Being my private secretary is not a job for the faint-hearted, and mine is as tough as nails. But even she has her limits, and those were nearly breached on Friday afternoon, when, between meetings, she knocked on my office door with a well-controlled “Mr. Collins? May I come in?” that was, nonetheless, just a bit louder than would have been expected.
“Please do,” I replied, steeling myself for whatever it was that had put her into such an obvious state of agitation.
Reflexively, she glanced at the windows, even though she was no doubt aware they can’t be opened – but her need for fresh air had overcome her higher brain functions.
Grabbing the trash receptacle next to my desk, she sat down on the couch, leaning forward over it as she sank into the thick, leather covered cushions. I was truly touched – the poor thing was afraid she was going to puke on my rug.
“Mr. Collins,” she finally managed, “there’s a gentleman in my reception area wearing lilac colored Arab get-up who smells like…”
“Stinks,” I corrected, “you smell, he stinks.”
“Yes,” she nodded, fighting to keep down her luncheon salad, “that’s right – he stinks like a dead goat and I can hardly stand to smell it.”
Reaching into my desk, I withdrew a small jar of the Coroner’s Friend – a waxy substance called camphor – smeared some just under my nostrils and then stood by her side, offering her the jar.
“Just a bit under the nose does wonders when dealing with the occasional, er, exotic client,” I explained. And, after just as quick a dab, her complexion lost its greenish tinge.
“That’s amazing,” she proclaimed, “I… I can’t smell a [expletive] thing!”
“Camphor anesthetizes the olfactory nerves. The effect lasts until you wipe the stuff off your upper lip – plus about three hours afterwards. Here,” I offered, “put this in your desk in case another one of our august visitors… distinguishes themselves similarly in the future.”
Demurely dabbing at her watering eyes, she rose to re-enter the outer office, which, I imagined, probably reeked so badly that the odor could only be described as indescribable. She’s one brave lady, my private secretary.
“He didn’t give his name, Mr. Collins,” she informed me while slowly working up the gumption to open the door, “but he insists you will remember him.”
“He’s right about that,” I replied, “how could I forget? Send him in immediately. Then get the floor fan out of the closet, open the front door and start blowing that stench out of here into the hallway.”
“Yes, Mr. Collins,” she declared resolutely, taking a deep breath, opening the door and disappearing into what was surely her worst nightmare of Stygian depravity.
Of course I knew who it was. Have I ever before or since met anybody who thinks a lilac burnoose looks good on him? In seconds, “Ahmed” blew into the room like a zephyr sweeping up from the sewers of Baghdad. Regular readers of this Web log will remember him, too – from my account of our meeting at the Saudi compound in Virginia a few months back. From that story of our initial encounter, they will no doubt also recall Ahmed’s quaint world view, his remarkable philosophy, and his charming manners. And thank God, Dear Reader, that the Internet does not yet transmit olfactory information, lest you also be reminded of his truly unforgettable redolence, which, despite the camphor, managed to once again assault my senses without mercy. Infect a skunk with bubonic plague; let it die and then split open its gut. Toss the carcass in a Rangoon cesspool; incubate it for a week in the tropic sun at 38 degrees Celsius and 98 percent relative humidity – a rioting mob of lunatic ketones, aldehydes, sulfides, esters, fatty acids, mercaptans and amines screamed bloody murder at me through my protective curtain of numbing chemical cold. The stench began sneaking in through my mouth, altering the way the air tasted. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, six Altoid mints rushed to the rescue.
“Welcome, Ahmed,” I lied, pushing the Altoids out of the way with my tongue so I could speak. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again.”
“You, too, Collins,” he burped, severely straining even my sturdy oak couch as he flopped down upon it unceremoniously – there was no question of him sitting in a chair, since all the chairs in my office have arms, and his ample posterior would never have fit between them. “Good friend, Collins. Friends need me; I need friends.”
“What brings you back to Washington?” I enquired.
“Same thing – Iraqi state business. Very busy saving Iraq. Go to London, go to Paris, go to Rome. Then go back to Baghdad for more money to save Iraq. Then go to Zurich, take care of money for to save Iraq. Then go to Washington, ask for more money to save Iraq; get more money. Then go back to Baghdad, then back to Washington again. So – need advice.” Ahmed pulled out a huge roll of hundred dollar bills, peeled off a sizable wad, and, with great effort, leaned forward, extending his arm to deposit the wad on my desk. “I pay, I ask, you tell answers. No IRS.”
I quickly counted the cash and wrote Ahmed a receipt for professional services. “The law requires me to offer you this, of course,” I explained, proffering the receipt.
“No papers,” Ahmed replied, “you keep if you like.”
“Sure,” I said, affably, storing the receipt in a desk drawer. There was no reason not be affable, after all, considering how much money Ahmed had just laid on me. “What can I help you with?”
“Get money to save Iraq, spend money to save Iraq…. get money, spend money… get more money, spend more money. But no save Iraq. Iraq float in toilet,” Ahmed sighed, “Ayad Allawi hire Washington lobby men…” Ahmed’s eyes lit up as he apparently remembered something important enough to interrupt his train of thought. “My man, Nouri Al-Maliki – he say thank you for gift.”
“Ah yes,” I responded, “the Dior handkerchiefs.”
“You right, he like; use them plenty, too. You got more?”
I pulled out one of the gift wrapped boxes of Dior handkerchiefs I have taken to keeping in my right bottom desk drawer for just such occasions. “Please,” I told him as I leaned over, offering him the package, “with my compliments.”
Ahmed accepted the gift, giving it a cursory once-over. “Al-Maliki will be most pleased. Very useful gift.” Ahmed shook his head sadly as he stowed the package in his briefcase. “Many tears,” he confessed, snapping the latches closed, then looking up at me seriously, “many, many tears he cries.”
“Tears for his beloved country,” I ventured, “as any true patriot would shed.”
Ahmed shook his head forcefully. “No! Cries feeling sorry for his own sorry [expletive]. Feeling sorry for himself only.” Ahmed shrugged, diffidently, “Maybe for his family, maybe for me, a little, too. Maybe.”
“So his plan to assure Shia dominance through secret manipulation of the police force and covert Shia death squads didn’t work out as planned?”
“Is crazy cluster [expletive], what you say – SNAFU. Everything big, how you say, big pig [expletive]. He think loyalty people, get betray instead. Stab. They stab him.” Ahmed pantomimed for clarity. “Stab, stab, stab. Stab his back.” Ahmed shrugged. “Now other sides winning. Now Allawi hire lobbyists. They talk to American Congress; say make coup on Al Maliki, kill him. Whisper in President’s ear ‘Maliki big [expletive], he screw the pooch in Iraq.’ President go on TV, talk about Maliki. Translator tell Maliki, Bush say Maliki screw the pooch in Iraq. Maliki start to cry.” Ahmed held up his hand, extending three fingers. “Three of your gift, he make all wet. Cry like baby. Then he very angry. He yell ‘I no screw pooch here! Pentagon screw pooch in Iraq! State Department screw pooch in Iraq! CIA screw pooch in Iraq!’ Gets on phone, yell and cry, tell Cheney no pooch screwing by Al Maliki – big pooch screwing by America. Maliki say ‘Richard Perle screw pooch! Paul Wolfowitz screw pooch! Condi Rice kinky freak who screw pooches with strap-on! Don Rumsfeld like to screw boy pooches! Paul Bremer screw thousand pooches and get fleas! Bush 43 screw mother of all pooches and get rabies!’ Cheney say ‘Go [expletive] yourself, you camel [expletive] sucking sand [expletive]!’ and hang up. Maliki cry some more.” Ahmed knit his hands together, tilting his head back to contemplate my office ceiling tiles. “Then Maliki have scary dream. Wake up screaming. Doctor give pills. Maliki drink too much, mix up with pills, cries more, have more scary dreams.” Ahmed lowered his gaze to meet mine. Tapping the right side of his skull with an index finger he told me “Not stupid. I think about. And I think not good.”
“Well,” I observed, “Bush did go on television later and say that your boss is a nice guy.”
“Sure,” Ahmed nodded, knowingly, “after Cheney tell Bush about Al Maliki call. Bush afraid Maliki go on TV and tell whole world who screw pooches in Iraq. But is no good. First, Bush make one thing in front of everybody then he make other thing in front of everybody – and these things, what you call… contradict; opposite. So where Bush cred… credidity… creditness… how you say?”
“Credibility,” I helpfully supplied.
“Where Bush cred… ibil… ity now? Nobody believe anything he say.”
“Well,” I agreed, “there’s more than enough of that going around these days. But I assume you paid me to advise you on… certain matters. What might they be?”
“Ah, yes, was getting at,” Ahmed answered, settling back into the couch, “very important. No Iraq anymore. Is fighting everywhere, everything falling apart. I think soon United States make military coup, put Allawi prime minister, try fix Iraq up good, American style. Not work, but I think United States try anyway. Maybe kill Maliki, maybe make Maliki run away. Not want to die with Maliki, not want to run away with Maliki. Need advice on where to go when [expletive] hits fan.”
“As I recall,” I reminded him, “we met at the Saudi compound over in Virginia. Have you spoken with them about asylum of some sort?”
“No, no! Saudi’s want to cut off head!”
“Oh, really? I had no idea that you had fallen out of favor with them.”
“They find out Maliki back death squads, kill Sunnis. I work for Maliki. Saudis not like me anymore.”
“Jordan?”
“Too many Al Qaeda in Jordan. Big reward for kill me, too. Not last a week in Jordan – assassins, suicide bombers, maybe car bomb. Jordan no good.”
“Anywhere in the Persian Gulf region?”
“Arabian Gulf!” Ahmed interjected, a bit miffed. “Is Arabian Gulf!”
“Oh, sorry,” I apologized, “since you work for a Shi’ite, I thought you would prefer the other name.”
“Not Shi’ite. Am Sunni.”
“But you helped Maliki organize the death squads that murdered countless Sunnis, didn’t you?”
“Not my tribe. Other Sunni tribes. Old Arab proverb says ‘Friend of enemy of my friend’s enemy’s friend is my friend’s enemy’s enemy.’ Very wise proverb.”
“That’s odd,” I observed, “I thought that it went ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”
Ahmed laughed. “You Europe and American people, you sometime very funny. Think so simple, like children, almost. Never get Arabic right in English, French, German, whatever. I think not stupid, really, just not understand Arabs very good.” Ahmed shook his head emphatically, “not understand very good at all. Many French, German, Russian, British pooch screwing, all Europe people screwing pooch in Arab country for centuries. Then Americans make like monkey-see-monkey-do, how you say… imitating… Europe people. Now pooches all screwed up all over Middle East, Iraq in the middle going down toilet while Americans screw many, many pooches, just like Europe people many, many time before.”
“That very well could be the case, I suppose. So,” I continued, “do you think we should rule out all Islamic countries as possible options?”
“Like discos, lap dance, thong bikini bathing suit, window girls like in Amsterdam,” Ahmed clarified. “Who want to see woman all covered up? Can’t tell if she young or old, ugly or not. Need a drink, too; start with Bloody Mary in morning.”
“Okay, since you mentioned it, how about Amsterdam?”
“Nice place to visit, but not want to live there;” Ahmed opined, “too many Moslems. Also homos.”
“Well,” I suggested, “what about Switzerland? Centrally located, nice access to the best parts of the Continent, very cosmopolitan, no poor people allowed…”
“Switzerland nice, but can’t go. Not good idea. Can’t go to Europe countries, I think.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Interpol look for my… what you say… brother-in-law. I think, when coup in Iraq, I lose diplomatic status, Interpol look for me, too.”
“This might be a delicate question,” I said slowly, “but the nature of Interpol’s motivations could affect my recommendation. So, if you could, would you please tell me why Interpol is looking for your brother-in-law, and also, why Interpol might start looking for you?”
Ahmed pondered my request for about thirty seconds. “We call ‘baksheesh’ in Iraq. You know baksheesh?”
“Yes,” I affirmed, “I know it well. So you made baksheesh with the money America gave you?”
“Me, my brother, my brother-in-law… everybody in Iraq government make baksheesh with America money. I get, maybe ten million dollars one day, I give brother-in-law nine, he give eight to Iraqi Treasury, head of Iraqi Treasury put seven in Central Bank. Then maybe Ministry of Interior take a million out, head of Ministry keep a hundred thousand. Like that.”
“So how much of the original money gets used for the purposes America intended?”
Ahmed shook his head. “Don’t know. Some money get used to buy things for Iraq government; must be. If not, then nothing happen.”
“It would seem,” I pointed out, “that has been exactly the case. America gave the Iraqi government billions of dollars and nothing happened.”
Ahmed considered my point briefly. “Yes. Probably nothing happen in Iraq for five years because American money go for baksheesh.” Ahmed raised his index finger to make his own counterpoint. “But is not baksheesh fault. Is Americans fault. Not give Iraq enough money.”
“I understand your point of view,” I demurred, “but you must understand that in Europe and America, ‘baksheesh’ is called ‘embezzlement’ and it is a very serious crime.”
“Why crime to make baksheesh?” Ahmed was genuinely mystified. Indeed, it seem to me that he had as much trouble understanding Western concepts of finance as he alleged we Westerners have understanding Arab culture. “I visit Washington, see big building, make tour. United States take paper, turn into money. United States need more money, you just print. Why not United States have enough for baksheesh? Plenty paper in America, yes? Plenty green ink?”
“That’s a very good question,” I allowed, “but I’m afraid there is also a very good answer to it. You see, the United States can’t just print more money – if it did, then there would be rampant inflation and the Almighty Dollar wouldn’t be so almighty anymore. America can’t behave like Zimbabwe, for example, just printing paper money with no limit. If America did that, eventually it would take one hundred dollars to buy a loaf of bread.”
Ahmed thought about my analysis for about ten seconds. “Some country, one hundred of their money buys loaf of bread. People still make bread; people still buy. United States should give Iraq enough money, I think. Just make more what you call… zeros after.”
“I’m pretty sure America isn’t going to do that.”
“Then America not win in Iraq. Iraqis must have baksheesh. America must send more money, enough money for to save Iraq and have baksheesh, too. Bush 43 not think about this when he invade Iraq? Before Bush 43 invade, I have three hundred camels; now camels all gone – stolen by rival tribe. I have nine thousand date palms; now all dead, Americans burn them, blow them up…”
“Okay,” I interjected, moving right along, “countries with no extradition treaties for embezzlement… How’s your Spanish?”
“No hablo Espanol.”
“Willing to learn?”
“Si.”
“In that case, I have just the place for you – Costa Rica.”
“Where this… this Costa Rica?”
“It’s in Central America. Very nice. Modern, pleasant, and equipped with all of the… amenities you mentioned. Very fashionable, really. A lot of our own criminals retire there…”
“Am not criminal!”
“Right, of course not. I’ll have my private secretary prepare a dossier on Costa Rica for you – full instructions, contacts, the works. It should be ready on Monday. Drop by after lunch.”
Ahmed smiled like the cat that ate the canary. Stinky, uncouth and larcenous he may be, but he’s nonetheless very shrewd. He knows who to deal with in order to get what he wants, no matter what that might be. And yesterday, he knew there was one person in this town who could give him what he wanted – a nice place to hide from all the misery in the crumbling nation of George W. Bush’s Iraq.
“Thank you,” Ahmed belched as he rose from the couch. “I come Monday, you fix everything.”
And so I will.