Authors: Roy David
Soon with sinuses full, he put all the energy he could summon to gasp for precious air. But his tormentors had been well trained. As he gulped, they poured so he sucked in only water. A brutal realisation immediately screamed from his brain: he was drowning.
More liquid splashed over his face and into an open mouth
that was trying to plead for mercy, pushing down further, overriding his epiglottis, entering his lungs.
Then the voice in his ear again: ‘Who else? Just tell us and we’ll stop.’
But he couldn’t think straight. Someone talking to him? How could they? He was in a river, under water, battling the current, fighting for his life.
Another splash, straight down. The water now weighed heavily on his upper chest, his lungs bursting. From somewhere deep within him, a final alarm from nerve endings in utter panic.
He began kicking out, both feet thrashing wildly, crashing into each other. His body arched into a violent spasm, shaking uncontrollably and straining helplessly against the straps.
In the room, the senior of the three men present held up his hand to pause proceedings. The man with the half-empty two-litre plastic carton stood poised to pour more water on command.
They watched as Aban gave a last pitiful, shuddering, convulsion, and collapsed.
‘Holy fuck,’ the senior man shouted. ‘Call the fuckin’ medic.’
The third man opened the door, dashing out. ‘Medic… MEDIC,’ he could be heard shouting frantically as he ran along the corridor.
* * *
Alex took a taxi downtown to the specialist photo lab to check on the progress of her work. She had now been there so often, she knew all the staff by their first names.
Kowolski had given precise instructions on what he wanted. He ordered life-size cut-outs of some shots. These to be printed on a fibre-based paper, backed on card, air-dried and matte with no sheen to reflect the spotlights on stage.
There was to be a vinyl backcloth in colour, some thirty-feet wide, that would reflect the lieutenant’s ‘dedication’. They had
argued over this one, Alex winning the battle by suggesting a montage of various shots, telling Kowolski the exact pictures it would comprise.
‘Okay, okay,’ she remembered him saying impatiently. ‘But get an outdoor one, twice as big – that shot of him with the Iraqi kid on the street, a great shot. Just imagine that strung across the hotel facia on Times Square.’
Her work, on display like this, was at least a positive. An exhibition of her photographs in the hotel foyer would only credit her reputation. She had to agree with Kowolski when he said her pictures would ‘knock them dead’. She knew just which shots she needed in colour, and which in monochrome, all on fine art silver gelatin paper of gallery standard.
Though resigned to Kowolski’s trap, it still didn’t lessen her anger – mostly aimed at herself for falling into it.
* * *
Richard Northwood pored over the briefing paper he’d just finished writing. It included the information Alex had provided together with a fresh intelligence report from the CIA’s own heavily-manned station within the Green Zone. The next day, his work would be eagerly digested by the dozen pairs of eyes of the Senate Defense Committee.
Some of Northwood’s agents were currently engaged within the Iraq Survey Group, the massive multi-national force of scientists, military experts, security and support staff, scouring the country for traces of WMD. Many of those agents had been attached to the same weapons inspectorate that had failed to turn up anything of note pre-war.
He raised his head and stared into the distance. The public had bought the White House line that the weapons inspectors were thrown out by Saddam because he probably had something to hide – not because his agents’ cover had been blown.
It mattered in the past, but no longer, he answered himself. All the intelligence agencies had their people out there now,
sniffing and digging for WMD. But they were proving to be bloodhounds leading the posse on a trail to nowhere.
And no one had yet come up with a whiff of a link between Saddam and al-Qaeda.
He scanned the document. He’d purposefully toned down the warning in Alex’s brief of a probable threat to stability from the cleric, Muqtada al-Sadr, calling it only a ‘possibility’. The Shi’ite religious leader’s band of followers within his Mahdi Army presently numbered in its hundreds.
Signs were, Northwood wrote, that al-Sadr would find no difficulty recruiting many more from among the Shia population of the several million Iraqis who were not only without jobs, but, seemingly, devoid of hope. There were a couple of million Shia in Baghdad itself, festering in the slum-ridden area now known as Sadr City. The report said groups of his followers, armed with weaponry looted from Iraqi army arsenals, had taken to setting up their own patrols in their Baghdad neighbourhoods.
How ironic, he considered, that they were the group now controlling law and order, preventing further outbreaks of looting and general lawlessness.
While writing the report, he’d posed himself the question if the Shia Mahdi Army was growing as the report suggested, what about the other parts of Baghdad that were Sunni?
In such a power vacuum, he feared it could lead to a mass outpouring of ruthless self-interest on both sides. He’d considered mentioning this, but, not wishing to over-egg the threat, left it out.
Placing the report on his desk, he checked the time, and called Baghdad.
The bureau chief answered, a man Northwood had worked with in the field in Kosovo. He didn’t particularly like Don Brady, considered him a hard bastard, unpossessed of the political finesse that would have seen him rise to any higher rank within the agency.
‘Say, Don, this guy al-Tikriti, I want you to…’
But Brady cut him short. ‘The guy’s dead – the doc thinks he probably had a heart attack under questioning.’
It was all Northwood could do to stop himself from collapsing in a heap.
16
Kowolski sat hunched over his desk, putting the finishing touches to his schedule for McDermott’s New York itinerary. The latest medical bulletin said the lieutenant would be fit to travel in a couple of weeks and, providing he wasn’t ‘strenuously tested’ should be fit to resume duties in Iraq ‘sometime before Christmas’. That gave Kowolski plenty of leeway to exploit the situation.
Deciding it was time to pay the lieutenant another visit, he marched out of the villa, nodding to the Marine guard at its entrance – receiving a crisp salute in return. He would never have cut it in the military, not like his father. Too much brass and bull, ‘an excess of rigidity’, he always called it. No, he savoured the freedom of this job even if his stratagem did involve a degree of military-like scheming. There was nothing wrong with that – he just didn’t need to battle his way through the haze of a command structure that, by its very nature, he always considered a stultifying process.
‘Howdy, Lieutenant.’ Kowolski bounded into the hospital room, a wide smile on his face that beamed camaraderie. ‘How’s it going?’
McDermott lay on a bed, his heavily-bandaged knee elevated and supporting an icepack. ‘Okay, sir,’ he said, shifting slightly as Kowolski pulled up a chair.
‘I guess it’s a case of PRICE, eh, Lieutenant?’ Kowolski noted the puzzled look he evoked. ‘Thought you’d have known that one – if I remember my college football days correctly, it was protection, rest, ice, compression and elevation. Talking of which, you remember your CDE?’
‘Courage, discipline, exemplary behaviour of my men, sir.’
‘Good man.’ Kowolski’s eyes wandered around the sparse room. He noted the Bible lying open on the bedside cabinet. ‘Is there anything you need… books, magazines, a video game or two? Looks like Hell in here – you could die of boredom,’ he blurted, immediately regretting his choice of words.
McDermott shot him a glance. ‘Hell is out there, sir. I got everything I need.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Kowolski said, suddenly ill at ease. There was something odd the way the lieutenant had fixed on the words,
Hell is out there
. What the fuck did that mean? ‘Well if there is anything…’ his voice tailed off. He felt like telling the lieutenant he could send along a pretty blonde who gave great head, but was certain the quip would have been wasted. Strange dude.
‘Actually, sir, there is something I just remembered,’ McDermott said, sitting up. ‘A book about Iraq.’
‘Iraq? Gee, I don’t know.’ Kowolski looked stumped. ‘I mean, the Grand Canyon, the Statue of Liberty, the Yosemite National Park – I can get you books on all those. A book on Iraq? I’ll have to see what I can do.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Oh, and I’ll let you have an outline of the planned itinerary. We’ll soon have you up and wowing them – don’t you worry.’
But worry was all McDermott had been doing these past weeks. The thought of Kowolski’s intentions made him sick with it.
* * *
In the hospital corridor, Kowolski sought out a doctor he’d spoken to before. ‘Hey, doc. How’s our boy doing? He gonna be okay on those crutches?’
‘Ah, yes. Lieutenant McDermott. Well, he’s doing okay, physically.’
Kowolski felt a surge of panic resonate through him. ‘Physically, he’s doing good – but?’
The doctor rubbed his nose. ‘He’s been put on sleeping tablets.’
‘So? Everybody takes goddam sleeping pills – it’s the only way you can get a decent bit of shut-eye round here. I mean, that knee looks pretty swollen, must still be painful.’
‘And tranquilisers. We had to up the dose because he was still hallucinating.’
‘Jesus, I…’
‘Precisely – he told me yesterday he thought he WAS Jesus Christ.’
Kowolski shook his head, turned to face the wall, grasping for words. He fixed the doctor with a ruthless stare. ‘You know he’s due to meet the President to have that Silver Star pinned on his goddam chest – are you saying he’s gonna freak out?’
‘Look. I’m no shrink – and I don’t know how he’ll react to anything. You’d have to take it easy with him, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Can we get him further help – you know, a psychiatrist or something?’
The doctor made a clucking sound, an exaggerated sucking in of his breath as if to say ‘don’t go there’.
‘It’s an option,’ he eventually said. ‘Most of them are mad as hatters themselves and you might not see your man again if he falls into their clutches.’
Kowolski nodded in acquiescence. He opened his wallet and gave the doctor his card. ‘Call me, day or night, if his condition gets worse. You’ve no idea how important this is.’
‘Important? The lieutenant’s condition – or your date with the President?’
Kowolski didn’t answer. He merely flashed the doctor a strained half-smile, turned on his heel, and left.
He returned to his office in the fiercest of moods. A young secretary, who’d rebuffed his advances on her first day in the job, took a direct hit and left the room in tears. His young
assistant jumped out of his seat abruptly, a rolled up newspaper in his hand.
‘What the hell are you up to, son?’ Kowolski growled.
‘There’s a bug, right there by the window,’ the assistant said, arm raised, ready to swipe it.
‘Let it out,’ Kowolski said.
‘No. It’s going to get it.’
‘I said. Open the fucking window and let it out – NOW.’ Kowolski turned red with rage. ‘There’s been enough goddam killing round here,’ he stormed.
The assistant stopped in mid flow, his face wan at his boss’s sudden outburst. Kowolski leapt up and opened the window, ushering the bug to safety. ‘See how easy it is to let something live? Get out my sight – go get me a coffee, black.’
Slumping into his chair, he rubbed his eyes, pondered the immediate future with McDermott. It was impossible to cancel now. Everything depended on the lieutenant performing well – all their futures – including that of the President of the United States of America.
Jesus Christ, indeed
. The boy would just have to pull himself together. Goddam it, wasn’t he a soldier of the highest calibre? A guy everyone on camp looked up to? Hadn’t he led by example on that night of bravery? Well, Kowolski decided, he could fucking-well lead by example again – under the Star-Spangled Banner and with a soft bed in a five-star Manhattan hotel.
* * *
Kowolski picked up his glasses, and with a sigh, put them on. He had to admit he was beginning to feel more comfortable wearing them. On a few occasions, he’d glanced at himself in the mirror, thought they gave him an air of erudition. With all the reading he was doing, they were a boon.
Switching on his computer, he concentrated on the screen. The daily headlines had just come in from the major newspapers; New York, Washington, LA, London, all closely
monitored and sent to him daily by his staff at the Pentagon. Some of the banners contained a two or three-line resume of the article’s main points. It was such an important part of his modus operandi to follow up events, anticipate embarrassing situations, quash them before they materialised.
Avoiding the flak was his forte. A word of praise in the ear of a few editors and publishers was par for the course. Several times recently he had called to express his delight on a particular story. It was simply to let them know he was over here, finger on the pulse, watching.
On the occasions when he’d had to take issue with a newspaper’s particular slant on a story, he’d come across the usual recalcitrants, the awkward ones who argued back. Then, he played his patriot ace. It was amazing what compliance he got when he launched an attack.
‘Let me ask you this, would you fight for your country? Are you as patriotic as those losing their lives out here every goddam day? Dying in their hundreds so you can sit on your fat ass and take your wife out shopping Saturdays.’
He usually got a positive response to the tactic.
Many long hours had gone into developing his blueprint for coverage of the war. The contract that had to be signed by all embedded journalists was one of his favourites. Its conditions were watertight, weighted totally in the military’s favour. No expelled journalist would have a leg to stand on if considering litigation on some breach of human rights or other such fancy.