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.”
Khafaji hangs up. He has no plan. He throws the butt on the ground and wonders how to get Mrouj. Khafaji stands up and takes one last look around the office.
Suddenly, the door opens, and three men in uniform walk in. Khafaji reaches into his pocket and feels the pistol. He walks over and speaks in a voice loud enough to cover all fear. “Good morning, please come in. Gentlemen, please.” Khafaji extends his hand to the ranking officer and introduces himself.
“Inspector Khafaji, I’m Captain John Parodi of the 267th MP.”
“It is about Citrone, isn’t it?” Khafaji tries to sound concerned.
“I understand you were there last night. You’re the one who discovered the body, right?”
“I was. It was horrible.”
“Where did you go? By the time we showed up, they couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I went to the hospital.”
Parodi looks at another man and says, “Make a note of that.”
“Look, Khafaji, that was not the right thing for you to do. We’ve got a mess on our hands. Citrone might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I doubt it. We have to assume they knew who Citrone was. And now we have to work backwards to understand how.”
“Who was he then?”
Parodi doesn’t say anything. He looks over at the computers and the other men walk over and begin to power up each machine. The man sits down at one and unrolls a pouch of small tools. He types until the screen lights up, then he works on the machine with a screwdriver and another tool Khafaji has never seen before.
Parodi’s gaze returns to Khafaji. “We have reason to believe Citrone’s death is linked to the targeting of interpreters.”
Khafaji nods and Parodi keeps talking. “We have two tasks here, and they are at odds with one another. We need to secure protection for our ’terps. And we need to investigate them to find who’s working for the other side. My men need to go through this office, starting right now. We’re hoping you might be able to help us. I’m sorry we have to put you under scrutiny, but that’s how it is.”
“Of course, sir. I’m at your service. Let me tell you what I know. It’s not much. I’ve been brought in to help rebuild the police force. I’m just going through old files and identifying potential recruits from among the ranks of police officers with experience.”
Khafaji pauses. As he narrates, he realizes two things: that once again, the only things they’ll know are what he’s about to tell them, and that once again, none of this is very convincing. “We knew that the difficult work was ahead of us. I’ve only been here a few days.”
Parodi looks at Khafaji intensely. Khafaji holds his gaze, and adds, “Now that Citrone is gone, I’m not sure what is going to happen.”
At least these last words are true. When I am done with this conversation, Khafaji thinks, I am leaving for good.
“I understand, Inspector Khafaji. But I will do my best to make sure your efforts have the support they deserve. Obviously, it’s not my jurisdiction. I don’t have the authority to do more than convey that to the right people.”
For the next hour, Parodi asks Khafaji to explain what he has been doing. He asks questions about money. He asks questions about Ford. He mentions other names, and asks about people Khafaji has not met. He asks questions about a girl named Zahra Boustani, and then about interpreters. Khafaji doesn’t say anything untrue, but he also doesn’t say anything about Zahra or the interpreters.
When Khafaji tells Parodi that the question of his own salary hadn’t even been settled, the interview starts over. Parodi makes notes and begins asking the same questions again. Throughout, Parodi implies that Khafaji and Citrone worked together day-to-day, and Khafaji never bothers to correct him. From the corner of his eye, Khafaji watches the two other men turn the office upside down. Gently and methodically, but upside down. One of them sits at the computers, plugging in devices and trawling through files. He unplugs one computer and sets it aside. He does the same to the others. The other man wears latex gloves, moving through filing cabinets, desks, and wastebaskets. At Citrone’s desk, he uses other keys to open all the drawers. He buries his head inside, and with a small flashlight peers under the desk. Finally, the man at the computers asks the other for help. Together, they begin carrying small loads of electronic equipment out the door.
Parodi’s questions come around again to the issue of money, and not to Khafaji’s salary. Khafaji meditates on his one single thought: Today is your last day.
Ford walks in a different person. A man, almost. Ten years older than he was yesterday. Yesterday, he might have passed for a teenager with shaving problems. This morning his sideburns are white. His face is ash gray. His eyes blood red. Abruptly, he wraps Khafaji in a bony hug.
It is only then that Khafaji understands that Parodi had been waiting this whole time to see Ford. He, Khafaji, was only an extra as far as they were concerned. And now his part was over. This was not unwelcome news.
Another man steps in and introduces himself. “Inspector Khafaji? I’m Bernie Olds, CPA security. I’ll be taking over the police project until we get a replacement for Citrone. You’ll be working with me. Grab your stuff and come on down the hall. I’ll tell you what’s going on when we get there.”
Khafaji goes over to his desk and fills his pockets with packs of cigarettes. He picks up his box and follows Olds down the corridor. He tries to appear casual, but has to set the heavy box down long before they arrive at the office. Olds helps Khafaji pick it up and together they carry it the rest of the way.
The meeting with Olds is rushed. In his mind, Khafaji has already left. Each minute seems like hours. Khafaji is so busy thinking about his next steps that he does not exactly hear what Olds is telling him. “For the moment, the work in Baghdad is being put on hold. You’re being temporarily reassigned to a working group in Kirkuk until this is all cleared up. We’re leaving tonight at 1900.”
“I need to pack my bags,” Khafaji mumbles.
“Go and pack, then. Be here by 1800 at the latest.”
Before he knows it, Khafaji shakes Olds’ hand and walks out the door with his heavy box. He manages to walk out of the palace before he has to set it down. Walking toward Ibn Sina Hospital, he has to set it down again every hundred yards or so. Finally, a soldier offers to help, and carries it all the way, even into the lobby. Khafaji gives the young man a Rothmans and they go outside to smoke together.