Baghdad Central (13 page)

“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.

1960

The teacher looked down at the textbook on the desk, then spoke to the class. “The next poem in our book is Ibn al-Rumi's masterpiece on the devastation of war. In this poem, he describes how the Zanj laid waste to the great city of Basra. How the rebels destroyed its schools and mosques. Now, you will notice there is a tension between the beautiful imagery of the lines and the ugliness of the subject matter – which is death and destruction. Consider this.”

The chalk shrieked across the blackboard as the teacher began to write out lines from the middle of the poem. Most of the cadets covered their ears as they exchanged looks of disbelief, as they did during every poetry lesson. Muhsin focused on the powdered words taking form on the black slate.

       
Exchanged, those palaces, for mounds and hills

       
Of ash and piles of dirt
.

       
Fire and flood are lorded upon them

       
And their columns collapsed into nothingness

Muhsin was not aware his mouth was moving until the words were out, “Don't you mean
into total ruin
?”

The teacher turned around slowly and stared in disbelief.

Muhsin's mouth moved again. “Sir, don't you mean,
And their columns collapsed into total ruin?”

The teacher put down the chalk and walked over to the desk. His fingers unconsciously touched the peak of his cap before he spoke. “And perhaps Cadet Muhsin would like to tell us why he is interrupting the lesson today?”

“Sir, if I remember correctly, the last words of the line are
into total ruin
. I didn't mean any disrespect, sir.”

The teacher looked at his textbook and then looked up again, the anger on his brow more intense. “If you had been right, I would have forgiven the interruption. But if you look at the textbook, you will notice that the word is
nothingness.”