so that he was now fully erect again.

Kowolski had accepted Francine’s invitation to see her room at the villa rather sooner than he imagined, prompted by a couple of bottles of a Meursault Premier Cru from one of his favourite growers, Louis Jadot, which he knew was American-owned. War-torn Iraq it might be, but getting hold of a decent bottle of white burgundy seemed to be no problem. It was expensive, sure. Hell, that was sometimes the price of patriotism.

When Francine’s room-mate poured them all a generous brandy, then, after a large gulp, declared that being in such a dangerous country made her feel ‘hot and horny’, he knew he had struck home. ‘Yeah, me too – war can make you feel like that,’ he said only seconds before both girls leapt on him, practically stripping him and themselves in double-quick time while he lay there smiling.

He satisfied Francine and himself first while the other girl stroked his buttocks with one hand, gently kneading his scrotum with the other. When she felt him starting to come, she straddled him, rubbing herself up and down on his backside and yelping like an animal.

Francine now guided him into her room-mate, laughing lustfully as she whimpered with pleasure. ‘Oh, yes, yes, fuck me, please,’ the girl cried working her body hard and fast against him, reaching her orgasm within minutes to a tirade of expletives, sobs and moanful sighs. Kowolski reached his second climax of the night shortly afterwards.

As he did, he thought of Alex.

*  *  *

For a change, Matt McDermott slept soundly that night. He awoke to the comforting lumpiness of the Bible under his pillow. Although he felt closer to our Lord with the Good Book beneath his head, the recent habit was no more than a subconscious form of penance.

Now the morning was one of domestic chores; washing socks, shirts and underclothes, kit that took only a few minutes to dry when hanging from strategic points of the billet. Washing strung from open windows was a soldier’s constant lot.

He took coffee with some of his men, checking the Bradley was clean, fit and fuelled ready to go. He reminded them they were to be on their best behaviour later when a photographer called Alex Stead was joining them as an embed. No one appeared happy about a stranger in the camp.