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?”
“We don’t know yet. As far as we knew, everyone on this street was a friendly. They’ve all been cleared, in any case. We’ve got about five thousand locals who are cleared. But it’s not one hundred per cent secure. Vehicles can’t come in or go out without passing through the gates. People can walk through. But even so, we’re here round the clock, and nothing happens here without our knowing it.”
“So, this is a big deal?”
“If we got terrorists setting up camp here, it’s a big fucking deal. Heads are going to roll. What are you and Citrone looking for?”
Khafaji looks at Ford, who’s standing at the door. Frozen like a statue. His face white marble. Khafaji suddenly realizes that Ford knows the girls on the couch. Ford knows this place.
Khafaji turns back to the MP. “We are here because some interpreters have gone missing.” He points to the couch. “We need to examine these bodies – that might be them. You should know these houses usually have an extra crawl space or storage room in them.”
The MP frowns, trying to understand. Khafaji adds, “Under the stairs, maybe.” The man nods and Khafaji continues, “If you’ve got dogs, you should bring them in and go over the place.”
The MP nods grimly. “Got it. We’ll look for crawl spaces, safe rooms or whatever right away.”
“Right. Could we borrow some bags from you? And gloves, too? Thank you.” The man nods again and goes downstairs. Khafaji calls Ford to come over. Ford flinches.
“Do you know this place, Louis?”
When Ford says nothing, Khafaji asks, “We need to take pictures, Louis. Can you get a camera for us?” Ford disappears down the staircase.
For the next two hours, Khafaji goes through the main room on the second floor, and then the bedrooms leading off from it. He touches the powder on the glass table, then licks his fingers. When the tip of his tongue goes numb, he shakes his head and makes a note. There’s a stocked liquor cabinet. With bottles never seen before. When the MP returns, Khafaji asks, “If we are inside the Green Zone, how…?”
Belascoaran snorts. “Believe me, I know what you’re thinking. The story is they were supposed to finish the new wall in two stages. The contractor doing the second stage of the job finished fast, while the contractor doing the first stage stopped. He’s supposed to work round the clock until it’s done, but he doesn’t have enough guys to work the shifts.”
Khafaji shakes his head. The other man laughs. “Believe me. We’ve been telling them there’s a problem.”
Khafaji goes through each bedroom carefully. They’re mostly empty except for a few things, small nightstands, mirrors, and beds. In each, Khafaji finds personal articles. Lipstick. Lingerie. Blouses. Shoes. They don’t mean anything, but he puts them into bags. He finds more ID cards, the same kind as before. In three rooms, Khafaji finds new kinds of IDs. A university identification card. A driver’s license. When he matches them up, he is not surprised. Each face has multiple names.
Khafaji taps at the drywall, and notices a hollow sound in the room behind the staircase. At first he assumes it’s only a crawl space, but then sees the outlines of the small panel. If the light were brighter, he would have seen it long ago – there’s nothing hidden about it at all. He opens the panel and finds himself staring into a small black hole. Khafaji sees a floor lamp on the other side of the room and brings it over. He clicks on the light and points it into the hole. Something on the floor catches his eye. He reaches down and picks up a heavy piece of metal. It sits snugly into the palm of his hand like it was meant to fit there. He takes off his latex gloves and feels the heft on his bare skin. A nickel-plated Smith and Wesson Magnum, .357, short-nosed. Vanity piece. He smells it. Nothing but cold, oiled metal. Enough to confirm it wasn’t fired tonight. Khafaji slips the gun into his jacket pocket.
Khafaji shoves the light bulb into the space, then crouches over and enters. In the naked light, he sees a tiny crowded closet. And in there, another body. Not just another body. The body of the last person who should be there.
They gagged and tied Citrone with steel wire before setting him in the chair. His wrists are fastened with plastic zip-ties.
The girls in the room were shot. Downward through the neck. Like before.
But Citrone is different. No blood, no wounds. His face is bright purple. Or blue. Or both. Then Khafaji notices the scarf around his throat. Silk paisley. Tied tight. He looks down at Citrone’s socks. No boots tonight.
Khafaji reaches over to touch the body, but something about it looks wrong. He pulls the lamp closer, but his own body blocks the light. He looks around slowly, sees the car battery. He follows the wires with his eyes, then notices the spot where they coil into Citrone’s clothes. Where they appear to enter his torso.
Khafaji jerks back. He looks again, and follows the wires again. Trip wires. Citrone isn’t just dead. He’s also a weapon. Aimed directly at Khafaji.
Khafaji crawls out of the closet and is halfway down the stairs when he thinks again. Slowly, he walks back to the panel and goes through again. The pockets of Citrone’s jacket seem clear. Khafaji reaches in, and his fingers pull out papers. He holds them up to the light. Napkins and used tissues. Khafaji tosses them on the floor. He leans over, this time reaching across Citrone into the pocket on the other side. His fingers fumble around, but he can’t feel anything. He leans into Citrone’s belly and tries again. He touches a cluster of metal pieces. Khafaji’s finger pulls it free and he hears the jangle of keys.
Khafaji crawls backwards then starts moving toward the stairs. He looks at the small pile of evidence bags on the floor but decides to forget about them. When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he runs into a soldier about to enter the building, and shouts, “Do not go in! There is a bomb!”
Khafaji runs around the house and into the street. The MP sees him and comes over. Khafaji is out of breath and manages only to whisper, “There is a bomb there! Bomb!”
The MP begins barking orders at a man next to him before disappearing behind the villa gates. Khafaji looks around for Ford, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
In minutes, the villa is evacuated. Two MPs come running out, latex gloves on their hands, masks over their faces. Soldiers in balaclavas mill around under the floodlights, their weapons on their hips. Khafaji lights a cigarette and starts walking down the street. He walks out of the light, back to where they parked their car. It’s gone. The other jeeps are also gone, and so are the flashing lights. The men in blindfolds are gone. In the darkness, he notices the doors to the houses. One after another, all wide open. He gets to the end of the street and starts to walk back. He is fifty yards away when the first explosion hits. In an instant, glass windows turn into bursting rainclouds. And then the big explosion erupts, sending bricks and dust and fire in all directions. Khafaji is thrown to the ground. When he stands up again, he can see the bodies of men who only a minute ago had been standing at the entrance to the villa. Too close. He watches one soldier writhing on the street. He sees the man calling out, and looking around for help. Khafaji strains to hear what he is saying, then realizes there are no sounds, only ringing.
Khafaji dusts himself off and looks at the silent scene around him. He begins to run; he runs until gradually he begins to hear the world around him. First, his breath and heartbeat. Then the sounds of his shoes on the gravel and concrete. He has run half a mile before he sees flashing blue and red lights, and then he begins to hear sirens, first one, then many. When the first fire trucks appear, he leaps across the trench. He’s now out of the American Zone and into the shadows. Khafaji runs and runs until he can’t breathe. Hundreds of meters behind him, beyond the half-built wall, and beyond the trenches in the street, a convoy of Bradleys fly past in the dark. Khafaji leans against a wall and he reaches for his Rothmans. His fingers find Citrone’s keys instead.