Baghdad Central (26 page)

By the time Khafaji remembers his tea, it has gone cold. He hesitates, and finally breaks the silence. “Zubeida, it's OK. Whatever it is, it'll be OK.”

“It is not OK, Muhsin.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“I don't think so, Muhsin.”

“You don't know that.”

“No, Muhsin. It's you who don't know.”

A minute goes by, then Khafaji ventures, “Tell me about what happened to Sawsan then.”

She doesn't look at Khafaji. He continues, “It's about Sawsan, isn't it? And Zahra and the others, too.”

Now she looks at Khafaji. “What do you know?”

“I know they were working for you. I know they got killed because they worked for you.” Khafaji pauses, then lies, “And I know that you work for Citrone. I know how much you are paid.”

She pauses, and dries her eyes. She looks out the window and begins to talk. “The other day, I heard an American reporter talking about how the lives of Iraqi women have improved since the invasion. Imagine – our lives, improved!”

Khafaji notices he's still staring at her feet. Embarrassed, he looks up at the ceiling. The phone rings, but he ignores it.

“They want to rescue us women. They want to free us. They invent stories about American women captured by Bedouins. It almost worked, until it turned out the stories weren't true. You'd think after that, they would shut up about saving women.”

Khafaji's smile dies. She goes on. “They do not have the slightest idea about what they're doing here. They got on a horse, but they don't know how to ride. And now they're just beginning to understand it's more dangerous to get off than to keep riding.”

Khafaji takes out a cigarette and lights it. He leaves the pack on the table in front of her, and goes over to get Ford's coffee cup.

“So the Americans will sign on anybody they think might be an ally. But do any of them care about women's rights? Do the Mullahs think I should be allowed to go out at night? Will Kurdish grandfathers stick up for sisters in the south?”

She turns to look at the door, then picks up her cup. She takes a sip, frowns and sets it back down. Now she is looking directly at Khafaji. “Maybe this strategy was stupid.”

“It was stupid,” Khafaji agrees, then remembers it's best to let others talk themselves out. He nods for her to continue.

“It was better than some of the alternatives. What would you have them do? There's no other work.”

“Yes, but it's dangerous.”

“We had promises. My girls had assurances. Only now, something has broken down. Can you help us?”

“With what?” Khafaji regrets saying it as soon as it comes out.

“I need to talk to Citrone. He needs to do more like he said he would.”

“What should I tell him when I see him?” Khafaji asks.

“Tell him that I know I can count on him. And tell him to make things right, or it's over.”

There's no warning siren when she leans forward and kisses Khafaji's cheek. No high wailing tone, no low wailing tone. Just the scent of her perfume burying itself deep in his mind. He tries to look away, but her fingers catch him gently by the chin. She takes a tissue from her purse and wipes lipstick off his skin. Then she walks out without saying another word.

Khafaji leans back in his chair, more seriously confused than ever. Outside, the sky is dark, the sun has set. As he sits there, the phone begins to ring again. He ignores it and slowly smokes his cigarette. The ringing stops, then starts again. Khafaji drops the butt on the floor and stamps it out before he picks up the receiver. On the other end, Ford's voice is hysterical. “Khafaji, I need you to come quick. There's been another incident. Can you meet me right now?”

Khafaji hangs up, buttons his jacket and turns out the lights as he races out.

Friday Evening

5 December 2003

As they drive, Khafaji looks over at Ford. His face is white.

“Where are we going?” Khafaji asks. Ford says nothing, as if he doesn't hear the question. The Humvee drives in fits and starts, sometimes speeding, sometimes crawling over a street torn up by construction. Khafaji bounces around in his seat and looks out the window. Dozens of bulldozers, tractors and cranes. And at the side of the road, an endless row of prefabricated concrete sections. After a couple of minutes they jerk to a stop, then begin creeping over a series of deep ruts. Khafaji sees more stacks of concrete sections and a deep trench running the entire length of the street.

They pass troop carriers and Humvees parked along the side of the trench. Khafaji looks around, and tries to guess where they are. It seems like Kindi, but he doesn't remember them leaving the American Zone. The place is entirely cordoned off, and a small traffic jam has formed. Strobe lights flash on the roofs of two military-police trucks. Khafaji watches MPs waving lighted batons in the dark air, directing cars onto side streets. As they approach, the driver rolls down his window and greets one of the policemen who waves them through. An officer approaches their car and Ford goes off
to talk with him. A minute later, the two men come back. Ford pulls Khafaji by the shoulder. “Come on with us, but be careful. They're still conducting a search operation. Some of them may still be here. Let me take you to the house.”

Dozens of masked special-operations soldiers appear in the light flashing from the police cars. Then the street goes black again. Flash, and lines of men swim like shadows. Flash, and the street is empty again. Flash, men and guns in motion. Flash, night again and no one is there. Khafaji walks right behind the other two men down another street also torn at the edge by a trench. In a few places, the concrete sections have been inserted into the trench and fitted together. This is the fortress wall, although here it is mostly gaps.

They arrive at a house lit by floodlights mounted on two Bradleys. To the side and behind, Khafaji hears shouting and doors crashing open. Khafaji asks the other officer, “What street is this?”

“Whiskey at Charlie.”

Khafaji asks, “What's the real name?”

“Hold on. Let me get a 'terp.”

A minute later, a round figure in full-body armor and a balaclava appears. He nods at Ford and Khafaji.

“Where we are? Do you know what street this is?”

“I think it's Fath Street.” Khafaji holds his notebook up to the light. It takes him a moment to find it, but he does: “Fatih.” When he first saw the word, he thought it was a street across town. Hack transliteration. Like Whiskey at Charlie was a hack translation.

The house was typical concrete with touches of black marble in the Italianate style. Now it is something else, because when marble and concrete explode, they do very different things. Fine white dust saturates the air, and Khafaji and the
others cough and hold handkerchiefs over their faces. The steel-fortified front door was blasted out with explosives. Even through the cloth, Khafaji recognizes the elements of the stench – a cocktail of burning paint, plastic and hair. A pool of blood and the tangled limbs of three young men. An American soldier wearing latex gloves busies himself retrieving AK-47s from beneath them.

The other officer tells Khafaji to expect the MPs soon. “They're gonna fill you in on what happened here. I gotta get back to my men.” Ford and Khafaji stand side by side surveying the battlefield. After a minute, Khafaji begins to walk clockwise around the ground floor. The bare bulbs cast too much light on the empty rooms. Bare concrete spaces, but heavily used. In the dining room, a dozen cots with cheap wool blankets and dirty pillows. More garbage bags and plastic bottles in the kitchen. Chicken bones and old cans of tuna. Many tea kettles, one burning empty on the stove. Khafaji turns off the gas. The door to the bathroom is wide open. At least the toilet was still working here. Khafaji walks over to the walls, tapping them at intervals. Nothing – concrete doesn't work that way anyway. He walks around to another room in the back and finds more carnage. When they blew in the wall from outside, the men inside were shredded. Body parts and clothes and shoes all around. Khafaji moves back when he realizes he's stepping on a forearm. The fingers curl around the toe of his shoe. Behind the smell of cordite, wood, and plastic Khafaji recognizes something else. He puts the handkerchief over his face, but only after the stink of burnt hair has filled his nostrils. He rushes back to the dining room and lights a cigarette. In one pantry, he finds a cache of explosive hardware – artillery shells, metal casing, spools of wire. He walks around the ground floor again. The villa
has two stories, but there is no staircase to the second floor. He's feeling again at the walls in the dining room when he hears the crunch of boots behind him. Khafaji turns around to find Ford standing there, accompanied by a tall brown man in a white helmet.

The man steps forward to introduce himself. “Inspector Khafaji, Corporal Belascoaran of the 172nd MP. We had orders to contact your office if something happened here.”

Khafaji looks at him, then murmurs, “Is there anything here? This looks like a war zone, not a crime scene.”

“You're right – there is nothing for you down here. You need to go upstairs.”

He leads Khafaji out the back patio, and then to a metal door with a heavy lock. Broken heavy lock. It leads on to a steep exterior staircase. As they approach the top of the stairs, an acid reek hits their sinuses. Tear gas. Khafaji puts a handkerchief over his mouth again and closes his eyes. Ford winces and runs down the stairs.

The MP calls out, “It's stronger down there than it is up here. Come on up.”

The first thing Khafaji senses is the cool air blowing through open windows. The second thing is the same contrast between upstairs and downstairs he saw before. Oriental carpets. No chairs, only low sofas and pillows. Heavy brocade curtains on the walls. But it is the tinted light bulbs that slap Khafaji in the face. The light is so subdued, and so red and purple and blue. Even someone who never worked vice would have recognized the place.

Beyond the carpets and the broken glass and the tear-gas canisters, beyond the chandeliers, Khafaji squints to see the far side of the room. He sees the heap of color on the couch, but can't make out what it is. Khafaji walks over.
The crunching of broken glass beneath his shoes startles him. At first he recognizes bits of clothing. A scattering of bright prints, lace, scarves, beads and bangles. And then, caught in the fabric, limbs and faces. The three young girls wearing wedding-night lingerie. A macabre orgy, stopped in mid-action. Khafaji turns away and goes to find a sheet to cover them.

He walks around the room. On the ground, pairs of high-heeled shoes, strewn about as if they were kicked off. Mixed among them, a black pair of men's shoes. Khafaji looks inside, sees “Size 11” inscribed in English.

On the low glass table in the corner by the window, a small collection of wine bottles and ashtrays. On another table, small piles of white powder. Tucked beneath the table, a red duffel bag. Always a red duffel bag. Khafaji picks it up and looks at it. Like the others, empty.

Khafaji walks around the room, looking for pieces of the story. The stereo is still on, so Khafaji hits play. Loud pop music blares out and the sound of it shocks Khafaji so much that it takes him a moment to turn it off again. He opens the CD player and looks at the disk. Nancy Ajram. The name means nothing. Khafaji walks over to the window and gazes down at the scene now unfolding in front of the villa. Beyond the floodlights, Khafaji can barely make out a long row of strips of white cloth. After staring for a minute, he sees they are blindfolds on men lying face-down on the pavement. Groups of masked soldiers stand over and around them, their guns held low and ready in their hands. The last one in line is barely visible. Made to stand while he talks to an interpreter and soldier, his dark clothes and face and hair disappear in the darkness. The white blindfold seems to hang in mid-air.

Khafaji turns to face the MP. “What am I looking at?”

“Sir, at 1800 a patrol heard shots coming from the ground floor. They assumed wire breach and engaged. Then called for backup. They tried to maintain surveillance as best they could. We know a group of Hajjis fled the villa. Probably took refuge in one of the neighboring homes.”

“Then what?”

“Our guys waited till they had sufficient firepower, then re-engaged. They started with tear gas. Both floors. No response. Then all hell broke out on the bottom floor. That was when we got here. These guys were armed and ready. But they had no chance. Just sitting in Allah's waiting room. Two pops and we were in. By that time, they were done. FODA. We got lucky. This could have been a nightmare.”

Khafaji pauses. “So why did they call you?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Do they call you anytime there's an engagement?”

“No.”

“So why did they call you?”

“MPs have jurisdiction in the Green Zone, sir.”

“We're in the Green Zone?”

“We're technically inside, even if the wall isn't fully up yet. This belongs to us, and so do the people who live here.”

“Who lives here then? In this house?”