Not long after they married, Abdul Amir finished his university studies and Huda graduated from secretarial school. Khalid was born, and Abdul Amir made it a habit to surprise Huda with a slice of baklava or a fragrant bunch of orange blossoms. But it’s not my birthday, she’d exclaim. He’d murmur in her ear that every day together was worth celebrating. Of course, after Abdul Amir got laid off, there was no money for surprises. Iraqi men were famously proud, and Huda knew her steady progress at work stung like salt in her husband’s wounds. Eventually, even a whispered compliment cost too much.

For the first time in many years, she wondered, Would they be better off returning to the south? The village was out of the question, but what about Basra? Could they start afresh in the busy port city? Could they find their way back to the days of honeyed sweets and orange blossoms? She sighed and collected up the cards. It was foolish to dream of running away. The mukhabarat wanted something from her. There was no escape from that.

“My husband,” she said, lowering her voice, “will you come to the garden?”

Abdul Amir set his glass on the counter and stared silently through the window over the sink. What did he see in his reflection? wondered Huda. Did he blame her for the lines of disappointment in his face?

Out in the garden, the palm trees swayed like dancers.

“Didn’t I warn you that foreigners are nothing but trouble?” Abdul Amir dragged his fingers across his skull.

You did not complain when you saw my embassy paycheck, thought Huda.

“Well, my boss is fair, and Ally is a pleasant girl.”

Abdul Amir grunted and stared at the horizon. The refineries were dark tonight. Only the stars and moon shone above their heads.

“She wants to hire a driver. . . .” Huda twisted the belt of her robe back and forth between her fingers. “Abu Issa said you must take the job.”

“Me? Work for her?”

Huda nodded reluctantly.

“I am an educated man,” he hissed. “I can’t be expected to be at the beck and call of some foreign slut.”

“Please, don’t call her that.”

Huda stared at her fluffy slippers. Abdul Amir stomped back and forth across the lawn. She thought of the Bolt Cutter, and how he leered as he described Ally running across the road. Had he been in the car that followed her to the embassy? Was it he who spat obscenities at the lonely young woman on the sidewalk?

She wondered, Was it all a mukhabarat plan? Did they hope to frighten Ally into hiring a driver? Did they prime Amira to swoop in with Abdul Amir’s name? The cold ball she’d been carrying in her stomach returned. It was spiky now, as if wrapped in barbed wire.

“What should I do?” she said. “I can’t simply tell them you refuse.”