An Enemy Within (18 page)

He was just about to tell him to cool down when, without warning, the Bradley swerved violently from the inside lane to the outside, Bobby-Jo accelerating hard.

Flung forward, McDermott grabbed the rim of his turret with both hands, the metal digging into his skin. Below, a chorus of shouts rang out as the men were sent sprawling inside the cramped rear quarters.

A split second later, the roadside bomb exploded.

McDermott had often discussed the effects of an IED attack with his unit; the drill, the repercussions, wondered how the Bradley with its flat belly might cope with a central underside assault.

Now, his senses shook with the brutality of the explosion; a blinding orange flash and a deafening roar that stunned him, lifting the front of the 30-ton vehicle several feet into the air and skewing it sideways.

‘What the…’ McDermott screamed as a powerful rush of hot air hit him, its intensity forcing his feet off the floor and shaking his body uncontrollably. The Bradley came to a grating halt with a final jolting thud, spilling him down into the turret. Powerless as he slid, he smacked his head on the bare metal side. It left him dazed for a moment, his ears ringing. Someone helped him up.

‘Everybody out – NOW,’ he shrieked, his mind suddenly screaming alert. ‘Watch for snipers.’

A fog of grey smoke enveloped the Bradley and the acrid smell of bleach hung in the air. Sand, dust and dirt rained down in a dense drizzle forcing McDermott into a violent coughing spasm. Turning to Joe Herman in his turret, he could just make out his gunner was sporting an ugly bruise on the side of his face. Herman’s thumbs up reassured him it was his only injury.

His heart racing, McDermott made to jump to the ground, but, just as he transferred his weight to his right leg, his foot slipped off the side of the vehicle.

Double damn
. As he landed, his knee twisted under him. Steadying himself on the side of the Bradley, the sudden pain, burning, shooting down his leg, made him grimace. Fighting hard to suppress the agony, he tried to clear his mind of nerve-endings that were yelling knee-injury trauma. His breathing came in short gasps. The sweat began pouring off him.
Shit
. He desperately needed to assess the situation outside.

The unit’s procedure was well rehearsed; each of the six infantrymen from the rear of the vehicle took up crouched cover positions in a 360-degree arc. Herman’s finger hovered over the machine gun, his eyes sweeping over the low-lying scrub beyond.

McDermott dragged himself slowly along the side of the Bradley. He tried half-hopping for a couple of strides, a tight grip on his rifle, but gave up as the pain jarred his thigh. Still blindside of the driver’s port, he kept low against the vehicle, now dragging his injured leg behind him as he inched forward.

Reaching for a spot near the front end of the Bradley, his hand touched hot metal and he cried out. Glancing forward, he could see what was left of the Bradley’s offside track, a smouldering, twisted, tangle. Smoke rose from the damage in thick, indolent, coils. High above, a black plume of smoke drifted. A feeling of relief swept over him that fire had not taken hold.

His eyes, narrowed with pain, scoured the surrounding flat landscape. Not a place for harbouring snipers, he decided. ‘See anything?’

‘Negative, Lieutenant,’ Herman shouted first.

Reaching the far side of the Bradley, he resorted to half-crawling, using his rifle to prop himself. It was only when he raised his head that he caught sight of Bobby-Jo’s dark outline against the midday sun. ‘Bobby, man. You okay?’ No reply. McDermott put a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes, at the same time moving a couple of steps nearer.

Now he could plainly see Bobby-Jo, slumped forward in the driver’s well.

‘Oh, Lord, no,’ he moaned as he got within touching distance, suddenly letting out a pitiful wail. Bobby-Jo was obviously dead. McDermott fell back against the vehicle, burying his head in the crook of his arm.

Although the sides of the Bradley were covered in explosion-reactive armour tiles, it was evident Bobby-Jo had taken a shrapnel hit. His helmet was lying upside down in the middle of the road.

McDermott struggled against a faintness rising up inside him, his gut churning. He called HQ on his radio for assistance. As he blurted details of the hit, Bobby-Jo’s gaping wound was all he could see, his eyes drawn to it, refusing to look away. Suddenly conscious again of his knee, it throbbed, pounding in unison with his rapid heartbeat.

‘Help, we need help here,’ he shouted.

Two of his men backed up to reach him.

‘You been hit, Lieutenant?’

He shook his head, pointing to the driver’s well.

‘Fuck,’ one of them shouted. ‘Jesus, he was only a kid.’

‘If he hadn’t swerved like that, we all would’ve bought it,’ McDermott faltered. ‘He… he died saving us, man.’

Tears appeared in his eyes. His body heaved, shivered, his face ashen. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. He murmured a prayer for Bobby-Jo’s life – all twenty-one years of it.
Thank you dear Lord for the life of our beloved brother
.

Then, the sound of sirens. He looked up, thankful to see two medics’ trucks racing towards them. An Abrams tank, travelling in the opposite direction, had stopped and was pulling across the median, its gunner sweeping the vicinity.

‘Set up road blocks, both carriageways,’ he ordered.

A helicopter appeared, hovering above the scene. He radioed HQ again, an assessment of the damage. They told him a recovery truck was also on its way.

He turned to see Joe Herman being attended to by one of the medics on the rear steps of one of the ambulances. McDermott struggled towards them. One of the medics quickly moved forward, took the lieutenant’s weight on his broad shoulder, helped him to sit next to Herman.

‘Bobby-Jo’s dead, Joe. Man…’ he let out a shuddering sigh, ‘he died saving us – just like Our Lord.’

*  *  *

‘But is McDermott okay?’ Kowolski growled down the telephone, his voice tense.

He eventually replaced the receiver, exhaling deeply. Thank God the boy was all right, only ligament damage, he thought to himself as he poured a double shot of bourbon, downing most of it in one. When he first heard the news just now, his first reaction was to suspect the worst – and that Northwood’s grand plan had bitten the dust.

It was too bad for that kid, the driver, who had apparently
been driving with his hatch up. They said he must have seen evidence of the roadside bomb or something suspicious and that was why he swerved at the last moment.

He walked to his desk, topped up his drink and, after a few minutes contemplation suddenly felt brighter. The incident would do the cause more good than harm. After all, it wasn’t every day the media would meet a young lieutenant who had not only proved a hero in one operation – but had cheated death by inches in another.

Okay, he reasoned, the lieutenant would probably be hobbling for a while. But that was even better. Perhaps he could bring the whole show forward now the lieutenant would be laid up. What better than McDermott to appear on crutches, injured. A war casualty. The embodiment of a hero.

He almost rubbed his hands in glee at the very thought of the emotive pictures, now guaranteed to accompany the large banner headlines of McDermott, his Silver Star – and the President.

14

The mid-summer humidity of New York added to Alex’s discomfort as she lugged the heavy computer bag up two flights of stairs to her apartment. Once inside, she contented herself that no one had been in and touched anything. The red light was flashing again on her answerphone. It would have to wait.

Quickly, she assembled the computer stack and switched on the power, patiently waiting while the monitor started up. She began loading the programmes that would bring it to life. Sophisticated photographic software needed for her work, she put to one side for now. If the CIA came for her computer, they’d find there wasn’t much treasure in the chest.

Relieved, she went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. The phone rang. It was Kowolski.

‘You get my message?’

‘No, I just got in.’

‘McDermott’s been injured, the Bradley took an IED hit.’

Alex took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, God.’

‘He’s okay – just ligament damage, twisted his knee. He’ll be laid up for a few weeks here – they won’t let him travel. But I reckon he’ll still be okay for the dates I arranged. Oh, and that kid, the driver…’

‘Bobby-Jo?’

‘Yeah, that’s him. He was killed,’ he added blithely before hanging up.

Shocked, her heart suddenly heavy, she went to the window and opened it. Gulping at the cloying air gave little relief for the tightness in her chest. Outside, only the sound of yellow cabs’ honking horns, their drivers and their fares impatient to move their lives on apace.

Poor Bobby-Jo. Other than an exchange of smiles, she hadn’t really got to know him on the embed because he was always in his driver’s seat – never seemed to leave it, in fact. All the same, another mother without a son. More lives blighted. Opening her diary, she made a note to dig out some pictures of him, vowing to send them to his folks. She’d enclose a card saying what an ‘angel’ he was. It might give them some small degree of comfort.

She pressed the button on the answerphone, heard Kowolski’s message. He hadn’t even mentioned Bobby-Jo.
The pig
.

The next message held another unmistakable voice, that of Richard Northwood. Fingers twitching, she plucked at the silver bracelet on her wrist as it played. He simply asked her to call him on his cell phone as soon as possible. It was an official matter, he added icily.

So, minutes later after summoning up the courage, she dialled his number, taking a deep breath as she heard him answer.

‘Hi Richard, it’s Alex,’ she said, trying to sound as light and bouncy as she could.

‘You received an email from Iraq recently?’

‘Lots – Kowolski’s almost been jamming up my computer.’

‘Let’s say from one…’ she heard a rustle of papers, ‘Aban al-Tikriti, an Iraqi national? And, like, yesterday?’

‘I wouldn’t know because I’ve just got back from Mom and Dad’s and haven’t had time to take my coat off,’ she lied. ‘It’s weird you should mention his name, because I was going to call you about him. He’s a good guy, Richard – his wife just left me a message saying he’s been arrested or something. She and their boys are worried sick.’

‘And how would you know him?’

‘We met through a mutual friend when I was over there.’ She thought about adding that Aban had been the main source of her intelligence brief that Northwood requested, but decided against it. No use muddying the waters at this stage. ‘What’s going on here, Richard? His wife tells me the soldiers have taken him.’

‘It’s classified business – but what I can tell you is that he’s being held on suspicion of spying. And it could prove very serious for anyone who has, shall we say, collaborated with him to any degree. Do you hear what I’m saying, Alex?’

‘Just how official is this conversation – and where do I fit in?’

‘Look, for the moment let’s call it semi-official because… well, you know why… but things could quickly ratchet up a notch. Alex, you must report to me if you have received such an email or if you might be tempted to do anything with the information it contains. I don’t want to see you incriminate yourself. Is that understood?’

‘I won’t – sure thing,’ she said with as much seriousness as she could muster.

‘Good girl,’ he said. Then with a final, chilling, warning, added, ‘Your friend’s fate could lie in your hands if you do anything foolish.’

*  *  *

‘Damn,’ Richard Northwood said out loud to nobody but himself as he snapped his cell phone shut. There were so many things he’d wanted to say to her – that he knew exactly what she was up to and that she was lying through her teeth on all counts. But he’d been forced to play it softly, softly. His agent had produced a great result at the post office, switching Alex’s memory stick for a blank one then jumping in a cab to the secret CIA office in Midtown Manhattan with the treasure in his pocket. But was that the end of the story or the beginning?

Northwood returned to his desk and unlocked a drawer. Removing Alex’s memory stick, he sat down with it in his hands, turning it between his fingers. Could he be sure this was the only one? Was the damn file still on her computer?

He knew from the Baghdad bureau’s work on al-Tikriti’s computer that the information had been sent to only two people. The threat from the other recipient, the Australian journalist, Greg Spencer, had been nullified. He only possessed
a laptop and they’d soon lifted that. An examination of it established he had not forwarded the email to anyone.

But if Alex had made more copies, he was in serious trouble. If so and, as was more than likely, she went public, the consequences would be too frightening to contemplate. Exposure in the media would be disastrous for the Administration. The Democrats would have a field day. They’d accuse the government of being involved in breaking their own sanctions against Iraq – either through complicity or carelessness – and lining Saddam’s pockets to boot.

The White House would be livid; fraud on a grand scale, all going on under its very nose. Such revelations would reflect gravely on the President. Who could tell the enormity of the damage?

He suddenly went chill with the thought that all and sundry would come looking for a scapegoat. Northwood had done well under the present government; he was well connected, had gratefully accepted several promotions with the intimation of higher things to come. The fingers of blame would point squarely at him. The buck stopped right at his desk. He could hear the comments now:
Yeah, he had it all in his grasp and then let it slip
.

His career in ruins, how would he keep the house, his wife and young children? Their home was now worth a million and a half, but Coralie had seen a bigger one up on the hill. She reckoned they could afford it if he made assistant director. He gulped, fetching himself a drink of water from the cooler. Swigging it back, the cold water should have refreshed him, but instead, he suddenly flushed as another thought hit him.