Baghdad Central (28 page)

She continues to stare at Khafaji. She stares at the gun in his hand, then she stares again into his eyes. He can't tell if her silence is a challenge. Or a threat. Or just a sign that he wasted his time. It doesn't occur to him that it's an invitation.

When it happens, it's so slow he doesn't even notice it. Until her lips are on his and he's smelling her skin and her hair and holding onto her for dear life.

When Khafaji pulls back, Zubeida has got the gun in her hands, pointed into his belly. He opens his mouth but her hand stops him from saying anything. They stand there for a minute before she puts the gun into his jacket pocket and takes his hand. She leads them down a long marble hallway, turning the lights off behind them as she goes. They walk into a bedroom, then into a bathroom where she begins to draw a bath. She sits Khafaji down. She begins to wash the dirt from his face with a washcloth. He closes his eyes as she washes his forehead, his brow, his eyelids, his chin, his mouth. He feels her fingers tracing the skin on his upper
lip. Half dreaming, he watches as she takes off his jacket. The gun in the pocket makes a loud clank when she hangs it on the door. She walks out and closes the door behind her. He sinks his body into the hot water. He leans back and soaks his skin, his muscles, his bones. When he closes his eyes, time stops.

When he opens his eyes, the water's gone cold. He gets out and dries himself with a thick white towel. He walks into the bedroom to find Zubeida sitting at a writing desk. She hears him approach and closes a drawer.

Hours later, Khafaji awakes to the sound of the call to prayer. Under the warm sheets he listens to the invitation in the dark.
Come pray, come pray! Prayer is better than sleep!
When the muezzin finishes, Khafaji imagines the wind in the cane fields outside, then realizes it's Zubeida's breathing. He turns over, but she is not there. When Khafaji sits up, he sees her profile at the foot of the bed. She turns toward him, though he can't see her face in the shadows.

“Muhsin, I wanted to tell you everything. But I couldn't. Now I have to. We need you.”

“You don't need me.” His voice is cold.

She takes a deep breath. “These are dangerous times in Iraq. Dangerous for women, that is.”

“You've already said that.”

“Particularly for those of us who are not protected.”

“Tell me something new.”

Her eyes flash in the darkness. She clasps her hands around Khafaji's.

“When men with guns are in charge, women become fair game. Especially women who don't have men. Who don't have husbands or fathers or brothers or sons. In wartime, women who have to earn a living are especially vulnerable.
Look around you. Would you want your daughter going out to work?” She shakes her head and closes her eyes. “I can't believe you need me to explain this to you, Muhsin.”

“You don't have to explain these sorts of things, Zubeida. I just need you to explain what's going on.”

“I provide work and protection to girls who need it. Together, we turn our vulnerability into strength.”

“Prostitution is strength?”

“Where do you think my girls come from? Some are university students whose families have run out of money. Or wives whose husbands are dead. Or girls whose fathers are dead. Every one of them has her own circumstances. They are stronger as a group than they'd be as individuals. And when you're earning money, you can buy protection. That's how this world works.”

“Unless it doesn't work that way. Unless something goes wrong.”

“Things went wrong the day some of them started working as interpreters for real.” She pauses. “Some of the girls thought they could get out of the business. The Americans were desperate. They would hire anybody who was willing to show up for work two days in a row.

“It was Zahra who first met Citrone and put me in contact with him. They were trying to fly in girls from the Philippines. The CPA didn't want to have to send contractors out to Thailand. And they knew that if the media found out, there'd be an uproar. The business plan we came up with solved all their problems. And for us, it was going to be a boom.”

“That's debatable.”

“Have you ever heard of a war without sex? No army of men has ever gone anywhere without an army of women right behind them. We have a captive market. A monopoly.”

Khafaji closes his eyes. Zubeida is so close he can feel the breath of her words. “Our problems have always been logistical. Not moral. Not financial. The Americans wanted the girls brought in to them.”

“So where did the line about interpreting fit in?”

“That was Zahra's idea. She planted it in Citrone's mind. She got him to put everyone on payroll and clearance. He got them IDs even. They could come and go without raising any red flags.”

“Like the house on Fatih Street?”

“That was especially safe. The new Green Zone expansion was going to solve the problem for good. I can't believe it.”

She pauses. “Citrone was good about protecting us. We never had anyone take a second look at any of our houses.”

“Until last week.”

“Yes, until last week, no one came near us. Not coalition forces. Not neighbors. Not militias. We were as good as invisible.”

“So why did Citrone ask me to investigate Zahra's disappearance? What good could come from that?”

Zubeida doesn't hesitate. “Citrone wanted to keep this under wraps. But he had his own reasons for wanting to find her.”

“Like?”

Zubeida doesn't answer.

“Was the pay good?”

“God, yes. Citrone wasn't stingy. He wanted supply. And he paid enough to ensure we met the demand. A few months of this, and my girls were going to retire. It would have worked…”

“How did fedayeen set up shop there?”

She strokes Khafaji's forehead. “I don't know. It's all confusing. Maybe they were trying to blackmail the girls? Or hold them hostage?”

Khafaji adds, “They're not the ones who killed the girls.”

Zubeida whispers, “I know. It makes no sense.”

“So, what happened tonight?”

“No idea. All I can say is that Citrone showed up for his Friday afternoon date. As usual.”

“His date with who?”

“What sort of investigator are you?”

Khafaji ignores her. “Zahra was there?”

“She was a favorite.”

“Where's Zahra now?” Khafaji tries to look at Zubeida, but her face is in shadow.

“I don't control Zahra.”

Khafaji sits, lost in his thoughts. Finally, he gives up. “What happens now?”

She puts a finger to his lips and silences him.

In the shadows, the words begin to flow like the river nearby.
The lover river is a god today. Didn't our city just wash its feet in his waters? Up he rises and pours treasures into her hands. His arms spread wide in the glitter of the morning. His drunken hands embrace us and drown all our terror. Have we ever had any lover but this god?

Is that Zubeida whispering Nazik's ode to the flood in your ears?
Khafaji cannot tell.

Saturday Morning

6 December 2003

The sun is rising as Khafaji leaves the villa. The air is damp and cold. Khafaji stretches and sees Venus hanging low and bright in the east. The red and orange light on the clouds looks like a scar. He thinks of Nidal and Maha – he knows they need to talk, but he doesn't know what to say.

Khafaji finds the bodyguard asleep in the back seat of the Mercedes. The man rubs his eyes, then yawns and takes a drink of water from an old plastic bottle wedged into the parking brake. He gets out of the car, stretches his legs, then gets into the driver's seat and turns the key in the ignition.

Khafaji offers the man a cigarette, and he doesn't say no. Khafaji smokes and watches the road float by like a silent film. Eventually, he gets his bearings. Somewhere near Madain. They drive a few miles through thick cane fields. When a checkpoint comes into view, they slow. The car rolls to a stop in front of concrete blast walls. Two men in body armor and black balaclavas walk forward and peer into the car. They take the bodyguard's ID, then Khafaji's, then disappear. A minute later, they return and give them back. They repeat this at two other checkpoints before they get to the first southern slums.

Khafaji offers the man another cigarette and puts out his hand. “Muhsin.” The other man murmurs, “Omar.”

After their third cigarette, Khafaji asks to use a cellphone. Omar hands the phone to Khafaji without taking his eyes off the empty road. Then he turns and smiles. Khafaji struggles with the phone before Omar offers to dial the number for him. Nidal sounds far away when he answers. Khafaji looks at his watch. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“We're leaving tomorrow,” Nidal says.

“Look, Nidal. I don't know how to —”

“You don't need to say anything, Muhsin. I know you did your best.”

“That's what I need to tell you. I wasn't —”

“You don't need to tell me anything. Sawsan's gone. She might be dead, she might be alive. I can't tell you how…”

For the next minute, Khafaji listens to the sound of a father sobbing. Nidal finally speaks. “We'll never know.”

“You'll never know.”

“In the meantime, we can't wait. So, like I said. We're leaving tomorrow. We'll be here all day, seeing friends. Come by,” he adds.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Khafaji promises, though part of him does not want to go at all.

Omar drops Khafaji off at the front gate and they shake hands. By the time Khafaji closes the door, the car is speeding off.

Khafaji walks up to the outer gate, wondering what to do with the gun in his jacket. He takes it off and puts it to the side. He pulls up his shirt and walks through and turns so the man can frisk him. No alarms go off. No sirens ring. He puts his jacket back on. He repeats this at the inner gate.

Khafaji walks over to the cafeteria. He can't help smiling when he sees Noman in the kitchen. Noman invites Khafaji to share a cigarette on the loading dock. Fumbling through his pockets for a lighter, Khafaji's hand touches a cluster of jagged metal objects. Until he pulls them out and looks at them, he can't remember what they are. The whole time he is with Noman, he is thinking about what to do with Citrone's keys.

By the time they throw their butts on the ground, he knows what to do. He shouts goodbye, because he's already walking as fast as he can toward the office.

Most of the keys don't open anything. But one of them does open two large drawers. Inside Khafaji finds another red duffel bag. Only this time it's not empty. He unzips it and can't believe what he sees. Dozens of packets. Hundreds of hundred-dollar bills bundled together. Stacked neatly in rows.

Khafaji zips the bag closed and slides it out of the drawer. He is reminded of how heavy paper can be. Khafaji remembers a teacher once telling them that paper was made to retain moisture. Most of its weight was from water. When cheap paper aged, it began to lose its ability to hold water. Without moisture, it dried and cracked and died. Paper lived its strange heavy life with water. Khafaji remembered this every time his moved his books.

But money is heavier than books. Maybe because of the special ink.

He closes the bag again, and lugs it onto the floor. It feels like a bucket of water. He reaches into the second drawer, and finds another duffel bag. Khafaji feels around the bag on the outside and finds something hard and compact. When he opens the bag, he finds a cellular phone. Beneath the
bag, he finds a set of dossiers. He pulls them out and skims over the names on the tabs. Women's names. Girls' names. He opens one and finds the picture of a girl with lipstick staring back at him. Suzie Habib.

Khafaji does not need a cigarette to know what to do. He rummages around the room until he finds a cardboard packing box. He throws the bag into the bottom and the dossiers on top of that. Then he places his garment bag on top along with some loose papers and office supplies, pencils, half-used notepads, even a couple of staplers. He sets the carton beside the door and plans his next step. The getaway.

Khafaji pulls out his wallet, and finds Karl's telephone number. Then he takes the cellphone and tries to dial. After a few attempts, he succeeds. A young man picks up. “My father's asleep,” he says. “Could you call back later?”

“I'll hold on. Tell him,” Khafaji says, trying to hide his excitement. “Tell him that Muhsin wants to talk about poetry with him.”

As Khafaji waits, he lights a cigarette and plays out the possibilities in his mind. In the background, he hears footsteps, voices calling out, and shuffling. Minutes go by, then finally he hears the son's voice again. “I'm sorry, Mr Muhsin. My father likes to sleep late. Is there a number he can call you at?”

“No, that won't work,” Khafaji answers. After a pause, he adds, “Tell him I'll be waiting at Dijla Café. He knows the place. I'll be there in an hour and I'll wait for him.”