Baghdad Noir

by Samuel Shimon

  “The matter does seem connected to Baghdad House itself, its proprietors, or its residents. I don’t understand this and am genuinely at a loss,” George said, his voice growing soft. “All the same, given the links between Baghdad House and foreign companies, the government, and influential people in Baghdad, this hotel truly warrants suspicion, and all these matters seem interrelated.” He thought things were becoming even murkier and decided to speak more directly: “Is Madame Reem linked to the situation?”

  “I don’t know—but who is her husband?” Waheed replied judiciously.

  “I have no idea,” George answered, his voice tense, as he lowered the glass from his mouth.

  “Answer that question and you’ll understand a lot, I wager. I have no proof, though,” Waheed said, backtracking.

  George, however, was determined to learn more. “How do you think Ted Lancaster’s disappearance is related to that of Shukri Jamil? And do you believe there is any connection between those two men and the murder of the Iranian woman? Are all these events related or merely separate strands?”

  “When similar events occur in the same location, they must be connected in some manner,” Waheed surmised. “There could be a single perpetrator, or two from the same organization. As I said, I don’t have any evidence. I simply analyze matters from a distance.”

  “But I was startled to learn of a relationship between Shukri Jamil and Rahima . . .”

  “The real affair was between Ted Lancaster and Rahima,” Waheed said. “They were lovers for a long time. I don’t think Shukri Jamil’s relationship was comparable, but I have no idea why he vanished—perhaps to conceal Ted Lancaster’s disappearance . . .”

  “Oh! You’re making my head spin.”

  “Naturally . . . I told you the matter is extremely complicated.”

  “But why didn’t he disclose all this?”

  “Because important families are involved and their dirty linen isn’t easily revealed,” Waheed said. “Rahima’s husband is a well-known figure.”

  “She has a husband who lives here? No one has mentioned that.”

  “Her husband is an Iraqi who had ties to political groups that once ruled here,” the engineer shared. “He belonged to groups linked to the former royalist government. He is, moreover, an eccentric individual.”

  “You’re making me nervous. Do you believe the matter is political?” George asked. “They say Shukri Jamil was a Communist.”

  “He has Communist leanings, and the Communists think his disappearance is politically motivated. They don’t believe that he sent the letter requesting leave. It’s possible, but I doubt that he had an affair with Rahima. His name has merely been plugged in there—that’s what I think.”

  * * *

  The quantity of information that Waheed provided him—however mysterious and unverified it was—drove George to reflect further upon the character of the individuals around him. He wanted to search for more information, but he had to be very circumspect. Ted Lancaster, the Englishman, although he came from a solid middle-class background in Manchester, was somewhat dissolute. From colleagues in his office, George learned that Ted was a connoisseur of the seedy side of Baghdad. His infatuation with escorts had destroyed his marriage, but no one had mentioned his affair with Rahima. Even so, everyone seemed to have heard licentious rumors about him. They all agreed that he was addicted to pornography, and that he corresponded with a friend in the UK about sadomasochistic sex. Ted had mentioned to an acquaintance at the office that he had memorized a long poem about such practices. He had also assembled a collection of books that catered to his deviant tastes. He was terribly disappointed as well to have spent an entire year in Africa without witnessing anyone being killed or tortured. He was also reputed to be a collector of torture devices, and had once corralled some whores into having sex with him while he watched a convict’s public execution.

  Rahima’s husband, to whom Ted was also linked, was Abdul Rahim al-Agha—he was rumored to be insane and truly scary. His behavior exemplified the corruption of an aristocratic class—of men who mixed brutality with love and experienced sexual gratification only when abusing a woman.

  All those who spoke to George about Abdul Rahim said he was a complex and shady figure—the youngest son of an Iraqi family of Turkish or Dagestani heritage. He had been arrested in 1946 after the military coup, on suspicion of having financed Nazi groups in Iraq. He was also intimately linked with the Agha-Porter Automotive firm that George worked for. Al-Agha was not only his surname but also that of Madame Reem. George was bewildered by all the complexities of this intricate triangle.

  * * *

  George had not realized that he had carried his inquiry too far until a few strange, inexplicable things happened. When he returned to the hotel in the evening, he found the door to his room open and discovered his belongings had been moved, even though he was certain he had locked the door before departing.

  These were not merely hunches—they were actual facts. Many weird things were happening, so it was clear some individual was behind them. He asked Madame Reem about this, but she denied any knowledge. Then he questioned Sargon, who—instead of replying—said that someone had come and asked for George.

  This answer hit George like a bolt of lightning. “What did he look like?” he asked the valet.

  “He was middle-aged, had a thick mustache, and wore a black suit,” Sargon answered.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He didn’t leave a message in writing, but he said, Tell him I’ll keep our appointment.”

  “Appointment?” George repeated. A wave of fear surged through him.

  He returned to his room, where he sat on his bed and began to reflect: Who is the mastermind of this operation? Is Sargon a member of this conspiracy? He was the first to enter the victims’ room. If so, whose pawn is he? Reem al-Agha’s? Was she the killer? What did her husband stand to gain from the death of the two accountants? Would the CEO of Agha-Porter Automotive benefit? Is the entire operation run by the authorities? Are these actually political crimes disguised as random acts of violence? Though the main question he asked himself was what his own relationship to all this might be. Why did he feel threatened? What had he done to deserve all this attention and to be included in all these machinations? There was no logical explanation.

  He certainly believed that everything had been orchestrated and was definitely beyond his control—he hadn’t had a hand in any aspect of this series of events.

  Fine. If the whole affair was already scripted and he had absolutely no way to evade it, he needed to decide what to do now, before it was too late. Should he contact the police? But what would they do? There was no way they could thwart or prevent a crime. The problem with the police was that they would start an investigation only after a crime occurred—not before. They could only pursue a criminal once a crime had been committed. Though they were currently searching for the man who had killed Rahima and her maid, they hadn’t arrested anyone. Again, George tried to organize his thoughts: What good will it do me if the police arrest their killer after he has killed me? My actions must be far more proactive than merely informing the police. I need to protect myself. I mustn’t give up or relax, because any slip on my part will allow the criminal to behead me.

  George sat in his room wondering how to handle a crime that wasn’t connected to him, even though he might now be a target. He brooded about the murderer, picturing an inscrutable man locked inside a room with a knife, a revolver, and a rope.

  * * *

  George Haddad’s concerns were not unfounded. They were real, and violence lurked in every direction—the violence of people with arrogant faces, haughty laughter, and merciless behavior.

  On Saturday morning he awakened at dawn to the sound of hotel workers having a debate about some matter—they sounded nervous. Initially, he paid no attention to their argument. Then his ears gradually picked up Shukri Jamil’s name. George approached a janitor, a gray-hai
red man he hadn’t seen before, who was seated by the gate.

  “What’s going on?” George asked, as the cleaner got up to leave.

  “Haven’t you heard? The police found the body of Shukri Jamil in the river.”

  George got very upset when he heard this. He had convinced himself that Shukri Jamil had in fact requested leave. Several times he had tried to reassure himself that the affair posed no real threat. Now someone had actually found the accountant’s body in the river.

  The noon news broadcast said that Shukri Jamil had committed suicide—apparently, he’d shot himself in the head on a bluff beside the Tigris River, on the Utaifiya side, and his body had fallen into the water. Before his suicide, he had sent the police a letter confessing responsibility for the Baghdad House murders, including that of Ted Lancaster, whose body was then found buried in a ruined building on the outskirts of the city. The police had found incriminating evidence in Shukri Jamil’s residence at Utaifiya.

  Later, when George arrived at the office, a dumbfounded Edith confirmed these reports. Out on the street, the Communists were demonstrating against the allegations. They accused the security forces of killing Shukri Jamil and attempting to conceal that fact by claiming he had killed himself.

  * * *

  Waheed shared his opinion when he saw George in the hotel corridor: the educated classes typically mistrusted the government and imagined an imperialist conspiracy behind almost any miscarriage of justice. George, however, discounted the possibility that these were political crimes. If Shukri Jamil was the true target, why were the others killed?

  Moreover, did this mean the string of killings had ended, or would it continue? Until he learned the true motive, why shouldn’t he think his name was on the list too? Now that the killer had begun, he wouldn’t just stop, and killing would become a sport he needed to perfect. Such perfection could only be achieved through repeat performances.

  George’s sleepless night was spent staring into the dark while he tossed and turned, his mind racing. At one point he imagined that someone with a knife was leaning over him, and he leaped out of bed.

  Even the most ordinary thing terrified him now, like the soft ticking of the clock on his bedside table. At times the croaking of frogs in the garden resembled muffled moans, and the clanging of pots in the kitchen were like metallic gunfire. Peering through the window, he mistook a stack of wooden planks for a man with a knife in his hand—a polished knife that looked red. Another time he thought he heard a woman being stabbed in the street.

  George decided to try to solve the riddle of the numbers. Only this would guide him to the truth.

  * * *

  Seated on his bed, George gazed at the numbers he had copied from the budget ledger. If you separate the numbers into single digits, that still means nothing. How about dividing them into pairs? He scrutinized the new combinations. Perhaps this will provide me with a clue. I’ll have 12, followed by 75, and then the number 3.

  He wondered aloud, “But what could 12 refer to around here?” He had a hunch, but wasn’t positive, so he continued his musings: Suppose there’s a bus number 12 that goes through here. I’ll try this out and ask Saleem the grocer.

  George headed out to see the grocer, and immediately asked, “Uncle Saleem, what’s the bus that passes by here?”

  The gray-haired man, who wore glasses with thick lenses, was bagging groceries for a customer, and didn’t bother to look up at George as he replied, “There are two buses: the 12 and the 15.”

  “Where does number 12 go?”

  “Its final stop is in the evacuated zone, beyond al-Waziriya . . .”

  George felt he was close to a solution. At least he had a hypothesis. He decided to ride the 12 bus that morning to the evacuated zone.

  * * *

  When George disembarked, he wasn’t the only person leaving the bus at its terminus. Two men in blue suits set off toward the gardens and old groves. George walked straight ahead toward a cluster of deserted houses, allowing his feet to guide him. Suddenly, a seemingly abandoned white house caught his eye. An old Rolls-Royce was parked in front, covered in dust. He headed toward the dwelling, which was surrounded by trees.

  It was noon, and the pavement in front of the deserted house glinted in the sunshine. There was an old, dry, and dark stone fountain at the center of the front courtyard, and it was so large that it partially blocked his view of the wooden door, which looked like a prison gate.

  He proceeded cautiously across the courtyard, seeking shade next to the massive walls. His footsteps echoed against the house’s stillness. He carefully scrutinized the walls and eerie-looking windows. At the right of the doorway was a metal plaque with the number 75. Here was the evidence—this was definitely the place Shukri Jamil had in mind when he wrote that number in the ledger.

  He pushed against the door, and it swung open. He was hesitant about entering but sensed that no one was inside. The floor was covered with mats, and two shelves facing one another held brass vessels. Below these were numerous statues arranged like stage props. Large leather drums stood to their right; to their left were wooden blocks wrapped with ropes, which he imagined were intended for use in some unspeakable ritual. When he walked past the statues he found that some had anxious faces and others wore expressions contorted by pain. They represented slain people with funereal veils and hands bound behind their backs. A tree trunk resembling a butcher’s block suggested that people had been beheaded here.

  The sun’s rays coming through the window illuminated the dust on a small-framed portrait of a woman being whipped. Next to it, he spotted a photo of Rahima with her daughter on one side and her husband on the other. The names Abdul Rahim al-Agha, Rahima, and Ikhlas were inscribed beneath the picture. What is a photo of Rahima doing here? George wondered in dismay.

  He heard a movement behind him. When he turned, the person facing him was the man beside Rahima in the photograph.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Abdul Rahim al-Agha said. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand and a knife in the other.

  George regained his composure, determined to escape by any means. “I knew we would meet,” he replied boldly.

  “Tell me: how did you find this place?” Abdul Rahim asked.

  “Shukri Jamil left a clue in the budget ledger,” George said, his voice calm now. “Why did you kill him?”

  “Because—like you—he knew too much,” Abdul snapped. “Have you heard about Icarus, who soared too close to the sun? He died. You’ve also moved too close to the sun . . . much too close. That’s why you’ve earned this honor. Being killed is a special honor. I will enjoy it, and so will you. The entire world runs on blood and semen. You may ask why I killed Ted Lancaster . . . You might as well ask Cain why he killed Abel. Blood and semen are the foundation of this world. Bloodshed is essential for life. Death and suffering are sacrosanct.

  “But you killed Rahima too,” George said.

  “She had to die with her lover. We agreed on that! When she betrayed me, she accepted her death. I killed her in the Baghdad House while she was kissing my hand. I tortured Ted Lancaster in this place until his spirit gave up the ghost.”

  George said: “You entered Barwis’s room—or it was you and Barwis both, because Sargon heard a woman’s voice. You killed the two women . . . and you and Barwis entered her room . . . I heard a door slam while I was descending the stairs. Then the two of you left through the ground-floor window. Later, you killed Shukri Jamil to frame him, placing evidence in an apartment you rented in his name. You murdered him so he would appear to be the sole killer. Sargon and Reem are certainly complicit too.”

  “Splendid! Now you know more than you ought to.”

  Abdul Rahim al-Agha advanced from the bottom of the stairway through the large room. Detecting an opening, George Haddad ran desperately toward the stairs, but Abdul Rahim didn’t follow him immediately. Instead, he calmly poured himself a glass of whiskey and placed two ice cubes in it. Still holding
the knife in one hand, he drained the whiskey from the glass and removed a rope from a drawer, which he then placed on the table. Grasping the knife, he calmly followed George, who was now on the upper floor, searching for an escape route from the dwelling.

  George thought that jumping from the window onto the roof was the only way out. He found a window in the parlor; through it he could see the shingles, but this window had been nailed shut. He was struggling to get it open when Abdul Rahim appeared. Sweat poured down George’s forehead, and he saw that the entire window frame was moving. The rusty old nails in the rotted frame were giving way, and after another strong pull, the window opened. Just as he heard Abdul Rahim panting before him, George slid outside. As soon as his feet touched the roof, he carefully hurried across it. He knew that if he jumped to the ground, he’d break some bones. Looking to the side, he glimpsed a column that led down to another area of the roof, so he scrambled lower.

  Abdul Rahim stayed right behind him, and followed him down the same column, though his hands lost their grip. A terrifying scream broke the silence as he slipped from the roof—and fell into the stone fountain, slamming his head.

  As George approached Abdul Rahim, the man was taking his last breaths as a trickle of blood flowed from his ear. His skull was crushed where it had struck the fountain. George ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.

  * * *

  The next day, George went out to the street, where he found a brilliant morning. He plunged into the bustle of Baghdad. Various vendors displayed their wares on the sidewalks: delicious fruit scrubbed clean, glistening vegetables, an amazing block of russet-colored sweets, and twisted wands of scrumptious caramel. There were fishmongers and people selling iced treats and juices. Amid the cacophony, George soon realized that someone was tailing him. A man with an umbrella in his hand was watching him. Whenever George turned back, the umbrella man would look the other way.

  His pursuer eventually disappeared in the market, and after a few days George’s life gradually returned to normal. His hours at the hotel were untroubled, and Madame Reem and Sargon showered him with what appeared to be genuine affection. After he returned from work at the end of a day, he would sometimes go to the movies, where occasionally he would doze off, depending on the film. Other evenings, he would return to the hotel, bathe, and—after window-shopping on nearby streets—dine quietly at the Abu Johnny Restaurant, have a drink in a bar run by a slim black bartender, and then return to sleep at the inn.