An Enemy Within

by Roy David

  Stripping to his underclothes, he found the bag, filled it, and put it in the corridor. He thought about ordering breakfast, but couldn’t face the idea. Rather, he badly needed a shower. On his way to the bathroom, he reflected on his brief conversation with the laundry maid. He’d told her he wasn’t who she’d thought. That was a remark he would dearly love to tell everyone who would get to know him over the next little while.

  * * *

  McDermott took great care to shave without nicking himself. Accepting a medal from the President with a face ‘like a patchwork quilt’ – as Kowolski had put it – would upset everyone. Not quite finished, he heard the doorbell chime. He grabbed the bath-towel, wrapping it around his waist, and went to answer it. Flecks of shaving foam fell on the carpet.

  Opening the door revealed a man he didn’t know. The guy carried a large bunch of red roses and, tucked under one arm, what McDermott guessed was a box of chocolates.

  The man looked surprised. ‘Oh, pardon me, sir,’ he said, giving McDermott the once-over. ‘I thought this was the room of Alex Stead.’

  ‘That’s right – it is,’ McDermott said.

  Steve Lewis took a half step backwards. His jaw dropped. Anger flashed in his eyes so that, when he took a step forward, McDermott thought he was going to be attacked.

  Steve thrust the flowers and chocolates so hard into McDermott’s bare chest that everything fell on the floor. ‘Buddy, you tell her from me she’s a first-class bitch,’ he stormed, turning on his heel.

  Shocked, McDermott scrabbled to pick up the pile at his feet. By the time he looked up, the corridor was empty and all he could hear were hurried footsteps echoing down the staircase. Panic set in. What on earth had he done?

  * * *

  He surveyed himself in the mirror, decided he’d pass muster. His fingers reached into the top pocket of his tunic. McDermott withdrew the hotel’s running guide. Silently reciting the numbers to himself, he turned to the back page to check. They were locked in his memory.

  The room phone rang.

  ‘Alex. Where are you?’

  ‘Right next door.’

  Ten seconds later, he opened the door to let her in. She flopped into the armchair.

  ‘You look smart, Lieutenant. Feeling okay?’

  She could see he was not. Something was troubling him, big time. He looked a bag of nerves.

  ‘I’ve screwed up, Alex. You had a visitor.’ He gestured to the battered bouquet and the chocolates on a coffee table.

  Detailing the early-morning incident, he gulped, his eyes blinking furiously. The quavering of his voice intensified as he watched her slowly sinking in despair, the look on her face crushing him. ‘I’d dashed from the bathroom – just in a towel. I guess he thought…’

  ‘Just tell me what he looked like,’ Alex snapped, fearing the answer.

  McDermott’s description of the man meant only one person.

  ‘Steve,’ she said, jumping up, immediately bursting into tears.

  ‘He was so angry… just disappeared. I’m sorry, Ma’am.’

  ‘Why didn’t you try to stop him? You could have shouted…’

  ‘Everything happened so fast,’ he said meekly, his body drooping. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  Alex made for the door. He stopped her, his hands gently on her shoulders.

  ‘You won’t have time to find him now. Your show opens soon.’

  She realised he was right. Her exhibition opened in an hour. McDermott was cutting the ribbon. Kowolski had invited the media. She knew she’d never find Steve in time, which made her more distraught. Where would she begin to look?

  ‘Maybe he’ll come back,’ McDermott said, hope in his voice.

  Alex’s eyes blazed. ‘He won’t come back, you fool,’ she spat. ‘I thought you were trained to think on your feet. Do you realise what you’ve done? ‘‘Everything happened so fast’’,’ she mimicked. ‘You’re supposed to be top gun, Lieutenant. Remember the raid? The goddamn Silver Star?’

  Right then she felt the urge to slap his face, punch him, kick him, rouse him from this lumbering, unedifying torpor that had brought them to this. He was not the man she’d known in Baghdad.

  ‘You might be a ‘‘hero’’, McDermott,’ she said, emphasising the word with as much sarcasm as she could find, ‘but, right now, you’re nothing but a pain in the goddam fuckin’ butt.’

  Sinking back into the chair, she buried her head in her hands, sobbing, eyes closed. When she eventually opened them, McDermott was crouching beside her. He touched her hand. She saw he was crying, too.

  ‘Everything’s gone wrong, Alex,’ he said, his voice low, breaking. ‘I’m really sorry. It’s all one big awful mess.’

  ‘What has?’ She knew she sounded petulant, but reckoned she had every right.

  Now he took her hand in his. She stared at him, puzzled at his deadly serious expression.

  ‘I’m no hero, Alex. It’s a fraud,’ he said softly. ‘I killed a baby, a beautiful baby boy, his folks, too.’

  Alex gasped, raised her free hand to her mouth. What was he saying? Was he out of his mind?

  ‘His big brown eyes have lived with me ever since, every minute of every day – even in my sleep. I see him all the time. And I never knew his name…’

  He broke down totally now, his body heaving in great sobs that shook Alex to her core. He lay his head on her lap.

  ‘I did wrong, Alex, terrible, terrible wrong. Our dear Lord wants me to atone for my sins.’

  She began to lightly stroke his neck, unable yet to take it all in.

  What had they done to this poor man? Just what in the name of God had they made him do?

  * * *

  McDermott walked grim-faced with Alex into the reception foyer hosting her show. She linked arms with him at the last minute, gave him a squeeze. Now that he’d told her the full story, she understood his anguish. It was a dreadful secret to bear. Although it had left her with mixed emotions – anger, pity, confusion – part of her was glad he’d shared his deeply disturbing burden. She could feel the torment he’d been under when he explained everything.

  ‘Who else knows?’ Alex had said, aware she had to tread softly. ‘Kowolski?’

  McDermott shook his head.

  God, she thought, if Kowolski ever did find out – how would he take it? Like an atomic bomb, she considered. She had to admit it was to his credit that he wasn’t part of the pantomime – at least not to this extent. So Kowolski had been duped, too. For a fleeting moment she almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘You’ll have to live the lie,’ Alex told him, not sure she was entirely right. ‘It happens to everyone at some time in their life. You can’t change the past. Be strong, think of the greater good.’

  She didn’t really believe her own words. This government, the President, his despicable war-mongering cohorts, the Richard Northwoods of the world – they’d be the beneficiaries of McDermott’s intolerable dilemma. But, what was it to them of the broken spirit of just another soldier fighting for the flag? Thousands had made the ultimate sacrifice; ten times more injured, physically maimed for life. As many again had to carry the miserable burden of their mental scars within a grotesque mask that no one but themselves could see.

  * * *

  Steve Lewis watched the pair of them from behind a pillar at the rear of the fifty or so people gathered around the exhibition ribbon. Sickened that Alex had obviously been two-timing him, spinning him a pack of lies, he still wanted to catch sight of her one last time before he left town.

  His stomach churned at the thought he’d lost her. Their months of long-distance courtship had meant absolutely everything to him. She’d said the same. Now he felt such a jerk.

  Alex was preoccupied with the media. Smiling and laughing, she posed effortlessly for their pictures. A television reporter ushered her aside for an interview.

  Then, McDermott was asked to step forward to cut the tape. Cameras flashed as he flourished the scissors and
snapped them shut to signal the exhibition was open. The foyer resounded to the applause.

  Steve stole one last glance at Alex and quickly turned away from the scene. He didn’t see a waiter bearing down on him, carrying a tray of drinks. The waiter tried to avoid him but failed, colliding full tilt. Glasses flew in all directions, tumbling as if in slow motion and landing on the tiled floor with a tremendous crash.

  For a moment, Steve froze. Everyone at the reception looked his way. His and Alex’s eyes met. Sidestepping the mess, he hurried towards the hotel exit, dashing through without looking back.

  ‘Steve!’ Alex shouted in vain. But he had soon disappeared. Giving chase, she ran after him into the street. People hogged the sidewalk in both directions. She couldn’t see him anywhere. Frantic, her heart thumping, she hesitated, didn’t know which way to go. Eventually turning right, she threaded her way through the crowds, bumping into people and not stopping to apologise. After travelling a block, she gave up.

  She stood outside a shop, body bent in devastation. Among all these people – coming and going in their daily lives – she had never felt so alone, so bereft. Her tears flowed freely.

  He saw her from a doorway where he’d taken refuge, just in case she’d decided to follow him. Satisfied no one else was with her, he reached out.

  Alex felt the gentle touch on her shoulder. She spun round. ‘Oh, Steve, thank God,’ she spluttered.

  He stood back, taut, eyes flashing with indignation. ‘Why, Alex? After everything we said to each other, just tell me why,’ he said, arms tightly folded.

  A smile lit up her face. Then she started laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘You crazy, crazy guy,’ she said, sniffing, reaching in her pocket for a tissue. ‘McDermott slept in my room – I slept in his.’

  ‘What?’ Steve frowned, trying to take it in. ‘I thought…’

  ‘Of course you did. He crashed out in my room, drunk. I stayed the night next door.’

  ‘Oh, jeez,’ he said, starting to laugh. He held out his arms. She fell into his embrace, smothering him with kisses. They clung to each other for so long that a group of Japanese tourists stopped to stare and giggle. One took a photograph.

  Strolling back to the hotel, arms around each other, Kowolski strode forward to greet them. ‘Well, who’s the lucky guy?’ he said, eyeing Steve.

  Introductions made, Kowolski guided them to a far corner of the foyer, away from the guests arriving for the presentation. ‘There’s someone here I want you to meet, Alex,’ he said, checking his watch.

  She saw the old couple sitting on a sofa. The man perched on the edge of the seat, his body language stiff and uncomfortable, the woman fidgeting with a large handbag. McDermott sat between them. He stood up as they approached.

  ‘My folks,’ he said, gesturing. McDermott’s father, older than Alex imagined and with a shock of white hair, got up.

  ‘Our boy’s been telling us about your time out in Baghdad an’ all,’ he said, shaking hands all round. ‘Your photos sure look good, Ma’am.’

  Alex sat down next to McDermott’s mother, immediately striking up a conversation in an attempt to put her at ease. Kowolski’s phone rang so he excused himself, sauntering away.

  ‘How long?’ Kowolski spluttered. ‘Ten goddam minutes. You kidding me?’ He snapped his cell phone shut, striding back to the company. ‘I think we should be making our way in,’ he said. Looking for someone to confide in, he chose Steve, hanging back as Alex led the way into the hotel ballroom.

  ‘Problem?’ Steve said. ‘If there’s no room for me, I can always…’

  ‘No, you’re fine Steve, just fine,’ Kowolski said, slapping him on the back. ‘My trouble’s with the President. His guys tell me he can only spare ten minutes for the presentation.’

  Steve pulled a face. ‘Alex would like it if he didn’t show at all.’

  ‘Yeah, well I got a job to do. Not everyone appreciates how important it is – even the man himself.’

  They joined the others at a large round table near the stage. Minutes later, a small army of waiters appeared, carrying trays of food and fanning out to serve what Kowolski estimated was a gathering of around 200 people.

  He glanced to the three tables on his left; the assembled media people seemed to be enjoying themselves – half the battle. Kowolski stopped a passing waiter and asked him to deposit several more bottles of wine with them. Hopefully, they’d be chilled out by the time of the lieutenant’s press conference, arranged for after the presentation.

  His main concern was McDermott. Kowolski had to keep him on a short leash. The guy was becoming unpredictable. God forbid a repeat of his storming exit the night before. Excuses wore thin second time around.

  McDermott had hardly touched a mouthful of his lunch. Sitting quietly between his folks, a faraway look in his eyes, he pushed the plate aside and stood up. Kowolski watched his every move, a nervousness in the pit of his stomach that meant he’d only toyed with his own food, pushing it around in ever-increasing circles.

  ‘Bathroom,’ McDermott said.

  ‘Me, too.’ Kowolski slid his chair back. He didn’t really expect McDermott to take fright and wander off but, with so much at stake, he was taking no chances. ‘Your stick, Lieutenant,’ he said, handing it to him, frowning and looking at his watch.

  McDermott gave him a querulous look, felt all eyes on him as he left the room. Kowolski ushered him between tables until there was enough space to draw alongside.

  ‘You okay?’

  McDermott sighed, blinking. ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Be over soon,’ Kowolski said, patting the lieutenant’s arm.

  ‘Before your wonderful grand tour begins, you mean?’

  Kowolski gulped. He’d always found McDermott a supine sort of guy. Just lately, though, splinters of sarcasm had begun to appear, a worrying volte-face that unsettled him. McDermott’s mood carried a disdain that wasn’t merely the product of their familiarity – Alex had mentioned it, too.

  ‘My wonderful grand tour is going to make you famous, Lieutenant. You just think of the money and remember what I told you last night.’

  McDermott stopped in his tracks. He turned to face Kowolski, a thin contemptuous smile on his face. ‘I will not be tempted by you, or your den of robbers,’ he said, hurrying into a cubicle and slamming the door shut. Kowolski washed his hands, splashed warm water on his face, exhaling deeply. Why couldn’t his hero be some simple ordinary Joe? Someone who’d do as he was told without complicating matters – without even thinking.

  Back at their table, Kowolski gave the master of ceremonies a nod to indicate he was ready for the formalities to begin. He sat forward on the edge of his seat, playing with the strap on his watch. Glancing around the room, he counted eight presidential security staff in place, easily recognisable by their sober blue suits, dark glasses and earpieces. All would be carrying the Sig Sauer .229 secret service revolver, two or three of them an Uzi sub-machine gun or the Heckler and Koch MP5.

  Then the general strode forward, planting himself at the lectern. He began regaling the audience with the ‘many fine and courageous deeds of our brave men and women serving their country out in I-raq.’

  ‘But we’re here to celebrate and congratulate just one man, a man who represents all those I’ve just spoken about,’ the general said, looking about him as if to dare anyone to differ. ‘Lieutenant Matthew McDermott, please step forward.’

  McDermott rose from his seat and walked unsteadily on to the stage. Kowolski stood up briskly, leading the applause. The rest of the room took their cue and followed suit. The general clasped McDermott to his giant frame. ‘Son, see how proud they are,’ he whispered.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ McDermott replied, blinking, turning red.

  ‘And now folks,’ the general said, ‘please welcome our commander-in-chief, the President of the United States.’

  The ballroom’s PA system burst into life with the President’s traditional musical welcome, ‘Hail to the
Chief’.

  Alex leapt from her seat, gesturing for Steve to stay. Turning to Kowolski, she pulled a face. ‘Excuse me, I gotta go and puke,’ she scowled, rushing towards the main exit. Pushing one of the double doors outwards, she crashed it into the backs of two more secret service men guarding the entrance. Startled, she saw their hands instinctively reach inside their jackets. Alex gave them her cutest smile. ‘I need a smoke,’ she lied, pressing on.

  Outside, NYPD uniformed officers mixed with other security men, marshalling the passing crowds. A fleet of motorcycle outriders sat astride their machines, two front, four rear of the President’s armoured Cadillac DeVille, its twin flags fluttering in a stiff breeze. People stopped to ogle at a vehicle they’d only ever seen on the television news and they were quickly moved on.

  Suddenly, a small group of protesters appeared, marching towards the hotel entrance. Alex heard the tinny voice on a megaphone, leading a chant:

  ‘Wadda we want?’

  ‘Out of Iraq.’

  ‘When do we want it?’

  ‘Now.’

  A line of policemen surrounded the group, pushing them back towards the fringes of the onlookers.

  Alex went to go back inside the hotel, but she was stopped by a row of policemen blocking the way.

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am, the President’s on his way out soon – stand back,’ a burly cop said.

  A flurry of activity started up like a desert wind; secret agents spoke into their lapel mouthpieces, agitated and scurrying. The outriders kicked their Harley-Davidsons into life, red lights flashing. Two Highway Patrol vehicles screeched to a halt. Several others, parked at an angle, had already blocked off the traffic in Times Square, which, for a change, soon went eerily quiet.

  Alex found herself behind a line of cops. People strained and jostled to catch a glimpse of the most powerful man in the world. She was pushed up against a policeman, could feel the solid power of the man.

  For a few seconds, she was back in a dusty street in Baghdad, fear rising as the shots rang out. She felt the same panic as when wedged into that doorway behind McDermott. Gasping for air, she had to concentrate to quell the breathlessness. A vision of her Kandahar nightmare flashed into her mind, a bloodied arm lay across her throat so that she couldn’t breathe. It was slowly choking her.