“I don't mean that!" I said hastily. “I mean do the same girls stay here, or is there a lot of changing with new ones replacing the old ones?"
"Oh." She looked disappointed, as well as a little perplexed and miffed at all this talk with no action. Still, she was there to cater to my whims, and so, with a sigh, she answered. "There is not too much changing of girls," she told me. “Only perhaps if there is a request for a type we don't have. Then one would be added. Or if one of the girls was hurt, as sometimes happens. Then a replacement might be imported.”
"Have you ever seen this girl?" I fished out the photo of Anna Kirkov and showed it to her.
“Nyet.”
“What part of Russia do you come from?" I asked. “What brought you here? How were you transported?"
"I come from Odessa. I fell in love with a Turkish sailor. The authorities found out about our affair. I was forced to flee with him, stowing away aboard his ship. But when we reached Istanbul, he deserted me. I had no money, nothing. I did the only thing I could do. I sold myself on the streets. One night a man picked me up and offered to help me. He had connections. I went to work for an organization which supplied girls for businessmen. Then there was a call for a Russian girl in Baghdad and so they sent me here."
“This ‘organization’-—have you any idea who runs it, or how widespread it is?"
"I don’t know who runs it. But I know from talking to the other girls that it seems to go all the way from Egypt to India. It may not be just one large operation, but rather a lot of small interlocking ones which cooperate with one another. I don't really know for sure."
I thanked her then, tipped her and left. There didn't seem to be much more I could learn at this place. I climbed into Basra’s cab and told him to take me on to the next one.
There were variations in decor and procedures, but the story was pretty much the same. Nor did a visit to a third brothel produce any further clues to the whereabouts of Anna Kirkov. By that time it was morning and I told Basra to drive me back to my hotel.
We repeated the procedure the next night with the same lack of results. Seemingly. Baghdad was proving a dead end. Then, the third night, I got my first break.
As I was walking down a bordello hallway, a door opened to one side and a man emerged. I found myself face-to-face with the little old man I'd met when I returned Teska to the harem of Sheikh Taj-ed el Atassi. Ben Kavir, the harim-keeper, recognized me immediately.
“Mr. Victor," he greeted me in Arabic, “How come you to be in Baghdad?"
“My business, my researches that is, have brought me here," I explained.
“But the sheikh thought that you were in Damascus. He expected you to return and was looking forward to extending you his hospitality. He will be most disappointed."
"My most abject apologies to the sheikh,” I said. "I had intended to return, but the organization for which I work has sent me to Baghdad to investigate certain facets of the houses of pleasure here. I am, alas, not my own master. O.R.G.Y. is.”
“None of us are, but there is balm in the knowledge that Allah is the Master of us all, small and great. Be that as it may— How do your investigations progress, Mr. Victor?"
“Not too well," I told him carefully. “I find some difficulty in getting behind the scenes of brothel life. I am most interested in the workings of the business side of Middle East sex. I'm afraid that such proprietors as I have met have not been too cooperative."
“Then I am indeed fortunate, Mr. Victor, for I am sure that I can be of service to you. The sheikh will be delighted that this is the case. I have some acquaintanceship among those who run these establishments. I shall write you a note to instruct them to cooperate with you more fully. It will prove, I hope, a carte blanche to many places you might otherwise have great difficulty in entering."
“Thank you very much. I appreciate that."
"It is my humble pleasure and my duty to the Emir who is most grateful to you for having restored his property." Ben Kavir bowed low, then straightened up and called to a servant. “Bring us pen and ink and paper," he instructed.
The note he wrote called on proprietors of brothels to extend all courtesies to the bearer, Mr. Steven Victor, a friend of the Sheikh Taj-ed el Atassi. It was addressed to no one specifically, and he assured me that it would be well received at most of the brothels of Baghdad. I hoped to myself that it might be equally well received at such establishments in the other cities to which my quest might take me. The note was signed “Ben-Kavir for Sheikh el Atassi."
"Now, Mr. Victor," Ben-Kavir said as he handed me the letter, “for what you Americans call an inside look at the business, might I suggest that you accompany me to a banquet I am attending tonight. Most of the brothel- keepers in Baghdad will be there and many others connected with the selling of sex in the Middle East as well."
"I'd be delighted. My car is outside. Allow me to put it at your disposal," I told Ben-Kavir.
“I accept with most humble gratitude." He followed me out to the car and gave Basra instructions.
The banquet was being held in a large structure a few miles outside Baghdad. When the car pulled up, I started to follow Ben-Kavir up the front steps, but Basra motioned to indicate that he had something he wanted to whisper to me. “Excuse me, sir," he said, “but I think you should know that another car has followed us. I believe they are parked behind that grove of trees over there." He pointed to a copse about a quarter-mile down the road we'd travelled.
“Thanks, Basra,” I told him. "It's good that you've kept your eyes open."
"Excuse me, sir, but does this mean that there will be danger?"
“Possibly. Why? Are you afraid?"
“No, sir. I just want you to know that you can depend on me completely. I am absolutely loyal to you, But-—"
“But?”
“Such loyalty is priceless, wouldn't you agree, sir?"
"Yes," I said, seeing what he was driving at. "It's priceless, but you're about to put a price on it. Right?"
“Ah, sir," he beamed. “You are most perceptive. And most generous. I shall rely on your good faith."
“I'll see that you're taken care of," I told him. “But don't rely on it too much. My pocketbook has its limits."
“My loyalty has none," Basra said with a look of cherubic dedication on his round face. “It is only that I have a large family to consider."
"I know," I said sarcastically. “All those sisters. Well, don't worry. I'll see that you get a premium for risking your neck." I turned from him and rejoined Ben-Kavir, who was waiting for me at the top of the steps.
We were led to a giant banquet hall. It wouldn’t have been out of place for a convention of the N.A.M. held at the Waldorf. Spotless, snow-white cloths covered high tables and European silverware and crystal sparkled atop them. The cloths were long and draped over the arms of the chairs so that the men seated in them were covered from mid-chest down. There were about thirty men present and no women. They seemed to be waiting for Ben-Kavir, and I gathered that he was the guest of honor.
At any rate, he was important enough to rate a place at the head of the table. He said something in a dialect I didn't understand and one of the men seated beside him vacated his seat so that I might take it. I did so and strained my ears to catch the conversation going on around me. But it was in the same dialect and I couldn't fathom it.
Following Ben-Kavir's example, I took a piece of spiced meat from the variety on the platter before us and munched on it. It was delicious. I was savoring the taste when I suddenly felt a hand gently unzippering my pants and the tickling sensation of an unexpected caress.