Gloomily, Ally pressed the backspace key. Letter by letter, the young nurse’s name disappeared. The skin on the back of Ally’s neck tingled. She glanced over her shoulder and the boxy, wood-paneled television caught her eye. Embassy security had warned about hidden surveillance. Was it possible the television contained a tiny camera, feeding like a parasite off the TV’s electrical supply?

She padded across the marble floor and pulled the power cord from its socket. Next, she clambered onto the sofa and tried, unsuccessfully, to peer past the furred slats of the air-conditioning vent. She took the lamp from her desk, unscrewed the bulb, then turned it upside down and inspected the cord snaking from its base. Gingerly, she picked up the phone. Static whispered in her ear.

Ally wondered if the mukhabarat were watching right now or listening in. Did they note down all of her and Tom’s conversations? Or had they grown bored of Ally’s complaints? Did they go and refill their coffee, let the tape roll on and on, while she moaned about her empty days? She tiptoed down the hall to the bedroom and flicked the light switch. Disgust tickled the back of her throat. Did agents of the mukhabarat watch her and Tom in bed?

Ally crept back to her desk, shoulders hunched. Yusra Hussain, she repeated silently to herself, Eighty-Second Avenue.

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15

Through the square of stained glass in Rania’s front door, her visitor resembled a Picasso: green cheek, purple eye socket, swoop of dark hair.

“Ally?” Rania called. “Is that you?”

“I’ve come for my painting,” the girl called back. “You were going to frame it, remember?”

“One moment.” Rania took a deep breath, stitched a smile onto her lips, and unlatched the door.

Ally took a step back.

“Rania, are you okay?” Concern surfaced in her cornflower eyes. “You don’t look so good.”

Rania hurried past her to the gate and wedged the bolts shut.

“How did you get through the gate?”

“Your friend, Malik, left it ajar.” Ally held up Malik al-Bashad’s gold-lettered business card. “I met him outside, on the sidewalk. He invited me to visit him at the Ministry of Culture.”

“Did he now?” Rania struggled to hide her loathing. A few scant minutes ago, Malik had been in her hallway, running his plump fingers over Hanan’s photo once again—erasing all doubt that her daughter was just a passing fancy. He said once Rania’s portrait of the president was complete, she should bring both the canvas, and her daughter, to the palace. Uday wanted to inspect his father’s gift before it was presented. To test its quality, he’d said.

“Did you come alone?”

“My driver brought me.” Ally eyed her curiously. “Do you know Abdul Amir? He’s Huda’s husband.”