The Protector Page 6

  Abdul could not understand why the police hired such men when their backgrounds and motives were so obvious. It seemed bizarre to Abdul and he could not believe his bad luck when, soon after joining the squad, he realised what kind of men the rest of his team were. He had initially assumed that his placement with them had been because he too was Sunni but then he learned that many of the other squads were of mixed faith. A week after joining the team Abdul applied for a transfer to another but his request was not even considered, his bosses having far too many more important things to worry about than a young police recruit’s unhappiness with his fellow officers.

  Iraqi Sunnis had a reputation for being more aggressive and militant than the Shi’a, and Hassan and his cronies were a perfect example. When it came to murder, for instance, an Iraqi Shi’a was likely to accept a financial payment from the murderer in compensation for the family’s loss, as the Koran advised. But a Sunni was more likely to demand blood, an eye for an eye - and immediately, too.

  There were two other police officers in the team besides Abdul, Hassan and Hassan’s brother Ali. Arras and Karrar were boyhood friends, originally from the Sunni stronghold of Ramadi, west of Fallujah, and they had moved to Dora as teenagers. Ramadi, was notorious for its robbers and highwaymen, skills on which Arras and Karrar hoped to build in Baghdad. All four officers were strong and determined characters who could see nothing wrong or even un-Islamic in what they did and believed it to be an acceptable way to make a living. The chance to commit crimes while working as legitimate police officers was seen as heaven-sent. It removed practically all the dangers and, better still, their victims had nowhere to turn to complain. They were certainly not the only officers of the law who practised extortion on the general public. Corrupt policemen were an accepted part of daily life in Iraq. Before the war a police officer took his life in his hands if he was corrupt. Saddam once had three officers hanged in public after they were caught demanding the equivalent of three dollars from an errant motorist.

  Abdul was the smallest and most frail member of the squad. In fact, he was one of the least substantial men in the entire force. Like the majority of city Iraqis the team all wore their hair short and had well-groomed, closely trimmed facial hair - all except Hassan who wore a beard that he trimmed occasionally when it got too bushy.

  ‘That car,’ Hassan barked, indicating a fresh-looking BMW with a well-dressed young man behind the wheel who was waiting to enter the busy junction from the bridge. ‘Go!’

  Abdul looked at the BMW, knowing what he had to do and hating it. He picked up his Kalashnikov, pushed away from the police vehicle and walked towards the car, reluctant but obedient as always. This was why he loathed being in the police, or at least in Hassan’s squad.

  Disobeying traffic signals had become a national pastime in Iraq since the end of the war. Not a single electrically operated traffic indicator worked and since many of the major roads were partially or fully blocked off for security reasons drivers drove pretty much any way they wanted to in order to get to their destinations. That included mounting pavements, driving the wrong way down roads - including motorways - and going against the flow on roundabouts. This practice played into the corrupt police officers’ hands: they selected their victims like sweets on a tray. When Hassan ordered Abdul to commit his first crime, the extortion of a few thousand dinars, equivalent to a couple of US dollars, from a motorist the peer pressure had been overwhelming and Abdul had not been strong enough to defy it. But since the crime involved little more than a brief conversation with no threat of repercussion,Abdul had slipped into it rather too easily. His excuse was that it was far less hassle to take part in the team’s ‘extracurricular’ activity than to defy it. But if Abdul had examined himself more honestly he would have had to admit that although he did not like doing it he did enjoy the extra spending money it provided. Over a short period of time the battle with his conscience had been lost and at the end of the day all that remained was a general distaste for what he did. But he did it anyway.

  Abdul walked to the front of the BMW and held out his hand to stop it. The young driver immediately rolled his eyes as he obeyed and pushed the button that rolled down his window.

  ‘Can I see your registration papers?’ Abdul asked.

  The young man reached into his inside breast pocket, removed the papers and held them out to Abdul.

  Abdul scanned through them quickly with an experienced eye and spotted a discrepancy. ‘Where is the court registration?’ he asked.The process of registering a new car was not particularly complicated in Iraq but since there was no longer a mail system a new owner had to present himself and the paperwork at the relevant courthouse as well as at his local police station to complete the transaction. It was an inconvenient process for many but a car was technically illegal until the procedure was completed. Although the offence was considered nowhere near serious enough for the car to be confiscated or to have the offender appear in court, technically the vehicle could be temporarily impounded and it therefore left a window of opportunity for corrupt officers to harvest a little bribe.

  ‘Your registration is incomplete,’ Abdul said.

  ‘I plan to do it tomorrow,’ the driver said, wondering why he was wasting his time debating the subject. But the Arab instinct to haggle was far too strong in him.

  ‘I understand,’ Abdul said. ‘But do you understand that it is not complete today?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ the driver said. ‘I will take care of it immediately.’

  ‘But you understand,’ Abdul said politely, beginning to wonder if indeed the driver did understand what he meant without him actually having to say it up front.

  The driver sighed as he reached into his pocket and produced several notes.

  ‘I see you do understand,’ Abdul acknowledged as he took the money and stepped back from the car to allow it to continue.

  Abdul turned away and almost bumped into Hassan who looked down at the cash, took it from Abdul’s hand and inspected the amount, maintaining his snarl as he pocketed it. ‘Just four thousand? You don’t try very hard,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not very good at it,’ Abdul replied.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Hassan said. ‘You’re weak.’

  Hassan walked away, leaving Abdul with the usual bad taste in his mouth. Much as he hated Hassan and the job that he was trapped in, gainful employment was hard to find in Iraq and since Abdul was not the entrepreneurial type it was either the police, the army or the private security sector. The army had been a non-starter since what little experience he’d had of it still haunted him. He did not have the patience and confidence nor the right contacts for a security-guard position, even though a job like that meant better pay if the right employer could be found. Joining the police force was the easiest and most convenient option because it was a simple case of filling in an application form, waiting a few weeks to be vetted cursorily and then completing the brief training course.

  At the end of that day’s shift, before the team dispersed to their homes or wherever, Hassan divided up the day’s takings among the squad. As usual, Abdul received less than the others because, as Hassan put it, he had showed zero initiative and done the least work. But that day’s collection meant fifteen dollars to him and, considering his monthly wage was a hundred and fifty dollars, he could get over twice as much in ill-gotten gains for the same period if he maintained that level of take.

  Abdul arrived in Al Jeria Street in the Al Kindi block in the southern part of Al Mansour, not far from the old zoo in the centre of Baghdad. He parked his four-year-old Opal in a spot outside the apartment block where he lived and sat for a moment listening to a cassette tape of an Egyptian band, his current favourite. It was a quiet street with little traffic since it was used only by those who lived in the immediate area, although there were more cars than usual this month. They were owned by the men constructing a new house on the corner.

  Abdul pulled up the collar of his leather jacket an
d held the lapels together to ensure that his police uniform was hidden from the gaze of any passer-by. When the track came to an end he ejected the tape and placed it in a plastic bag among a dozen or so others lying in the footwell of the back seat, climbed out of the car, lifted out a couple of shopping bags, checked there was nothing of any value visible inside the car, shut the vehicle’s doors and locked them. After making the usual surreptitious glance around for strangers, he crossed the untidily finished concrete sidewalk, walked in through the apartment-building entrance and up the stairs that were clean though poorly appointed. He arrived at the third floor, one from the top, a small landing shared by one other apartment, placed his key in the lock and opened the door.

  ‘Tasneen,’ he called out as he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him, making sure it was bolted at the top and bottom.

  ‘I’m in my bedroom,’ she replied, her voice young and sweet-sounding.

  The clean and tidy apartment was simple and inexpensively furnished.There were signs everywhere that the occupants were young and caring: family photographs in ornate frames, a collection of dolls from Tasneen’s childhood, a violin that Abdul’s father had bought for him when he was a little boy in the vain hope he would one day learn it, a small hi-fi system and a television on a stand in a corner. The couch and matching side chair were made of high-gloss varnished wood with colourful flower-patterned upholstery. Against a window was a polished dark-wood dining table with an empty vase in the centre of a delicate white cotton doily. A long varnished wooden shelf fixed high on a wall bore several local ornaments and an ornately bound copy of the Koran. An inexpensive floral-patterned carpet was fitted throughout the flat, except in the bathroom and the small kitchen. The finishing touch was a small, cheap but delicate chandelier that shone brightly in the centre of the ceiling.

  Abdul went to the shelf, reached for the Koran, gave it a kiss, replaced it, walked into the kitchen and put the shopping bags on the counter-top beside the sink. He went back to the door to check if Tasneen had come out of her room yet, heard a tap running in the bathroom and reached for the top of one of the two small wall cabinets. He moved a cooking pot aside and took down a china vase. He quickly stuffed the day’s illicit takings inside and as he reached up to replace it he heard Tasneen walk through the living room. He hurriedly slid the cooking pot back in front of the vase and went over to the shopping bags as she walked in.

  Tasneen was beautiful. Her classic dark Middle Eastern eyes were large, her olive skin perfect, her dark hair long and slightly curly with a little pink ribbon holding the ends together in the middle of her back. She smiled on seeing Abdul and gave him a kiss on his cheek, her usual greeting for him that never failed to soften his mood.

  ‘How was your day?’ she asked as she leaned over the shopping bags to look inside. She was slightly smaller than Abdul but unlike him could not be described as frail.

  ‘Usual,’ he said, moving to the window beside the sink.

  ‘How was Hassan today? Your friends still mean to you?’

  ‘That’s like asking me if there were traffic jams in the city today,’ Abdul replied as he watched Tasneen take items from the bag and place them in their correct places in the cupboards. ‘There was a car bomb in Sadoon Street. It went off right across the river from us.’

  Tasneen sighed.‘You know I don’t like to hear those stories.’

  Abdul shrugged. ‘You asked how my day went . . . We went to investigate. You know how Hassan likes to drive anywhere that gives him an an excuse to use his siren and flashing lights . . . It wasn’t too bad, though. Only three people killed.They think the driver blew himself up by mistake because there wasn’t any target that anyone could see . . . As usual, Hassan told anyone who cared to listen that it was an American rocket . . . The man’s an idiot as well as everything else.’

  Tasneen folded the empty bag, put it into a drawer and started on the second one.

  ‘I was thinking about getting a job as an army interpreter, ’ Abdul continued.

  ‘You should. Your English is almost good enough,’ Tasneen said as she placed a bag of rice on the counter for use later.

  ‘Almost?’ he queried.

  ‘Almost, but not quite. But I will help you,’ she said as she pulled out a jar of coffee, inspected the label and then turned to face Abdul while holding it up for him to see. ‘Turkish Abala?’ she asked, a frown spreading across her face.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, shrugging. ‘So? It’s your favourite.’

  ‘It costs seven thousand dinar.’

  ‘I got it because you like it.’

  ‘There are a lot of things I like that we can’t afford any more.’ Tasneen stared into her brother’s eyes, her frown intensifying until he could no longer hold her gaze.

  ‘Why do you always do this?’ he said as he walked out of the room.

  Tasneen put down the coffee jar and looked into the bag at the rest of the contents. As she picked out a couple of other expensive items her frown was replaced by a look of hopelessness.

  She left the kitchen, saw that Abdul was not in the living room and walked across to his bedroom. She stood in the doorway, watching as he removed his jacket.

  ‘You’re still taking money, aren’t you?’ she asked accusingly.

  Abdul ignored her as he removed his semi-automatic pistol from its holster and placed it on a dresser. Then he sat down on the bed and started to untie his shoelaces.

  ‘My brother is a thief,’ she said resignedly in response to his silence.

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ he snapped, glaring at her.

  ‘You take money that is not yours under false pretences. That is stealing.’

  ‘They’re fines.’

  ‘Fines,’ she said, hitting a higher note. ‘Fines go to the government. When you put the money in your pocket it’s theft.’

  ‘They owe us it, anyway.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘The government.You know how little we get paid.’

  ‘Is that what you tell yourself? Or is that what your new friend Hassan tells you to get you to do it?’

  Abdul held onto his temper as he removed his boots, got up and walked past her. ‘What’s for supper?’ he asked as he sat on the couch and picked up the remote television control.

  ‘I’m not your wife, Abdul. I work too.’

  He sighed heavily, struggling to overcome his anger as he repeatedly clicked the remote, unable to get it to respond correctly.‘There is no government anyhow.’

  ‘You’re getting more like them every day.You’re not in a police force. You’re in a gang.’

  The television came on too loudly - an Egyptian soap opera - and Tasneen moved briskly across the room to turn it off. ‘Abdul? Listen to me. Don’t you realise what you are doing?’

  ‘I’m earning us a living, that’s what I’m doing,’ he said, raising his voice unconvincingly in his effort to dominate her.

  Tasneen might have been delicate in stature but the fire in her bright oval eyes showed greater determination than her brother possessed. ‘At what price?’ she said, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Our mother and father would be horrified if they knew.’

  ‘Father left us nothing. The house was practically destroyed and no one will buy it for years.’

  Tasneen exhaled heavily, calming herself in an effort to bring down the temperature. ‘We earn a good enough living between us. You don’t need to steal.’

  ‘This is not a living. You work for an American contractor in the Green Zone. You have to hide yourself each time you go in and come out, every day wondering if a suicide bomber will blow himself up at the checkpoint, always wondering if someone will follow you home and one day kill you for working for the Americans.’

  ‘And what about you?’ she snapped. ‘It’s the same for you, isn’t it? You hide your police uniform when you come home for the same reasons. It’s how things are, Abdul. It’s how we live. But at least I have my self-respect.’

  ‘I’
m not a thief! You know that. But you don’t know what it’s like working with those people. I can’t refuse them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Abdul shook his head in frustration at her complete ignorance.‘What do I say to them? That I’m not going to be a part of the squad any more?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tasneen said, hitting her high note again.

  ‘I would have to quit the police.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that? It’s better than doing what you do.’

  ‘And then how do we live? You don’t earn enough money for the both of us.’

  ‘Get another job.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘As a security guard.You can earn maybe four, five hundred dollars a month doing that.’

  The first thought that popped into Abdul’s head was that he earned more than that with his supplementary income anyway. But he dared not say that to her. ‘Then get me a job,’ he said.

  Tasneen gritted her teeth in irritation as she watched him fold his arms across his chest and stare at the blank television screen. ‘We cannot go on like this, Abdul,’ she said. ‘You know it as well as I do. It can only get worse.’

  He didn’t move other than to direct his sullen stare down at the floor.

  ‘I hate this bad feeling I have for you,’ she said. ‘I hate it when we talk like this to each other . . . You don’t even seem to want to try to change the way you are living . . . What happened to you, Abdul? You were always a good boy.You and I were always happy together.’

  ‘You were always happy,’ he snapped. ‘But you’re a girl. It’s easy for you. I’m a man.’