A boot nudges Khafaji. He rubs his eyes and staggers to his feet. He must have fallen asleep. His headache is back.
The American soldier points with his gun. “Imshi minna.”
“Checkpoint Three, right?” Khafaji shouts back. “I’m supposed to report today,” he adds as he tucks his shirt in and straightens his collar.
“What for?”
“I’m working for the Americans. Here are my papers.”
The soldier squints at the papers in Khafaji’s hand. He is maybe eighteen years old. As young as Uday was. He touches the headset on his helmet and speaks. Khafaji can’t make out what he says. With his brown skin, he might even be Iraqi, Khafaji thinks.
“I’m working for the Coalition Provisional Authority,” Khafaji corrects himself.
“Sit here until I get back. Don’t move.” Then he walks away. Khafaji looks and sees a shadow move on the wall above.
He comes back and tells Khafaji to follow. When they come to the gate, the boy smiles for the first time. “Here you are.”
The gate opens enough for Khafaji to squeeze through, then closes again. He finds himself walking along a narrow path between two high blast walls. The only vegetation is a cluster of tall palms. The concrete beneath is covered with dry barhi dates.
“Papers,” a voice barks. Khafaji hands his papers over to the man.
“Take off your jacket.” Khafaji takes off his jacket and lays it down gently on the floor.
“Pull up your shirt.” Khafaji pulls up his shirt, then his undershirt.
“Turn around.” Khafaji turns around.
“Put your hands on your head and spread your legs.” A soldier pats down his body.
The man nods at Khafaji. “It’s routine. We do it to everybody. We’re done. Sit down on the bench.”
Khafaji stares at the announcement on the wall in front of him. Attention: If you hold property rights that pre-date the arrival of occupation forces in this zone, you may be eligible for compensation. Bring your ID, a copy of the rental agreement (or deed of ownership), along with any photographs of the property and structures, to the Municipal Council located next to the Abu Ghraib Courthouse.
And right above that, in molded concrete, the same initials as everywhere. Sad. Haa.
Khafaji watches the man return, then bundle his ID and papers into a clear pouch marked GUEST.
“Wear this around your neck. Until you get your regular identification.”
On the other side of the second gate, Khafaji finds a middle-aged American in a civilian suit waiting for him under a cover of camouflage netting. The man smiles and offers an outstretched hand. When he opens his mouth, Arabic comes out. “Peace be upon you, Mr Muhsin. Welcome to Free Iraq.” Formal Arabic, despite the Egyptian accent. His hand feels like a smooth cold stone. The chin of a movie star. And deep-set eyes now studying Khafaji intently. The thin lips may not move, but the jaw never stops moving. Chewing gum.
“Pleased to meet you. Hank Citrone. Liaison officer. We were expecting you early this morning.”
“I tried, but…”
“They’re working on the problem, but for the time being, this is the only way for you to get in. My advice is for you to get here as early as you can. No more late starts, agreed?”
Before Khafaji can do anything, Citrone takes him by the arm. They don’t talk at all as they stroll across a vast space of broken sidewalks and streets, shot-up signs, and monumental buildings in the Baathist Babylonian style. At first, even the clusters of desiccated acacia and eucalyptus look browner than green. Half of the palms are decapitated, their feet covered in piles of things that look more like dead roaches than fallen dates. Gazebos and sheds scattered behind untended hedges, and people walking alone and in small groups, some with guns slung casually across their backs. Clouds of small birds swirling around a thick stand of shrubs, filling the air with screeches.
“Do you prefer English, Mr Muhsin, or Arabic?” Citrone raises his voice over the growing chatter of the birds. His chin never stops moving.
Khafaji decides to flatter the man. “You speak Arabic well. Do you have Arab roots?” The chirping of the birds grows into a roar, and the shadows stretch across the steps they take.
“I studied it in college. And then even more after I converted.”
Never argue with a convert. Khafaji nods again and tries to look serious.
Toward the Republican Palace, the lawns begin and then the topiary and flowers. By the time they get there, the city seems miles behind. No sounds but a soft pulsing from somewhere or everywhere.
Citrone begins to confide. “I left my career to come to Iraq. Call it a personal sense of duty. You Iraqis need all the help you can get during this transition period. As a Muslim, I have a special role to play.”
In the distance, a call to prayer is heard, then another and another. As if on a single cue, the birds abruptly stop.
“I assume you know about my daughter?”
“Yes, yes, Mr Muhsin.”
“Can I…?”
“Of course you can. But first, you might be hungry.”
“I am.”
The American looks at his watch and says, “If you want Iraqi food, you can always get something at the Hajji shop. They got pizza there too. But I would suggest we go to the PX, it’s not far from here and we can set you up.”
At a squat, domed concrete and marble pavilion, Citrone flashes his badge to the guard, and tells Khafaji to do the same. Citrone takes a shiny .357 out of a holster and places it on the table as he steps through a metal detector, then puts it back.
No palace has ever rejected new owners, especially when they come as barbarians. Around the sides of the ballroom stand forests of upholstered furniture and cardboard outcroppings. Under carved and painted ceilings, the old chandeliers still hang, though the crystal is long gone.
Glued to the walls are oversize technicolor landscapes. A lush forest with a roaring white stream on one wall. A flowery pink meadow framed by snow-covered granite peaks on another. A pristine tropical beachfront on yet another. And colorful banners: “Flu Shots, Bldg 121”, “Freedom Ain’t free!”, “Go Pats!”
Khafaji weaves through a crowd and makes a list: Everyone is so young. No one walks empty-handed. Paper cups with plastic lids. Electronic devices.
At the end of the hall, Khafaji and Citrone walk through double doors.
“In the Bubble, we call this place the DFAC. Dining facility. You’ll find everything here. It’s all shipped in fresh from home.”
One of the walls is covered with large television screens tuned to the same sports channel. There is only one dissident screen; it shows weather. In a single minute, Khafaji learns the scores of football games and the weather in Singapore, Berlin and Washington, DC. Muted, the words scurry across the bottom of each screen then disappear.
“There’s where we get the trays.” Citrone has switched to English. “It’s self-service. Hot food’s over there. Salads and sandwiches over here. Soft drinks at the Beverage Bar.”
Khafaji stands paralyzed. Roast beef, cold cuts, steamed vegetables, rice, macaroni, soups and stews and salads, breads, drinks, cakes, puddings and ice cream. He eventually decides to eat something that looks like lamb. Citrone comes up. “You don’t want to eat that. Come over here and I’ll show you where the halal meat is.”
Khafaji shrugs and follows, then copies Citrone gesture for gesture: a mound of fried chicken, one of cabbage salad and a large cup of ice. They sit down at a square table. Citrone puts his fingers together and murmurs something into his hands before touching his food. Khafaji begins to eat with a fork. When he sees Citrone eating with his hands, he does the same.
The cafeteria fills up with people. Now and then someone waves or nods at Citrone and he mouths a few words. The workers are in constant motion, unwrapping food, wiping down counters, picking up empty plates and cups. Their hands never stop moving. Khafaji notices they are all Indian.
“Praise be to God for providing sustenance,” Citrone says in English, and rubs his belly. He wipes his mouth and looks at his watch. “How about we grab dessert and coffee and go straight to the office? We’ll talk there.”
“As you like.” Khafaji notices that Citrone’s jaw is busy again.
Citrone takes him to a large table filled with cakes and picks one out. Khafaji says, “Tea, please.”
There is no tea at the Beverage Bar.
Citrone frowns. “Sorry about that. They’re supposed to serve everything. Nothing held back.” He glances over the heads of the workers.
“Tea?”
Khafaji looks up to see a dark-skinned man with a shock of straight black hair cleaning the coffee machines. “I will bring a cup of tea right away, sir. But they have already put sugar and milk in it. I hope that is not a problem for you.”
Khafaji watches him walk around the counter toward a cluster of brown men relaxing on metal chairs. Behind a collection of rags, cleaning bottles, brooms and mops, Khafaji spies an old kerosene stove with a large, battered brass teapot. The man returns with a paper cup of hot, milky tea. Khafaji sips it. Too sweet. But it is tea. With cardamom. The Indian adds, “We always have tea, sir. Come and ask any time. We are at your service.”
Citrone takes Khafaji by the arm again. They walk down another hall. Before they leave the building, a man shouts, “Still on for fifty, Citrone? You sure you want to bet against the Packers?”
Citrone roars, “Never been surer!”
It takes about five minutes to walk to their building.
“This is the Republican Palace.” Khafaji can’t hide the shock in his voice.
“Only the best for the Reconstruction Team. Anyway, that was about the only thing Bremer and Garner agreed on, and who’s going to argue with that? Get your ID out, you’ll need it here and again upstairs.”
They walk through a checkpoint, and Citrone takes his gun out again. The office is on the second floor. Only it’s not really an office. It’s mostly an empty cavern under gold-leaf ceilings, a few computers and a long bank of file cabinets. Aside from colored ropes of wire taped to the floor, there are few signs that anything might ever happen in this room.
As Khafaji and Citrone enter, a red-headed man in his twenties gets up from one of the computers. He smooths his blue suit with both hands and introduces himself. He speaks so quickly Khafaji doesn’t catch his name.
Citrone pulls up three chairs around a small table. He places the clear plastic box with the cake in front of him. The assistant steps over to set a file down on the table next to the cake. “Let’s all sit down. Inspector Khafaji, let me begin by repeating what I first said to you earlier: we are eager to begin. I don’t have any sermons for you. You know how badly this country needs law and order. You’ve already talked to our colleagues, so you know what we’re up to.”
He pauses and looks Khafaji in the eye. In the light, Citrone’s face seems different, his eyes are darker. His jaw seems softer now that he has stopped chewing gum. His ears also seem too small for his head. Khafaji wonders if they were added later as an afterthought. Citrone’s fingers work at the plastic box. It finally opens with a loud crack.
“Before we start, I want to clarify something. Some of the people we work with were reluctant to work with the US military. So let me say from the outset, we are not military. You’re not being enlisted, you don’t have to take an oath. This is not the US Army or NATO or anything of that sort.”
“So what are you?”
“The CPA is the civilian government of Iraq. Our authority comes from the UN and only for a limited time. We pack up and leave as soon as you have your own government. So, when you work with us, you’re working for Iraq. Just like before. You’re an employee of the Iraqi state.”
“OK. What do you want me to do?”
“Our office is charged with rebuilding the Iraq Police Service as a civilian force under civilian command. Totally separate from the military and security. The IPS is wholly autonomous, wholly civilian, and wholly Iraqi.”
Khafaji begins to realize how exhausted he is. He tries to focus, but the headache doesn’t help. He blinks hard, then looks around. He sees a deck of playing cards stacked together at the desk where the younger man was sitting. A fragile, leaning house.
“Inspector Khafaji, do you understand why the IPS needs to be a purely civilian institution?”
“I want to know why you need police when you’ve already got an army.”
“I’d be happy to have that philosophical conversation later. But first let me tell you what’s happening right now – since that’s why we brought you here. In the coming weeks KBR is going to finish building Baghdad’s new main police station. No expense is being spared. It’ll have everything a twenty-first-century police force needs. They say the new central station will be ready to move into by June 1, and it will be.”
“There’s no police. Who do you think’s going to work in that new building?”
“That’s where you come in, Inspector. You’re going to help us recruit and retrain the best men we can.”
“The best aren’t going to come work for you.”
“You did, didn’t you? And we have reason to think you’re good at your job.”
“That’s not why I was hired.”
“It doesn’t matter how you were hired. You have the right credentials.”
“So I am your recruiter?”
“Not at this stage. You’re going to start by going through the files to determine who is still around and how we get them to come back. Without you, we don’t know who’s willing to come back.”
Khafaji laughs. “And you think I do?”
“Look, Inspector. Here’s what we’re asking you to do. We need to find out who the decent guys are and get them back to work. We don’t want any rotten apples. No Special Section, and no Military. ISP mainly. Some General Security if they’re clean enough. You’re going to help us decide who makes the cut. You review the rosters, name by name, we work with you and send them up the line for the second round of reviews.”
Citrone picks up a bite of the cake on the table, and eats it before he goes on. “We won’t have a complete force ready by June. But we are hoping to have enough cops on the street by then to show Baghdad that the police are back.”
“You want me to find you a new chief, too?” Khafaji laughs again.
The assistant answers, “We’ve already got somebody for that. Authentic Iraqi, born in Baghdad. He hasn’t arrived yet, but he’s perfect for the job. Professional. He’s been on the force in Chicago for twenty years. Speaks fluent. Knows how to work with business leaders. I can’t say more than that until it’s all final.”
Hank Citrone leans back in his chair, lazily chewing cake. He looks at his assistant, takes a deep breath, and wipes his mouth. He looks at Khafaji again and the tone of his voice drops. “That’s all you need to know right now, Inspector Khafaji. You’ve got your work cut out for you. I envy you. Few of us are ever in the right place at the right time in history to make the kind of impact you’re going to make. Your job in the coming months won’t be easy, but at least you’ll know you’re doing the right thing.” Khafaji struggles to stay awake, but the conversation is like a sleeping pill. He stares at the cards again but his eyes can’t focus. He finally puts a halt to the conversation. “I am sorry, but I am very tired. I asked about my daughter earlier. Can I see her now?”
Citrone nods. “Of course. Should have taken you there first thing. You go see your daughter, and tomorrow, get here early so we can really start, OK?”
He hands the assistant a piece of paper from the folder in his hands. The assistant smiles and says, “I’ll call to arrange a visit right now, Mr Khafaji.”
Citrone stands and brushes crumbs off his pants. He looks at his watch and turns to the assistant. “I have to get there before they close. Be right back.”
Minutes go by, and the assistant also leaves. Khafaji looks over at the tiny house of cards. Now it’s just a mess of clubs, hearts, spades and diamonds.
Fifteen minutes later, Citrone walks back in with a red duffel bag. When he sets it down, it makes a heavy thud. He digs around in his pocket for keys, then opens a drawer under his desk and stows the bag there.
Remembering that someone else is in the room, Citrone looks over at Khafaji, his jaw moving furiously again. He smiles. “Khafaji, I was just thinking. We’re going to get you a place inside the Bubble. It’ll make your life a lot easier, and ours as well.”
“Where?”
“Here. In the Green Zone.”
“Yes, please. That would be helpful.”
“There is some housing stock over in the new neighborhood that just got added to the Zone. It’s going to take a few days for us to figure it out. And it does mean you’ll be going through a more thorough vetting. In the meantime, I’d like to propose that we arrange for a morning pick-up and evening drop-off. It’s a bit dangerous, considering.”
“I think it’s safer for me to make my own arrangements for the time being.”
“If you need a driver, we can help with that too.”
Khafaji nods.
Citrone shakes Khafaji’s hand. “Inspector Khafaji, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. We’re very glad you’re joining our little team. Right now, Louis will escort you to the hospital. It’s after visiting hours, but they’ll be expecting you.”
As Khafaji walks down the hall with the assistant, they pass by an enormous room identical to the one they were just in. Khafaji glances in and imagines that he sees the Mosuli sitting with his back to the door. The Mosuli’s voice is what makes him slow. But what makes him stop in his tracks is the man across the table, smoking and drinking tea as if he were sitting in his own home. The man stops in mid-sentence and looks at Khafaji standing at the door. By the time the Mosuli turns around, Khafaji is gone.
They walk for half an hour, first through the shadows of the palace grounds and then out into the empty streets of the Green Zone. More than once, Khafaji and the assistant hear people somewhere nearby splashing water, shouting and singing. A pool party. The assistant calls out to someone in the dark, and laughs to himself.
They flash their tags at the door of the hospital and walk in. In the foyer, the assistant shakes Khafaji’s hand and disappears. Khafaji looks around, and finds a nurse who looks at him askance before telling him to go to the fourth floor. He presses the elevator call button, but gives up after waiting for several minutes. After climbing up the stairs, he starts walking down a long, dim corridor. The American nurse at the first desk explains, “This end is for our guys. The other end is for Iraqi civilians. I bet that’s where your daughter is.”
He starts walking, toward the bright lights at the other end of the long hall. He passes a row of rooms with closed doors and guards posted outside. They stare at him and he walks faster. He passes dark rooms, with doors wide open. From inside some, he hears rough breathing, the rustle of sheets, or the electronic bip and ping of monitors. From others, he hears nothing at all, but sees the rigid profiles of bedside vigils.
The hospital is still Ibn Sina, but it’s not the one he knew from Suheir’s visit. The windows are closed. The doors are secure and guarded. The cabinets appear to be filled with medicine. The doctors and nurses are American, their uniforms clean and pressed. Generators mean electricity that never falters.
When Khafaji arrives at the reception desk on the fourth floor, the orderly tells him that visiting hours are over. Khafaji looks over his shoulder at the rooms down the hall. He looks down at the clipboards on the desk to see if he can recognize anything.
“Can you tell me where my daughter is?”
“Pardon? Oh, hmm. I cannot divulge the private information of our patients. You need to come back during regular hours.”
“But we called just now.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry.” After a few minutes of this, the man places a call and tells Khafaji to stay put. Khafaji reads notices on a community board on the wall. AA Baghdad Sands of Recovery Group, Meetings, Mondays and Thursdays 7:30PM. Tuesday–Friday Salsa Class. 6PM. Annex 1. Five minutes go by before two soldiers emerge from the hallway. They insist on escorting Khafaji all the way to the front gate.
On the way home in the taxi, Khafaji closes his eyes and goes over the scene he saw at CPA headquarters: Izzat Ibrahim al-Durri drinking tea with the exiles. How is that possible? He was supposed to be in hiding with Saddam. Every few minutes, Khafaji lets out a snort of disbelief. Each time, the driver stares at him again.