The telephone on Huda’s desk chirruped. She startled, still buffeted by the spinning top of emotions that had engulfed her since leaving Rania’s garden—regret for time lost, fear of what was to come, grief, a fragile spark of hope, and a lingering trace of distrust. Could they do this? Could they keep the vows of loyalty they pledged so many years ago, defy the regime, and keep their children safe? The phone chirruped again. Huda took a deep breath and raised the handset to her ear. Even before the caller spoke, she sensed the miles between them, static rushing down the line like wind whipping across the desert.

“Good morning, this is John Wales. I’m calling from Dubai.” After five years working at the embassy, Huda could recognize an Australian accent. This man sounded different. British perhaps. “May I speak with Ally Wilson?”

“Sorry, Ally is not here.” Huda knew the mukhabarat monitored the lines at every foreign embassy, and she listened for a telltale click or hum beneath the static.

“Ally doesn’t know me,” the caller continued. “I work at Business Middle East magazine with her former colleague, Peter Francis.”

The hair stood up on Huda’s arms. Peter Francis was the reporter from the Rashid Hotel, the one who drank tea with Ally while the mukhabarat interrogated her out back.

“Peter is away on leave,” the journalist continued. “But the Iraqi government is keen to get more investment, so they’ve offered us another press visa.” He laughed. “Usually, they’re as rare as hen’s teeth. Would you tell Ally I’m coming? I’d love to meet her.”

Huda couldn’t hang up soon enough, wishing she could wipe the conversation from existence. Ally had said Peter Francis was a friend of a friend, delivering books for her—not a former colleague. Had she been lying all this time?

Huda opened the filing cabinet beneath her desk. A green folder contained a copy of Tom’s visa application, with Ally’s form paper-clipped at the rear. It listed her occupation as “housewife.”

The phone chirruped again. Huda reached for it warily, like it might bite.

“Is this Mrs. Huda al-Basri?” a woman demanded gruffly. “I’m calling from New Baghdad High School.”

“Is this about Khalid?” Huda checked her watch. School was over, and Khalid should have been at the amusement park by now. For weeks, he’d been saving his pocket money so he could ride the bumper cars. “Is something wrong?”

“Principal al-Quds wants to speak with you,” said the woman. “That’s all I know.”

* * *