The Fertility of Evil

1

Thursday, July 5, 2018

7:10 a.m.

“Karim. Karim! Karim!!”
Colonel Karim Soltani struggled to open his eyes and glanced at his watch. He scowled at Meriem, who had rudely awakened him from a pleasant slumber. She knew his sleep routine: 4 a.m. to 9 a.m. Any more or less and he’d be in a bad mood with a headache all day. He expressed his annoyance by pursing his lips, but she paid him no mind. Didn’t he, like every other citizen of this country, have the right to enjoy a day off on Independence Day? He didn’t dwell on it for too long since he realized a storm was brewing on the horizon. Meriem stood over him, tousling her long hair in extreme agitation.
“What is it?” he asked.
Sternly, she said, “Someone wants to speak with you.”
“Here? Who is it?”
“He said it’s the Big Boss.”
At first, he thought she was joking, but Meriem’s urgent tone convinced him to take her seriously. How did the Boss know he was there? And how dare he call him at this number? What could he possibly want this morning? Angrily, he dragged himself out of bed as if weighed down by dumbbells and headed to the living room to pick up the phone. No sooner had the word “hello” left his mouth than he was bombarded with a flood of choice insults and curses from the repertoire of General Brahim Belkacemi, the national champion of blasphemy, and also his direct superior in the Anti-Terrorism Unit. Soltani made it a habit of calling him “sir,” unlike those fuckers who called him the Big Boss. Over time, he had become accustomed to dealing with him, trying to avoid confrontations as much as possible while not giving in too much.
“Good God, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’m in front of your place.”
“What’s the problem, sir?”
“I need to see you right away.”
“What’s happened? Has Judgment Day finally come?”
“Good God, Soltani. I’m no good with words and don’t like talking more than I have to.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, sir.”
He hung up the phone to avoid the next invective strike. He knew from experience that whenever the General repeated the phrase “good God,” it was always followed by blasphemy, which irritated Soltani. He returned to the bedroom but didn’t find Meriem there. He gathered up his scattered clothes and headed to the bathroom. After washing his face, he dressed and then glanced at himself in the mirror. Despite turning fifty-three months ago, he still looked like he was in his forties. He found her in the kitchen making coffee. He walked up to kiss her, but as she turned her head, she immediately yelled in his face, “Why did you give out my home phone number without my permission?!”
“Let me explain, Meryouma . . .”
“Get out of my house!”
He chose not to respond, having learned that continuing to talk with her in that state would only complicate things further. It was best to leave and let her cool down. Getting kicked out was no big deal; it wouldn’t be the first time. How often had she thrown him out, only for them to make up later? What really infuriated him, though, was that he had done nothing wrong. He hadn’t told anyone he was spending the night at Meriem’s place. He wanted to defend himself but couldn’t tell her the truth because Meriem was paranoid. She believed she was constantly under surveillance. Even though five years had passed since her divorce from her ex-husband, who had subjected her to relentless cruelty, she still hadn’t escaped that nightmare.
Soltani snuck out through the small back gate to avoid the neighbors’ attention. Divorced and living alone, Meriem had never returned to her family home, as most divorced women do. Thus, the eyes of those living in Gambetta never closed. The neighbors believed it was their right, no, their duty to watch over her to preserve the neighborhood’s honor and integrity. He started the engine of his black 2012 Dacia Sandero that was parked at the end of the street and drove off. Oran’s bewitching light, an effect of the sea and the sun, gave his heart a measure of tranquility.
The road to his downtown apartment, which over-looked the water, was almost empty compared to the usual unbearable traffic. The number of cars on the road in Oran was steadily increasing, while new road construction and repairs were painstakingly slow. He thought about how Algerians were so short-tempered. They didn’t understand the meaning of patience, and the Boss and Meriem were no exceptions. He had just read about the rise in deaths in Algeria that came as a result of stress-induced heart attacks while driving. However, he didn’t dwell on this; he turned his thoughts to Meriem. He often found himself grappling with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he wanted to be with her because he loved her. On the other hand, he didn’t want to sacrifice his freedom. Long-term relationships seemed risky, and marriage was something he wouldn’t even consider, having failed at it before. In fact, he still incurred loss upon loss. His ex-wife, Nadia, never forgave him for the divorce and used every possible means to make his life difficult, using their son, Malik, as her most effective weapon against him. Just recently, Malik turned fifteen and, encouraged by his mother, turned down Soltani’s gift of a new iPhone.
To get back at Soltani, she married a colleague who taught French with her at the high school two years after their divorce. When the matter of custody came up, Soltani carefully considered what would be best for his son. His demanding work schedule offered no scheduled days off, so he made the difficult decision to let his son live with his mother and her new husband. Instead of engaging in the typical battles of divorced couples, Soltani prioritized his son’s well-being.
When he saw General Belkacemi standing alone in front of his sea-facing apartment building, thoughts of his ex-wife disappeared. Belkacemi had sent his driver on his way, meaning it was a sensitive matter. As soon as Soltani pulled over, the Boss jumped in without saying hello or anything.
“We don’t have time. Go!”
“Where to, sir?”
“Saint-Hubert.”
“What’s there? Why did you call me at . . . ?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, we have a disaster on our hands, Soltani.”
“But I want to know now.”
“Go, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Agitated, Soltani started the car and tore out. The General reprimanded him for always turning his cell phone off. He had been trying to reach him all morning, but without success. Finally, he had to call him on Meriem’s home phone. Soltani could barely hide his anger. The Boss had to calm him down and explain that he had started keeping an eye on Meriem when he realized that Soltani’s relationship with her was more serious than he had thought. Belkacemi assured him that he hadn’t meant to spy on her or intrude on his personal life, but then he quickly changed his tone.
“You act like you’re living in Sweden rather than Algeria. Here we have customs that are best followed, Soltani. And you mustn’t underestimate her ex-husband, Shaaban Alili. He’s dangerous and won’t keep quiet.”
He could have reminded him that Meriem wasn’t under Alili’s care. She was divorced and a free woman. He knew what Belkacemi’s reply would be, so he saw no point in saying anything. Alili and creatures like him treated their ex-wives as their private property, off-limits to others. Meriem’s ex-husband, a successful car salesman, fell into debt when he tried to edge out his competitors and expand his business. He had to leave the country and fled to Spain. Soltani tried to calm his nerves by taking out a pack of Nassims and lighting a cigarette, even though he knew the Boss had quit smoking two years ago and couldn’t stand the smell.
“Do you want to know why we’re going to Saint-Hubert or not?”
“I’m all ears.”
“It has to do with Miloud Sabri.”
“Hoopoe?”
“That’s right.”
“What’d he do, sir?”
“‘Verily we belong to God, and to Him we shall return.’”
“He’s dead?!”
The Boss plunged into the details without any preamble. Hoopoe was found an hour ago, killed, and in an awful state. There was intense pressure from the highest echelons to solve the crime as quickly as possible and keep it completely secret. There was a looming fear of a return to the civil war of the ’90s—political assassinations, eliminating adversaries, and the reemergence of that old, troubling question: “Who killed whom?” The Colonel interrupted him to ask just one question: “Why did they put us in charge of this investigation?”
“Because we’re the best there is, Soltani.”
“That goes without saying. But why else, sir?”
“The higher-ups want to confirm whether or not the crime was an act of terrorism.”
“I see.”
General Belkacemi referred to the people in power as “higher-ups.” Whether he meant the military or the Ministry of Defense or the secret police or the presidency, God only knew. The General didn’t want to delve too deeply into it but hoped that the political assassination theory would not bear fruit; it wouldn’t be an isolated episode but rather a long, boring rerun they had already seen. Soltani was convinced that the higher-ups did not relish a return to terrorism since the regional situation had changed entirely, and not for the better. In the ’90s, the neighboring countries were stable. Now, Algeria is surrounded by conflagrations from Libya to Tunisia to Mali, and whoever plays with fire risks getting burned. In theory, if there were any differences among members of the higher-ups, they would necessarily be solved through the best available means; the benefits were substantial, and they would all get their share. There was no need to return to the old ways of eliminating adversaries, crying over them, and then placing the blame on terrorists.
When they got to Saint-Hubert, Soltani had no trouble parking the car in front of a magnificent colonial-era villa. There was no trace of the security forces, so he knew the crime was still being kept under wraps. He walked behind General Belkacemi, who rushed ahead, and they entered through the main gate. A large square garden filled with orange and lemon trees appeared before them. He cast a glance at the carefully and tastefully arranged flower beds, then bent over a red rose and caressed it, leaning in close to sniff its scent. He caught up with the General as he went up to the first floor, seeing an open door at the end of the hallway. He headed toward it and found himself in a spacious bedroom with a large balcony. Despite the open windows, the smell was awful. The first face he saw was that of the medical examiner, Abdou Hamlaoui, with traces of sleep still in his eyes. He had likely been told to hurry over and had no time to wash his face. A few steps into the room, the Colonel found himself face-to-face with the body. The victim was naked, hands and feet bound, lying in a mixture of blood, urine, and feces. He drew closer and saw that the tip of the man’s nose had been placed on his chest, and that his throat had been slit from ear to ear. Then he noticed a man in his fifties by the window. He was fat, short, black-haired, and partially gray, stealing glances at the body, nervously touching his rounded beard, and crying silently. Soltani wondered who he was and what he was doing there. He didn’t have to wonder for long. The General came over and whispered in his ear: Badreddine Bouzar, or Badrou for short. The dead man’s son-in-law. He was the one who reported the crime.
After a little while, a team of three men dressed in white, resembling surgeons, approached and began examining the crime scene. They lifted fingerprints and took photographs of everything that could be photographed. As soon as one of them found a dagger covered in blood underneath the pillow, he handed it to the Boss, who then inspected it with Soltani after they had put on medical gloves. They concluded that the dagger was most likely the murder weapon. Badrou approached and stared at it, surprised and disturbed. Suddenly, he fainted, prompting the General to order someone to assist him immediately.
Soltani felt dizzy and rushed out of the room, almost throwing up. He realized he hadn’t had his morning coffee yet, and his head was starting to pound. Belkacemi joined him and told him that the case was now his, that he was granting him full authority. Soltani stifled a laugh on hearing the word “authority” because he knew that everybody was responsible for protecting his own ass, no matter what “authority” was given.
The General insisted that no effort should be spared to achieve tangible results as quickly as possible. As he left, the Boss handed him a piece of paper.
“This’s the address of Hoopoe’s house.”
“And what is this amazing place, sir?”
“This is the love nest. You need to go and speak with his wife, Zahra Misbah.”
“May God guide His creatures!”
Soltani repeated this phrase whenever he found it difficult to find a reasonable explanation for something. He stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket and thought about the current housing crisis in Algeria. So many families in the big cities were jammed into one or two rooms like sardines, while others owned a villa for mistresses, another for their wife and children, and another for their children, and on and on.
Colonel Soltani called his aides, Captain Samir Ziane and First Lieutenant Malika Derraji, and instructed them to come meet him immediately without providing any explanation. He searched for a café nearby and was extremely lucky to find one that had opened that very day to coincide with Independence Day. The owner was giving away free drinks, and the coffee was good. He looked at the glass and saw the name “Lavazza” on it.
After that, Soltani went back to the villa and waited outside.