Huda remembered depositing her first embassy paycheck and how the bank clerk’s eyes widened as he eyed her salary. His usual sneer disappeared. He called her madam for the first time, and asked if she’d like tea while he processed the check. She’d relished that moment far more than she cared to admit. Now, the strings attached to her job drew tight around her neck.

Abdul Amir stopped pacing back and forth across the lawn.

“Did Abu Issa offer you money?” he said.

“Money?” Huda frowned. “Of course not. No one gets rewarded for answering their questions.”

“Let’s be honest. They want more than that. Much more.” He ripped a prickly sow thistle from the lawn. “I heard sometime they pay informants.”

Huda tasted the sour gas from the refineries on her tongue.

“I am not an informant.”

“You wanted the embassy job.” Abdul Amir snorted. “You wanted to work with foreigners. Did you not consider there might be a price to pay?”

Huda had thought she was so smart, that she could type a few letters, take the foreigners’ money, and manage the mukhabarat too. She’d ignored the voice inside her whispering, You’re playing with fire. She searched her husband’s face. His eyes were nothing but shadows.

“Have I not paid enough already?” she asked.

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

Rania ducked behind one of the ornate columns lining Mutanabbi Street, but not fast enough. On the opposite sidewalk, the old poet Adnan Nawab waved to her, like a fly fisherman casting a lure. Between them ran a river of books, some stacked on low tables, but most set out on cardboard on the ground. A gust of wind whistled off the Tigris and fluttered a million pages with its brackish sigh.

“Rania, my dear!” Adnan was thin as a child, but his voice still held the power to cut through the throng at Mutanabbi book market. “Will you join me for tea?”

Rania groaned quietly. She adored Adnan, but today she had no appetite for tea and gossip. Still, he’d spotted her, so she made her way from under the shaded balcony, past the great columns, and into the heat and commotion of the walking street.

“I’m coming, Professor,” she cried.