Abdul Amir’s shoulders hiked toward his ears, and he stared mutely at the road. Regret nibbled at Ally. Saddam’s face might be everywhere, and his statue on every corner, but she knew darn well that no one said his name out loud. They continued in silence until they reached the Saddam Cardiac and Vascular Hospital, a six-story block of grimy concrete. As they drew closer, Abdul Amir eased his foot onto the brake.

“I will come with you.”

“That’s okay. You go ahead and find the parking lot.” Ally gathered up her bag and pointed to a shaded seating area by the entrance. “When I’m done, I’ll meet you there.”

Before Abdul Amir could object, she pushed open her door and hurried up the steps into the hospital. Inside, on wooden benches, patients and their families waited for release or admission, X-rays, and blood draws. At the information desk, a man in a blue jacket greeted Ally politely.

“I’m looking for some information,” said Ally, as butterflies did loop-de-doos in her stomach. She tried not to look at the two armed guards slouching by the entrance. Both were eyeing her with the same unnervingly blank gaze.

“Do you have papers, miss?” The clerk glanced at the manila envelope protruding from Ally’s handbag. “Doctor’s orders?”

“Actually, I’m trying to find someone.” Ally pulled a yellowed photo from the envelope and slid it across the counter. “I’m looking for a nurse who worked here, back in the 1970s.”

Ally knew hospital records would show her mother was American. So she’d chosen a photo of one of her Iraqi friends, dressed in a nurse’s cap and pinafore. The woman had a long, thin nose and dark, dramatic eyes reminiscent of Cher. She appeared in several photos, so Ally knew she had Cher’s long hair too, although in that particular shot it was pulled into a tight bun. The journalist in Ally recognized a telltale glint in the woman’s eyes, the glint of someone prone to speaking the truth—even if it wasn’t always in their best interest.

The clerk tapped his forefinger against his chin.

“I’ll check with my supervisor,” he said, then ducked into a glassed-in office.

Ally leaned against the counter and tried to act as if it were perfectly normal for her to be frequenting a hospital named after a bloodthirsty tyrant, with armed guards at the door. It was another journalistic trick: act like you belong, even if your nerves are fizzing.