Free An Enemy Within by Roy David Page A

I’m not cut out for all this any more.’ She slumped on the edge of the bed, defeat in her shoulders.
    Greg eyed her for a while. ‘How long have we known each other – five years?’
    ‘Guess so.’
    ‘I’ll tell you what I think you need – a loving man and a couple of kids.’
    Her response surprised both of them. She broke down and began crying uncontrollably.
    ‘Hey, don’t start or you’ll get me going, too,’ he said, handing her a tissue and sitting beside her.
    Dabbing her nose, she let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Are you offering or something?’
    He hugged her. ‘I would, kid. But it’s against the law to marry a sister.’
    Drying her eyes, she gave him a resigned smile. ‘Sorry about that – things are a bit rocky right now.’
    Greg kissed her on the forehead and sprang to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go. You back here later?’
    ‘Need an early night. I was thinking of catching the President’s speech. I could always give you a call at five tomorrow morning if you want to join me.’
    ‘No thanks – you can tell me about it. And take your laptop with you. The military have been searching the rooms of late, some guys have had stuff confiscated.’
    After he left, Alex started putting together things she’d need for the rest of the day. In a few hours, she was due to hit the Baghdad streets with Lieutenant McDermott and his men. In previous times, the prospect would have charged her very being, a frisson at the unexpected, all thoughts of personal danger suspended.
    Now, her nerves taking over, the thought of it sent her rushing to the bathroom. Over the handbowl, she retched again until her throat and stomach hurt.
    *  *  *
    The journey from the hotel to the entrance to the Green Zone at Checkpoint 12 on Yafa Street, just across the river, was only a few kilometers. But it was taking Alex and her security driver longer than they envisaged. A slow-moving convoy of Humvees, tanks and army personnel carriers also happened to be heading west.
    At first, her driver, emotionless behind dark glasses, had tagged on to the end of the convoy, seemingly oblivious to the large painted sign stuck on the rear of the last vehicle, a Bradley, which warned: ‘Stay back 100 yards – or we fire’. It was only when the rear door of the armoured car opened and a soldier pointed a rifle at them that the driver hurriedly braked and backed off.
    Alex gave the soldier the finger. He appeared shocked. Almost immediately, she reflected on the absurdity of a finger versus an M16.
    A long line of assorted vehicles greeted them at the checkpoint. Dozens of people on foot joined the melee in the torrid heat, grudgingly acquiescent to the daily ritual of sniffer dogs, body searches and hand-swabbing just to go about their daily business.
    It was then Alex discovered she had left her phone in her room. She cursed herself, imagining a dishonest maid racking up a series of calls across the Middle East.
    Finally getting to show her privileged yellow pass, they were allowed through. The car meandered down the wide boulevard. They passed dozens of shirt-sleeved office people, carrying briefcases and walking to their workplaces as if they had just come out of Grand Central Station. Except, in Manhattan, no one had to be mindful of a careless trip into a mortar hole in the sidewalk. Here, it could send them sprawling headfirst into a deadly jumble of stainless steel razor wire. Alex could see its glistening barbs, concertinaed into the distance like smoke rings, separating the pavement from the road and its monotonous verges of high, pre-cast concrete T-walls.
    They found Major Walter Douglas’ office behind the massive blancmange-shaped Council of Ministers building, which had been heavily bombed and set alight in the initial bombardment. Alex remembered seeing it on television, glowing against the night sky as it was hit repeatedly. Surreal, then, in 36-inch wide-screen colour, the ugly reality proved a sickening testimony