by Josh Pachter
“Who could have had a motive for doing this?” Roelof Smit was numb with the horror of the scene.
His countryman shook his head despondently. “I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t make any sense. If it had been the Saudi Causeway, which another company is building on the other side of the country, I could understand it. That’s a controversial project, and there’s been a lot of opposition to it. But if there’s anything at all the people of Bahrain are in agreement on, it’s that this bridge across to Qatar is a good thing. Trade will be easier in both directions, and the security of both countries will be strengthened. I—”
Sjollema turned away from them and walked off. Roelof Smit hesitated for a moment, then went after him, leaving Chaudri alone in the rubble.
He watched them go, watched Smit catch up to the other man and put a hand to his elbow, watched them reboard the dhow and sit side by side in its stern, Sjollema with his head in his hands and Smit with an arm around the foreman’s shoulder.
The sea birds were beginning to return to the islet, squawking angrily at the invasion of their privacy. The hum of a motor launch’s powerful engine grew louder; by now, several craft were setting out towards Umm as Hawwak from the dock on the mainland.
Mahboob Chaudri hunkered down on the ground, selected a small chunk of scorched concrete from the debris at his feet, and passed it slowly from hand to hand. This morning a bridge stood here, he thought, and now I sit here with its ruined remnants in my hand. Tomorrow the Dutchmen will go back to work, and they will build the bridge again.
It is a wheel, he decided. An ever-spinning wheel of life and death.
He rose, slipped the fragment of concrete into his pocket as a reminder of the day’s events, and stepped carefully through the rubble towards the waiting dhow.
* * * *
The Bahraini headquarters of Nederbild BV occupied the fifth and sixth floors of a concrete and glass tower in the al-Khalifa Road, in the center of Manama’s business district. When Mahboob Chaudri and Roelof Smit stepped off the elevator into the sixth-floor reception area at eight o’clock the next morning, the atmosphere of tension that washed over them was even more noticeable than the chill of the air conditioning.
The blond receptionist was pretty, Chaudri supposed, if you liked European women, but he found her neckline and the tightness of her sweater immodest. She looked shocked when he asked for the firm’s managing director and assured them that Mr. Hofstra was much too busy to see them. When Smit explained the purpose of their visit to her in rapid Dutch, though—the only words Chaudri could make out were bom and explosie—she frowned nervously and ushered them along a carpeted corridor to the executive suite. Her tailored tan skirt ended an inch above her knees, and she wore spiked high heels that accented the firmness of her calves.
Shameful, Mahboob Chaudri thought as they followed her. His own dear wife Shazia would be ashamed to be seen in such garments. He would never understand these Western women, he knew, never.
Hendrik Hofstra’s office was a large, plush room with a picture window running the length of one wall and looking out over the suq. A second wall was covered with an artist’s rendering of the causeway, sketched in bold, confident strokes that contrasted starkly with the smoldering reality of the scene at Umm as Hawwak. A scale model of the bridge stood on a table in the center of the room, complete with tiny vehicles frozen in mid-transit. Hofstra’s oversized desk was in a corner by the window, cluttered with papers and books and rolls of blueprints; on the wall behind it were half a dozen framed photographs of a towheaded child of six or seven, sometimes alone and sometimes with a rather plain, large-boned woman who could only be the boy’s mother.
Hofstra himself was a middle-aged bantam rooster in a badly cut gray suit, his tie pulled loose and his collar button undone. What he lacked in stature, though, he made up for in temper.
“Hofstra,” he introduced himself abruptly. He offered them neither a handshake nor a seat. “I’ve got almost 200 meters of downed roadway to rebuild, gentlemen, and I need to get that done in about one week and without spending a stuiver if I want to keep this project on schedule and under budget. What do you want?”
“Information, sir,” Chaudri began. “About the bombing. I am Mahboob Chaudri, and this is Lieutenant Smit of the Amsterdam police.”
“The Amsterdam police?” Hofstra roared. “Listen here, Mr. Tawdry, or whatever your name is: I’ve got a 25-man security team out there on Umm as Hawwak right now, turning that little islet upside down. They don’t need any help from you, and they potverdorie don’t need any help from the Amsterdam police!”
“Lieutenant Smit is here only as an observer, sir,” said Chaudri implacably, “and as for me, when the crime of industrial sabotage is committed on Bahraini soil, our Public Security Force is charged with conducting a complete investigation of its own. As I was on the scene at the time of the explosion, my superiors have assigned me to the case.”
“The case,” Hofstra fumed. It was clear that he realized he was in the wrong, and equally clear that he was unhappy about it. “All right, then. Ask your questions.”
“Our explosives experts were on the islet within an hour of the blast yesterday afternoon. They report having found traces of at least nine separate charges and possibly more, spaced 10 to 20 meters apart and simultaneously detonated by a single timing mechanism which was put in place beneath the roadway no more than 24 hours before the explosion. Several indications lead to the conclusion that the charges and timer were set by a single individual.”
“I got that information from my own people last night, Mr. Tawdry, now—”
“The name is Chaudri, sir. Excuse me.”
“Mr. Chaudri, then. Now, what do you want?”
Chaudri pulled a notebook and a pen from the pocket of his uniform shirt. “I would like to know who had access to Umm as Hawwak during the 24 hours that preceded the blast, Mr. Hofstra. I would like to know who had the opportunity to set those charges.”
“Getverdemme.” Hofstra ran a hand through his close-cropped graying hair. “The islet was not guarded, Mr. Chaudri. Night before last, any uilskuiken with a boat could have gone out there completely unobserved.”
“A half-billion dollar project and you leave it unguarded?” Smit was incredulous.
“Left it unguarded. We won’t make that mistake again.”
“But you made it once,” the Dutch policeman observed.
Hofstra answered through clenched teeth. “Yes, Lieutenant Smit, we made that mistake once. This is Bahrain, Lieutenant, not the Zeedijk in Amsterdam. We were led to believe that the local police”—he glared angrily at Chaudri—“had created a climate of order here where we wouldn’t need to worry about theft or sabotage. Do you have any further questions?”
“You suggested that the charges could have been set on the evening of the 4th of December,” said Mahboob Chaudri, “or in the early morning hours of the 5th. What about the afternoon of the 4th, a full day ahead of the explosion?”
“We had a crew working out there from 8 AM until 6 PM. Anyone crawling around setting explosives would have been seen.”
“But what about the crew themselves? Could one of them have done it?”
“How would I know? I wasn’t there, I was here. Ask Nick Sjollema that kind of question. It’s his job to know who’s where at all times. Anything else?”
Chaudri looked up from his notebook. “One possibility, Mr. Hofstra, is that the bridge was blown up by a former employee, someone nursing a grudge against Nederbild. Have any of your people been let go recently?”
The director glanced impatiently at his watch. “Mr. Chaudri,” he said slowly. “Nederbild BV has over 1200 employees in Bahrain, from cleaning ladies through senior executives here in this building, from gate guards and maintenance men to a 24-hour child-care center at the al-Qarat housing compound, and from construction worker
s all the way up to Nicolaas Sjollema on site. I direct the entire operation from this office, yes, but I do not keep my fingers on the names and work histories of all 1200 of those employees. You can take that question down to the fifth floor, where you will find our Personnel department. Do you have anything else you would like to ask me, Mr. Chaudri?”
“Yes, sir,” the Pakistani said promptly, “I do. I didn’t notice you at the Sinterklaas party yesterday. Why weren’t you there?”
For the first time, the fight drained out of Hofstra’s face, leaving him looking tired and old. “I have no children, Mr. Chaudri. There was no reason for me to be there.”
Chaudri glanced quickly at the framed pictures on the wall. “No children?” he mused. “Then—”
“My son,” said Hofstra, his voice hoarse. “Three weeks ago—20 days ago—my son Pieter was playing on the beach, behind our house at al-Qarat. His mother was in a deck chair, knitting, and Pieter strayed away from her while she was absorbed in her work. When she noticed he had gone, she went to look for him. She found him in—in the water. He was dead, Mr. Chaudri. He had drowned.”
* * * *
Down on the fifth floor, as they were heading for the Personnel office, Chaudri and Smit met Nicolaas Sjollema coming out of Purchasing. He looked haggard and harried, but his drawn face lit up when he saw them.
“I’ve been wondering how to reach you,” he greeted them. “I thought you’d like to know about the people at the party. I checked with the compound hospital after I dropped you yesterday, and then again later on last night, and there were no serious injuries at all. Minor cuts from the flying glass, several of the adults who were closest to the windows required some stitches, a few of the children were pretty badly shaken up—but that was the worst of it. Everyone was home in time for dinner, Godzijdank.”
“Indeed, that is good news,” Chaudri grinned. “And you’ve saved us a trip out to Umm as Hawwak. We need to ask you a question about your crew, if you can spare us another minute.”
“Yes, of course. They’re sweating this morning, I can tell you that: I’ve got every laborer on the payroll out there cleaning up the islet today, loading rubble onto company barges and dumping it out in the Gulf. If they can finish up by tonight, we’ll be able to start right in on the reconstruction. That’s why I’m in town now, trying to rush-order enough supplies and tools to get us rolling again.” Sjollema seemed about to go on, but changed his mind. “You don’t need to hear about my problems,” he said. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”
“Your crew,” said Chaudri. “Could one of your men have placed the explosives that blew up the causeway during the afternoon of December 4th, during working hours, without being observed? He would have needed an hour or more for the job.”
“No.” Sjollema’s answer was immediate and definite. “Impossible. I was on site all day, running our standard weekly inspection. I would have seen him.”
“U bent er absoluut zeker van?” Roelof Smit put in.
The foreman answered in English for Chaudri’s benefit: “Yes, Lieutenant, I’m positive. Those charges were not set during working hours on Thursday. It had to have been done after we’d all left for the day, after six. I’d swear to that in court.”
* * * *
Nederbild’s personnel manager was a severe woman in her mid-40s, dressed simply in a long black skirt and plain white blouse. She wore her hair frizzed in that strange style that never lasted more than a few months but was called—for some reason which was not clear to Mahboob Chaudri—“permanent.” A pair of eyeglasses was suspended around her neck by a thin silver chain; when the two policemen approached her, she put them on and eyed them carefully. There was a clipboard in her left hand.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “I am Annemieke Stutje. I manage this office. You are the police. You want to know the names of Nederbild employees who have recently been fired.” It was a statement, not a question, and it took them by surprise.
“You’ve just spoken with Mr. Hofstra?” Chaudri guessed.
“I have not.”
“Then how did you—”
“How did I know what you want?” She put a forefinger to the bridge of her spectacles and pushed them a millimeter higher. “I am not a fool, gentlemen. Someone blew up the Qatar Causeway yesterday afternoon. Perhaps it was a disgruntled former employee. I expected a representative of the police to call on me this morning, and here you are. I have already gone through my files for the information you need.”
She riffled through the pages on her clipboard and selected one of them, a half sheet of yellow flimsy. “Yes, I have it here. Within the last 30 days, only two of our employees have been dismissed. On November 26th, a Korean laborer named Kim Lee Kwan was fired for attempting to steal sweet water from the Umm as Hawwak site.”
“He was fired for stealing water?” Smit looked amazed.
Mevrouw Stutje adjusted her glasses again and peered at him. “You are new to Bahrain,” she decided. “As I said, Mr. Kim was fired for stealing sweet water, which is pure spring water and the only water in this country that is fit to drink. It is used on site for mixing concrete, and Mr. Kim was caught trying to sneak a large jug of it back to his barracks. Sweet water is rather expensive here, and neither Nederbild BV nor the Bahraini government is prone to tolerate thievery: Mr. Kim’s visa was immediately revoked, and he was on a plane to Seoul that same evening. I checked with the authorities at the Immigration and Passports Directorate earlier this morning, and he has not returned to Bahrain.”
“And the second former employee?” Chaudri asked, scribbling furiously in his notebook.
“Ebezer Kwaja,” the woman read, “Indian, employed as a clerk in our Purchasing office until his dismissal four days ago, on December 2nd. He is still in the emirate, working at the Central Market. He has a cousin who sells fruits and vegetables there, and who took over sponsorship of Kwaja when we let the man go.”
Chaudri looked up. Annemieke Stutje had omitted something, which seemed out of line with her usual brisk efficiency.
“Why was Kwaja fired?” he asked.
She hugged her clipboard to her chest. “I don’t know,” she admitted, plainly troubled. “I should know, but I don’t. No explanation was given. That is unusual for Nederbild BV.”
“Whose decision was it to get rid of him?”
She pulled her spectacles down to the tip of her nose and appraised him silently over the rims. At last she spoke. “The order came down from the sixth floor,” she said. “From Mr. Hofstra personally.”
* * * *
Manama’s Central Market is a huge gray barn that sits just outside the western edge of the suq between the Naim Hospital and the Budaiya roundabout, within sight of the Gulf. It is an ugly, windowless, characterless structure, whose metal walls trap the stifling heat all summer and the odors of meat and fish the year round. Shopping in the tangled maze of the old produce suq had been an adventure, but shopping at the new Central Market was a chore.
When they entered the vast fruit and vegetable hall, Roelof Smit was overwhelmed by the enormity of it. It was as if a half dozen copies of Amsterdam’s outdoor Albert Cuypmarkt had been laid side by side, with four drab walls and a high ceiling thrown up around them.
They were instantly surrounded by a gaggle of grinning Indian and Pakistani boys with wheelbarrows, who followed closely behind them, eager to carry their purchases for a few hundred fils.
But Smit and Chaudri walked down the seemingly endless rows of merchants—all males, from young boys in blue jeans to toothless old men in threadbare thobes, each sitting patiently on a tall stool, surrounded by his mountain of goods —without buying. They were not looking for tomatoes or eggplants or cabbages from Jordan, for cucumbers or lettuce or sweet peppers from Cyprus, for hot peppers or okra from India, for onions from Pakistan or cauliflowers from Australia or potatoes from Egypt or garlic from
Thailand, for bananas, pears, oranges, mangoes, guavas, kiwis, or African lemons the size of grapefruit. They were not looking for local produce, either, or for an infinity of burlap sacks overflowing with peas, rice, raisins, flour, lentils, fava beans, pumpkin seeds, peanuts, pistachios, walnuts, almonds, chickpeas, red peppers, kidney beans, popcorn, or shredded coconut.
They were looking for Ebezer Kwaja, and at last they found him. His cousin had allowed him a brief rest period, and he was sitting on a pale blue wooden bench along the north wall of the cavernous building, holding a small glass of steaming tea in both hands and watching the tide of buyers and sellers and wheelbarrow boys flow by.
“Mr. Ebezer Kwaja?” Chaudri approached him.
The man eyed them curiously. He wore a satiny long-sleeved shirt in a loud floral pattern and navy blue slacks with gray pinstripes, tightly cut but flaring widely at the ankles. His deep brown forehead glistened with perspiration; his dark hair was styled but greasy.
“Most certainly,” he said. “If you are looking for Mr. Ebezer Kwaja, then I am most certainly the Mr. Ebezer Kwaja you are looking for.” He raised his glass of tea to his lips and blew on it, then lowered it untasted. “But why, I am asking myself, are you looking for Mr. Ebezer Kwaja at all?”
Mahboob Chaudri was not a tall man, but standing over the seated Kwaja in his immaculate uniform, with his gun on his hip and his black-peaked cap and the military braid on his shoulder, he was an impressive figure. “Until recently,” he said, “you were employed as a purchasing clerk at the Nederbild headquarters in the al-Khalifa Road. Four days ago, on December 2nd, you were fired. Why?”
The Indian’s jet black eyes gleamed. “Ah,” he said, nodding his head sagely, “I am waiting for this very question to be asked. I am waiting every day to be asked why big man from the distant Netherlands is dismissing humble Mr. Ebezer Kwaja from his post. And now, at last, you have come.” He paused for a sip of his tea, then looked up at them with a broad smile on his face. “Big man is dismissing Mr. Kwaja,” he continued, “because Mr. Kwaja is knowing the truth. Yes, indeed, Mr. Kwaja is knowing too much truth.”
