“Her passport is Australian but she looks Russian.” He snickered, and tea slopped into his saucer. “I saw a film once, with two Russian women. You would not believe what they—”

“Enough,” interjected Abu Issa.

The Bolt Cutter snickered again.

“When the Australian woman ran across the road, her ass jiggled like—”

Abu Issa thumped his fist against his thigh.

“I said enough.” He glared at the Bolt Cutter. “The foreigner may be a slut, but no decent Iraqi woman should be subjected to such talk.”

Huda’s cheeks burned. She rose unsteadily from her chair.

“My husband and son will be home soon. I must prepare their dinner.”

Abu Issa threw another irritated glance at his partner. He got to his feet and gestured for the Bolt Cutter to do the same.

“We understand, sister.” He bowed apologetically. “We’ll return when you’re not so busy.”

Somewhere outside, a car backfired. Huda flinched. The Bolt Cutter noticed and smirked.

“Remember, you must become the foreign woman’s confidante, and your husband can aid us too.” Abu Issa paused by the front door. He twisted the ring on his finger. “Loyal citizens are always rewarded, are they not?”

Huda nodded dutifully. From the table in the hallway, the president watched over them.

* * *

Khalid had already gone to bed when Abdul Amir returned from the tea shop. Huda was at the kitchen table, wrapped in a pink dressing gown, smoking a counterfeit Marlboro. A deck of playing cards lay before her, divided into four columns.

“Consulting the cards?” Abdul Amir frowned. “The prophet does not approve of such superstition, even if your grandmother said otherwise.”

The fluorescent light buzzed above Huda’s head.

“I am playing solitaire. Besides, you know I don’t read cards, and even if I did, it’s bad luck to predict one’s own future.”

Abdul Amir opened the fridge and rifled through the shelves.

“I cooked lamb stew.” Huda stubbed out her cigarette. “Shall I warm a dish for you?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Abdul Amir removed a carton of mango juice and shut the fridge door. “I’m surprised you’re not in bed by now.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Huda watched Abdul Amir pull a glass from the highest shelf. He was a tall man. A handsome man. People said he looked like the Egyptian singer Amr Diab, except Abdul Amir’s eyes were green, not brown. She knew people were surprised when he chose to marry a plain woman like her. They thought he would pair up with Mona Karim, or one of the other beautiful village airheads. But Abdul Amir didn’t want to stay in his village. He had bigger plans. So did Huda, and their shared ambition drew them together.