Baghdad Central
PRAISE FOR
BAGHDAD CENTRAL
“Powerful and authentic,
Baghdad Central
is a perilous journey through the dark maelstrom of wartime Iraq that will make you want to reach for a flak jacket and glance over your shoulder for surveillance, even as you're marvelling at its abiding humanity.”
Dan Fesperman, author of
Lie in the Dark
“One rarely finds Iraqis in American fiction except as Orientalist stereotypes or objects of political desires and fantasies.
Baghdad Central
is unique in this respect. Its Iraqis are subjects with agency and humanity. Colla knows the cultural and political topography very well. The chaos and cacophony of the American occupation are captured vividly. The narrative is smart and smooth. This is an intense and well-written novel. A pleasure to read.”
Sinan Antoon, author of
The Baghdad Blues
and
The Corpse Washer
“A gripping tale of mystery and intrigue in the claustrophobic, morally treacherous world of post-invasion Baghdad, an environment where relationships can detonate as readily as car bombs. This is a compelling noir crime novel told from inside Iraqi society that lays bare the easy slide from personal to political treachery, where every crime is also a national wound. A great read!”
Jenny White, author of
The Winter Thief
and others in the Kamil Pasha series
“Just when you think that nothing in the overcrowded crime field can surprise you any more, along comes a writer like Elliott Colla who takes the genre by the throat and shakes it vigorously.
Baghdad Central
is a rich and allusive piece of writing, informed by the writer's experience in both the Middle East and Washington. Its authenticity is matched by a masterly command of the mechanics of suspense.”
Barry Forshaw,
Crime Time
Elliott Colla
divides his time between Washington DC and the Middle East. He teaches Arabic literature at Georgetown University. This is his first novel.
BAGHDAD CENTRAL
Elliott Colla
BITTER LEMON PRESS
First published in the United Kingdom in 2014 by
Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens,
London W11 2LW
© Elliott Colla, 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
The moral right of Elliott Colla has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
EBook ISBN 978-1-908524-26-3
Typeset by Tetragon, London
To Umm Mrouj, as ever
.
          Â
Heroism does not always mean going on the offensive. It can just as well entail patience or staying put. Bravery does not always mean raising a fist at the enemy before you. More often than not, it entails confronting the enemy within. A true hero fights against his own despair and love of comfort
.
M
ICHEL
A
FLAQ
Contents
Sunday Evening: 23 November 2003
Monday Evening: 24 November 2003
TuesdayâWednesday: 25â26 November 2003
Tuesday Afternoon: 2 December 2003
Wednesday Morning: 3 December 2003
Wednesday Afternoon: 3 December 2003
Wednesday Evening: 3 December 2003
Thursday Afternoon: 4 December 2003
Thursday Night: 4 December 2003
Friday Evening: 5 December 2003
Friday NightâSaturday Morning: 5â6 December 2003
Saturday Morning: 6 December 2003
Saturday Afternoon: 6 December 2003
Saturday Evening: 6 December 2003
SundayâThursday: 7â11 December 2003
Saturday Morning: 13 December 2003
Saturday Evening: 13 December 2003
In the chaos of retreat, a few stand and fight. Some fall back, some take the fight to another time and place. Some remain at their stations to wait and listen.
We sip tea. We watch television. We check our weapons again. Then we change clothes and go home. Entire crowds of men vanish. Some will slip across lines, others across borders.
After days of battering, an eerie quiet begins to hold. They will arrive tomorrow at the latest. They are already here in the suburbs. There is fighting in al-Dora by now. Some say it has reached Firdos and Jihad.
No one is surprised by the men in trucks or by the order to evacuate. Everyone knew they would be coming on a day like today. The instructions are easy to follow. The men in the records office finished their job a week ago and never came back. These men begin unloading boxes from trucks, then drag them into the building. Only a handful of us are left, bewildered. We hang around outside. Then one by one we start to walk away, down the sidewalks and under the arcades on Khulafa Street until we disappear for good.
Behind thick concrete walls, the first explosions sound like thunder. There is a crack of glass as windows splinter in the morning sun. Then silence. Eventually, the silence retreats, though only softly at first. It grows into a roar. Fires
burning deep, somewhere out of sight. Scorching winds whipping through empty hallways and offices, corridors and closets. Then from the empty windows, a storm of burning files, folders, and forms erupting into the sky. The flames eventually burn themselves out.
When the first American missiles hit, Baghdad Central Police Station is already an empty shell.
â¦Full members of the Baath Party holding the ranks of Regional Command Member, Branch Member, Section Member and Group Member are hereby removed from their positions and banned from future employment in the public sector. These senior Party members shall be evaluated for criminal conduct or threat to the security of the Coalition. Those suspected of criminal conduct shall be investigated and, if deemed a threat to security or a flight risk, detained or placed under house arrest. Displays in government buildings or public spaces of the image or likeness of Saddam Hussein or other readily identifiable members of the former regime or of symbols of the Baath Party or the former regime are hereby prohibited. Rewards shall be made available for information leading to the capture of senior members of the Baath Party and individuals complicit in the crimes of the former regime. The Administrator of the Coalition Provisional Authority or his designees may grant exceptions to the above guidance on a case-by-case basisâ¦
C
OALITION
P
ROVISIONAL
A
UTHORITY
O
RDER
N
O. 1
16 M
AY 2003
“I'd like to, but I can't. I'm not a detective.”
Nidal stares at his brother-in-law as if he's never seen him before. “So what are you?”
“You know as well as anybody.”
“You work for the police and they call you Inspector â what else am I supposed to think?”
“Worked. Past tense. And it wasn't like that. I sat at a desk. I did paperwork and filing. I read reports about investigations. Then I read the informers' reports they were based on. Then I wrote my own reports and filed them alongside all the other reports.”
“Do I have to draft a report for you?”
“Look, sorry. Let me think about it.”
Nidal looks down into his teacup, then across the room at the place on the wall where the picture of the Great Leader used to hang. Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji waves the
chaichi
over and orders another tea. Around them, pairs of men sit at low wooden tables, sipping tea, smoking, and staying up late like they'd do on any other Ramadan night. Some roll dice and slap backgammon pieces back and forth. In one corner, old men play cards. Their faces show no emotion, just intensity. Small piles of bills sit in the middle of one table.
Nidal watches the men playing their game. Khafaji watches Nidal's stiff profile until the man begins to sob and heave. Khafaji claps a hand on his massive shoulder. After a while, Nidal leans back in his chair and wipes his eyes with a thick peasant hand. Only now does Khafaji notice that Nidal isn't wearing his gold cross. They used to tease him about it all the time. Now it was gone. Khafaji was going to cry too if they didn't change the subject.
“OK. I'll help you. But tell me again from the beginning.”
“One night last week Sawsan didn't come back from work, and now Maha sits at home and cries all the time. She's going out of her mind. You hear stories and you imagine the worst. After everything that's happened, we were thinking we would leave. But now we can't.”
“Why didn't you tell me when it happened?”
“Because we don't know what happened and we still don't. She just hasn't come home is all we know.”
“When was this?”
“Thursday.”
“Anyone call?”
“â¦?”
“Anyone call asking for money? Telling you to meet them somewhere? Did you contact anyone else?”
Nidal grabs Khafaji's arm and raises his voice. “Brother, who the hell are we going to call? You're the only police we know.”
“I quit. And anyway, there's no police now.”
“You're the one with all the connections in the Party.”
“That was years ago. And there's no Party now.”
“So all we're left with is you, I guess.”
Khafaji struggles to look optimistic. He mumbles, “I can
try to help.” He clears his throat and starts over. “Tell me the rest again.”