An Enemy Within

by Roy David

  His body coursed with a tingling sensation, euphoria unlike any other earthly feeling he had experienced. The sensation had been building steadily since he found this place. Earlier, in the fading light, he leaned against the thick wooden frames of a long-since used doorway to gaze out on a landscape that had captivated him for all of the day.

  He smiled to himself, a realisation that, at last, he had found his Eden. The garden stretched out into the distance. All around him he saw paradise; a lush landscape of swaying palms and fruit and olive trees, of clear streams gurgling through fields of corn and wheat and brightly-coloured birds of a dozen species. The idyll was just as he had imagined. The peace enveloped him. He felt safe in the protection of its cocoon.

  Suddenly he stopped reading, frantically pushing up his sleeve to reveal his watch. He shone the flashlight on it, staring hard and tapping the timepiece for reassurance as he measured the second hand ticking away. He’d told himself a hundred times today that it was October. He definitely knew it; October 2003. And the date on his watch said it was the sixth.

  He continued looking to see if the number changed, in case someone was tricking him. But it stayed working exactly the same as it had been a minute ago, and the minute before that. He nodded his head vigorously to himself. Yes, it meant it was still the very early morning of the sixth of October 2003. He’d worked the day out perfectly some months ago – or was it years ago? At the moment he just couldn’t remember nor did he want to try.

  His biblical calendar told him it was the tenth day of the seventh month.

  The Day of Atonement.

  23

  They were no more than a mile from the hospital when a barrage of floodlights lit up the whole of the quiet road ahead. Abu Khamsin fished in his top pocket, producing a crumpled piece of paper.

  ‘Checkpoint,’ he whispered. ‘Stay silent.’

  Alex strained to see beyond the dazzle as the truck ground to a halt. Two armoured cars, parked across the road in a wedge formation, blocked the way. Several British soldiers appeared.

  Abu Khamsin proffered his pass. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said, shielding his eyes from the flashlight one of the soldiers shone into the cab. ‘I have the usual consignment – and I have brought my dear wife for company on the long journey ahead.’

  The soldier briefly studied the paper and handed it back. He glanced at Alex. She felt his eyes on her but dared not move, staring resolutely at a small chip in the truck’s dirty windscreen. She gulped, her throat dry.

  Risking a look in the passenger wing mirror, she could make out one of the soldiers climbing on to the back of the truck. He moved with the nimbleness of youth, hopping on to the sturdy rear mudguard and quickly hoisting himself on top. She heard him cursing as he struggled to untie one of the tarpaulin’s anchor ropes.

  Pulling the cover back a touch, the soldier suddenly shrieked. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he shouted, quickly leaping to the ground. He hurried into the darkness, retching loudly.

  ‘That’ll teach you to be too nosey,’ the officer in charge shouted, laughing. He turned to Abu Khamsin, shaking his head. ‘It’s his first night on roadwatch – never seen the likes before.’

  Barking an order into his radio, the soldier stood back. Seconds later, one of the armoured cars roared into life, reversing off the road on to the verge.

  ‘Mind how you go,’ the soldier nodded, waving them through.

  Alex let out a deep breath as they set off, only realising then how tense her body had become. She took out her cell phone, wondering whether to switch it on. Not yet, she told herself, best to conserve the battery. She pulled the niqab down from her face, turned to look at Abu Khamsin, his features set in grim concentration.

  ‘I guess our cargo’s not a pretty sight – it must be hard,’ she said.

  Abu Khamsin remained silent for a minute, eventually clearing his throat. ‘At first it was difficult. I used to have nightmares. Then…’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Then?’ Alex persisted.

  ‘I became used to seeing the dead, to handling the bodies.’ He sighed, the sigh of a man weary of life itself, despair in his very existence. ‘It is the facing of their loved ones that is now the nightmare. They gather outside the mortuary, crying and wailing. The noise is pitiful and never leaves you, even after they go away. I pray to God it will all end soon.’

  Alex was lost for words. She felt tempted to sympathise, to tell him of her own nightmare, one that had tormented her relentlessly since Kandahar, but she felt the gesture inadequate. Instead, she focussed on the road ahead as they motored into the countryside, the wind whipping up occasional showers of sand that rattled on the windscreen like the roll of a snare drum.

  * * *

  In the car from the airport to the Pentagon, Gene Kowolski brooded. He’d been unable to make contact with Alex, trying her number a dozen times since his plane landed. His gloom intensified still not knowing where McDermott was or what he was up to and, because of it, what sort of reception he would receive when he got to his office.

  He was surprised to see Carl Whittingham waiting for him when he arrived. Kowolski hadn’t seen him since that day outside the Abu Ghraib palace when he’d first mentioned the name of Matt McDermott and the plot that would ensue. To Kowolski, it all seemed an age ago.

  ‘What gives, Carl?’ Kowolski said, putting his briefcase down on a chair.

  Whittingham rubbed his chin. ‘This McDermott stuff – it’s causing a pail-full of fucking grief.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Kowolski said, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Your idea though, wasn’t it?’

  Whittingham looked at him, sheepishly. ‘I had to spill. It’s gone right to the top.’

  ‘Yeah, well it wasn’t my idea either, as much as I’d have liked the credit if it hadn’t turned out this way,’ Kowolski said, loosening his tie. He was about to take off his jacket when Whittingham, agitated, glanced at his watch.

  ‘There’s a meeting in the boardroom.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  Kowolski sighed and set about making himself presentable. ‘Lead the way, Carl.’

  The bespectacled figure standing with his hands behind his back gazing out of the window was instantly recognisable. He didn’t flinch as Kowolski and Whittingham entered the room.

  ‘Sit, gentlemen,’ the man said, maintaining his posture. Several moments passed before he spoke again. ‘The colours are quite remarkable at this time of year, don’t you think?’

  Whittingham shifted in his seat. Kowolski smiled inwardly. He knew the routine. Rank meant power. And power meant the subservience of others. Without wishing to appear hostile, deep down Kowolski no longer gave a fig for the game.

  The man eventually moved away from the window, sitting at the head of the large table. He pursed his lips, leant back, putting his hands behind his head. ‘Well, Gene, this soldier business has gone way off beam.’

  ‘Sadly, yes. You might call it an unknown unknown,’ Kowolski countered.

  The man stared at him over the top of his glasses. Kowolski stared back, hoping his expression was as neutral as he intended.

  ‘Well, it’s over as far as you’re concerned. The whole idea emanated out of Langley – I’ve tossed it back in their court.’

  Kowolski tried not to smile even though a sense of relief swept over him. Inside, he felt himself laughing. He stroked his chin, took a laboured breath. ‘If that’s what you think best, chief.’

  The man stood up to signal the meeting was over. ‘You’re doing a good job over there, Gene. No doubt you’ll be anxious to get back.’

  Smiling meekly, Kowolski watched him leave the room. He resolved immediately that his resignation letter would be on the appropriate desk within the next twenty-four hours. The guy had done him a great favour. If people wanted to think he was quitting in a huff over the McDermott issue, then that was fine. The subject was bound to come out in the usual office gossip. In reality, he was off the hook and now
joyously free to pursue his other plans. Wouldn’t those who knew him get a shock when he turned poacher and began seeking out the truth for a change?

  * * *

  Abu Khamsin brought the lorry to a gradual halt and cut the headlights. The road ahead should have been clear all the way to their rendezvous point. But he was sure he had just seen the flash of a light at some point in the distance.

  ‘What is it?’ Alex said.

  ‘You’re going to have to get in the back, quick,’ he said, the tension rising in his voice.

  Alex turned round. There was no back of the cab, just a solid wall of metal behind her seat.

  ‘Not…’ she said, the realisation dawning. He was asking her to hide in the back, under the tarpaulin, among their deathly cargo.

  ‘No choice, be quick,’ he demanded, his fear palpable.

  Opening the driver’s door, he leapt to the ground. Alex shivered, the cold chill of the strong wind compounding the alarm that suddenly struck her.

  ‘Take this, wrap it round you,’ he said, handing her a blanket.

  She wanted to protest but realised it was futile. Within seconds, Abu Khamsin undid a section of the tarpaulin. He held out his hand and pulled her up, creating a space just big enough for Alex to scramble inside. Hurrying back to the cab, he selected low gear and moved slowly forward.

  The darkness consumed her. She gagged at the smell, a stinking mass of bodies in various stages of putrefaction. Trying desperately to close her mind, she screwed her eyes so tight they hurt. At the same time, she pulled the blanket around her trying to take short breaths through her mouth. But she could feel the panic rising, claustrophobia taking charge. She was sure she wasn’t getting enough air. A dull heavy ache settled on her chest, slowly crushing as she sunk lower into the morass. Visions of her Kandahar nightmare flashed into her head.

  Ahead, the lights became brighter. Abu Khamsin prayed it would be another British army roadblock. Someone was standing in the middle of the road waving a lamp. His headlights picked out a small group of men, rifles pointing straight at him. The realisation they were not soldiers sent trickles of sweat down his neck. For a split second, he thought of putting his foot down, running the gauntlet. But he realised it would be useless in such a ponderous vehicle. He had no choice but to bring the lorry to a stop, his eyes wide, hands trembling on the wheel.

  The noise of the air brakes being released was just audible above the shrieking wind as Alex lay agonisingly still, heart thudding. She heard muffled voices, Arabic. A small gap in the tarpaulin allowed a burst of wind to blow in. Alex felt the coolness of the welcome draught. Lifting her head to gasp at the precious chill, her body shifted. Suddenly, an arm fell across her throat. She tried to push it away but, in such a confined space, her hands could find no leverage. The weight of the arm began choking what little breath she had left. She opened her eyes and saw only blackness. Kicking out in a fit of terror only worsened the situation.

  Her Kandahar nightmare, now a shocking reality, pounded unmercifully at her brain. Unable to move, and on the verge of blacking out, she summoned one final burst of will and did the only thing she was capable of doing.

  With all the strength she could muster and as loudly as she could, Alex screamed.

  * * *

  Alerted to the shrieks, two of the men rushed forward. One of them, no more than a teenager, quickly untied the tarpaulin, pulling it back. For a moment, both men appeared stunned as Alex struggled to push herself free. They grabbed hold of her, dragging her towards the rear of the truck. At the edge of the tailboard, she shrugged free and jumped to the ground, sprawling in a heap. The men towered over her, laughing, their outlines made more menacing in the dim light of a small floodlamp. Abu Khamsin stepped forward to help her. As he did so, another of the group, a youth, raised his rifle and struck him with the butt on the back of the neck. Alex watched in horror as Abu Khamsin slunk to his knees.

  The men gathered round Alex, shouting, jabbering, pushing in one direction then another, impatient for a response. She was forced to the ground, her back against the front wheel of the truck. She watched as Abu Khamsin was hauled to his feet.

  Scared, her knees weak, she felt defiance suddenly rise within her. She wanted to kick out, fight, to tell whoever these people were to go to hell. But she knew such bravado was to no avail. Instead, she played dumb, two of the men standing close by.

  Abu Khamsin slowly drew himself up to his tall frame, aware that guns were trained on him. His neck hurt and his head swam. Though groggy, he knew he had to appear humble, mindful of appearing as subservient as possible. But he had made up his mind. He was about to play a huge gamble. In a measured, conciliatory tone, he turned and spoke.

  ‘Brothers, this woman is the widow of one of the newly departed,’ he said confidently, gesturing to the truck’s cargo. ‘Her life is now full of such grief that she has been struck dumb since the day the dogs of America killed her husband and her two young children. She is inconsolable and has insisted on accompanying their last remains until they are laid to rest in the loving arms of our beloved saint Ali ibn Abi Talib. We humbly ask that you let us free to continue our merciful journey to al-Najaf.’

  Abu Khamsin stared at them, trying to catch each man’s eye in the inky gloom. He and Alex had a chance if these men were followers of the cleric, Muqtada al-Sadr. Men from this southern Shia stronghold had flocked to join his Mahdi Army in the past few months, so disenchanted were they with the aftermath of the US-led occupation. Bolstered by al-Sadr’s well-publicised July sermon in Najaf, thousands responded with a unanimous denunciation of the US and its provisional government. It was common knowledge that here in the south, al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army had taken security into its own hands, patrols and roadblocks such as this becoming more prevalent.

  He stole a glance at Alex, praying that she would not open her mouth. To do so would result in certain death for both of them – killed as spies once they heard her accent. It was a fate that was highly likely to be excruciatingly slow just for the fun of it.

  Abu Khamsin had not been able to determine who was in charge and so had pleaded with each of the men in turn. Now, another man shuffled forward, his head and face covered with a red-checked keffiyeh. He pulled down the scarf, letting it rest loosely on his stooped shoulders, and cleared his throat, spitting into the sand.

  Abu Khamsin guessed the man was the leader of this rag-tag bunch. From the row of crooked and missing teeth, the manner of his dress, he surmised the man was a local, a poorly-educated farmer or such, probably illiterate. Maybe he was one of the few remaining Marsh Arabs of the area, a simple herdsman who once tended buffalo and chickens or grew wheat and barley and rice and hunted fish and wild boar as did thousands of his kinfolk. Perhaps he had escaped Saddam’s brutal retribution against the failed Shia uprising following the Gulf War of 1991. Draining this area’s vast marshes and turning it into bleak desert was the physical legacy of the pogrom.

  Abu Khamsin knew it was as natural as their former way of life that the people here would harbour a hatred for America and a burning contempt for its leader. George Bush senior was the man who encouraged the uprising those years ago but did nothing to help. A quarter of a million people simply left to Saddam’s merciless onslaught. Those who couldn’t get away to become refugees in Iran were killed. Bush junior was from the same tainted stock.

  ‘You are also of the al-Ahwar?’ Abu Khamsin said, his voice dropping a notch.

  The man stared at him, slowly nodding. ‘I am of the Ma’adan,’ he said.

  Abu Khamsin sighed. ‘My late parents also. They died in exile, driven out. Some of my family had no way of escaping. Cousins, aunts, uncles – they all had their throats cut by Saddam’s pigs.’

  The old man eyed him, suspicious. Abu Khamsin knew he must try for some sort of rapport with the man. It was their only chance.

  ‘I am a builder of things, a civil engineer. It is my dearest wish that when the American pack of dogs has gone, I can return
here and help rebuild this wondrous place.’

  The old man looked up into the sky for what seemed an age. Then he stared at Abu Khamsin, moving closer. ‘Do you think you can do it?’ he whispered.

  ‘With the help of Allah, I’m sure we can,’ Abu Khamsin said, spreading his arms out wide as if taking in the whole of the landscape. ‘This glorious land will be returned to its rightful state and I will help the kingfishers to come back.’

  Alex had no idea what was being said. She kept her gaze on Abu Khamsin, vainly trying to decipher the mood of their plight. One of her guards turned to watch the conversation. An AK-47 hung limply from his shoulder. She was sure she could reach it, take him off balance. But the younger man standing over her had a knife, which he kept running over the palm of his hand, glancing at her with a leering smile. She held her eyes steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. But, behind the niqab, her bottom jaw trembled uncontrollably.

  If one of them should search her…

  * * *

  The group’s leader fumbled in a pocket, pulled out a mobile phone. He stared at it for several seconds, hesitant as if it would blow up in his hands, his body crouched over to protect it from the wind.

  With ponderous deliberation, his stubby fingers jabbed at the buttons. He pulled one side of the keffiyeh free and lifted the phone to his ear. It was a full minute before someone answered and the man began shouting excitedly into the mouthpiece.

  Abu Khamsin cast a nervous glance at Alex. The man was describing the patrol’s catch. It was obvious he was talking to someone more senior, seeking advice as to their next move.

  But no one except the older man could hear the response of the sleepy voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Let them go – or kill them. I’ll leave it up to you,’ it said.

  24

  Slowly, the old man put the phone back in his pocket. He gazed hard, past his two captives and into the inky distance. The wind was now increasing, occasionally howling over the bleak landscape like a tormented animal. Everyone eyed the old man as he stood motionless, their concentration broken by the constant flapping of a loose corner of the lorry’s tarpaulin, slapping against the tailgate.