Yasmina Khadra - The Sirens of Baghdad

“Greetings, my good prince,” the older man said.

“Hello, Captain,” Sayed replied, tapping his finger on the envelope. “It’s been waiting for you.”

“I’ve been on special assignment these past few days.” The captain slowly approached the table, picked up the envelope, felt its weight, and grumbled, “Thinner than usual.”

“The amount’s correct.”

The officer flashed a skeptical grimace. “You know my family problems, Sayed. I have a whole tribe to maintain, and we haven’t been paid our salaries for six months.” He jerked a thumb toward his colleague. “My buddy here’s in the shit, too. He wants to get married, but he can’t find so much as a fucking bedroom he can afford.”

Sayed pressed his lips together before plunging his hand back into the desk drawer. He pulled out a few supplementary bills, which the captain, as swiftly as a conjurer, caused to disappear.

“You’re a good prince, Sayed. God will repay you.”

“We’re going through a rough patch, Captain. We have to help one another out.”

The captain scratched his damaged cheek, pretended to be embarrassed, and looked to his teammate for the strength to get to the heart of the matter. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I didn’t come here for the envelope. My buddy and I are about to start up a business, and it occurred to me that you might perhaps be interested in it and maybe you could give us a hand.”

Sayed sat down and clasped his mouth between his thumb and his index finger.

The captain settled into the chair facing the desk and crossed his legs. He said, “I’m starting a little travel agency.”

“In Baghdad? You think Iraq’s a tourist destination?”

“I have some relatives in Amman who think it would be a good idea for me to invest in Jordan. I’ve been knocking around here long enough, you know, and frankly, I don’t see any light at the end of the Iraq tunnel. We’ve got a second Vietnam on our hands. I’d like to get out while I’m more or less intact. I’m already carrying around three slugs in my body, and a Molotov cocktail nearly took my face off. So I’ve decided to turn in my badge and make my fortune in Jordan. This is quite a juicy business I’m talking about. One hundred percent profit. And legal. If you want, I’ll let you come in as a partner.”

“I’ve got enough hassles with my own business.”

“Stop it. You do just fine.”

“Not really.”

The captain thrust a cigarette between his lips, lit it with a disposable lighter, and blew the smoke in Sayed’s face. Sayed limited himself to slightly turning his head.

“Too bad,” the policeman said. “You’re letting a real opportunity get away, my friend. Tell me the truth — doesn’t it tempt you a little?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s all right. Now, shall we move on to the reason for my visit?”

“I’m listening.”

“Do you trust me?”

“How do you mean?”

“In all the time I’ve been keeping an eye on your businesses, have I ever tried to double-cross you?”

“No.”

“Have I been greedy?”

“No.”

“And if I ask you to advance me a little money so I can get started, will you think I’m not going to pay you back?”

Sayed had been expecting the conversation to reach this point. He smiled and spread out his arms. “You’re an honorable man, Captain. I’d advance you millions without so much as a second thought, but I have debts up to here, and my sales are tanking.”

“Don’t give me that crap!” the captain said, crushing out his barely smoked cigarette on the glass desktop. “You’re rolling in dough. What do you think I do all day long? I sit at a table in the café across the street and watch your delivery vans coming and going. And I make notes. Your deliveries can’t keep up with your sales. Why, just today,” he went on, pulling out a little notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, “you unloaded two big refrigerators, four washing machines, and four television sets, plus a bunch of customers left the store with various boxes. And it’s only Monday. The way you’re turning your stuff over, you ought to found your own bank.”

“So you’re spying on me, Captain?”

“I’m your lucky star, Sayed. I watch over all your little scams. Have you had any tax problems? Have any other cops come in here to hit you up for money? Because of me, everything’s cushy for you. I know your bills are as phony as your word of honor, and I make sure no one calls you to account. And what do you do? You slip me some crumbs and you think I should be grateful. I’m not a beggar, Sayed.”

He stood up abruptly and headed straight for the storeroom. Sayed didn’t have enough time to stop him. The captain plunged into the rear of the shop and made a sweeping gesture toward the innumerable boxes stacked in tiers and filling three-quarters of the room. He said, “I’ll bet none of this merchandise has ever passed through a customs post.”

“Come on. Everybody in Baghdad works off the books.”

Sayed was perspiring and very angry, but he tried to contain himself. The two cops had the air of calm assurance that people get when they’re running the show with an iron hand. They knew what they wanted and how to obtain it. Getting your palm greased was the primary vocation of each and every functionary in the service of the state, particularly those in the security forces. This ingrained practice was an inheritance from the former regime and continued to flourish under the occupation, facilitated by the confusion and the galloping impoverishment that reigned in the country, where villainous kidnappings, bribes, embezzlements, and extortions were the order of the day.

The captain called over to his colleague, “How much you think all this is worth?”

“Enough to buy an island in the Pacific Ocean.”

“Do you think we’re being piggish, Detective?”

“We eat like birds, Chief.”

Sayed mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Amr and Rashid were standing in the doorway behind the two policemen, on the alert for a sign from their boss. “Let’s go back to the office,” Sayed mumbled to the captain. “We’ll see what I can do to help you with your business venture.”

“Now you’re being sensible,” the captain said, spreading out his arms. “But look, if you’re talking about another skinny envelope like the one you just gave me, you can forget it.”

“No, no,” said Sayed, eager to exit the storeroom. “We’ll work something out. Come on back to the office.”

The captain frowned. “It almost seems as though you have something to hide, Sayed. Why are you shoving us out? What do you keep in this stockroom, besides what we can see?”

“Nothing, I assure you. It’s just that it’s after closing time, and I have an appointment with someone who lives on the other side of the city.”

“Are you sure?”

“What would I be hiding in here? This stuff is all my merchandise. It hasn’t even been unpacked yet.”

The captain squinted his right eye. Did he suspect something? Was he about to give Sayed a very hard time? He stepped over to the walls of boxes, rummaged about here and there, and then suddenly whipped around to see whether Sayed was holding his breath or not. Amr and Rashid’s rigid posture gave him a moment’s pause. He crouched down to peer under the stacked cartons, the piles of television sets and various small appliances. When he spotted a concealed door in a corner, he started walking toward it. “What’s that back there?”

“It’s the repair shop. It’s locked. Our technician left an hour ago.”

“Can I have a look around?”

“It’s locked from inside. The technician gets in through another door.”