“The regime can’t keep the lights on or the phones working, let alone threaten Washington,” said the Nigerian. “The Americans must know that.”

“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that there’s an old stockpile of nerve gas tucked away somewhere.” Gunter leaned into the circle. “If things get worse, who knows what the regime might do.”

“Like what?” said Ally. “Smuggle nerve gas onto the subway in New York?”

“Oh, no, they couldn’t pull that off,” said Gunter. “They’d use them on only the foreigners within reach—us. Or maybe they’ll keep us as human shields, like they did with thousands of expats during the Gulf War.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The regime can be as ruthless with foreigners as it is with its own.”

The Frenchman nodded. “Remember that British journalist they accused of spying? The regime invited him here on a press tour, but when he deviated from the itinerary . . .” He paused, checked the garden, and sliced his hand across his throat.

Lukewarm chardonnay lodged in Ally’s gullet.

“What journalist?” she stammered. “I never heard about this.”

“That’s no surprise—the world has a short memory,” said the Frenchman. “It was a few years after the Gulf War. The reporter heard rumors of an explosion at a refinery, so he went to investigate. The Iraqis arrested him just outside of Baghdad, charged him with spying, and hung him at Abu Ghraib.” He paused. “Of course, they tortured him for six months first.”

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

Rania straightened her silky blue jumpsuit, ran her hands over her long wavy hair, then stepped out of the gallery and into the backyard. She prayed that she could convince at least a few of the diplomats to buy a painting from the new exhibition. The money she’d made selling her father’s books was running out fast.

“Come now, gentlemen.” The stern voice of the Chinese chargé d’affaires echoed across the lawn. “No one wants to hear such wild talk.”

Rania slowed her pace. Lee Ping had a fine-tuned ear for chatter that might upset the authorities. Rania considered turning around and retreating indoors. After all, the mukhabarat would have followed at least some of the diplomats here, and one of those oafish thugs could well pay her a visit later, demanding to know who said what, and to whom.

Rania turned her amber eyes to the night sky. The stars were bright, but the moon was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t surprised that it wanted nothing to do with the folly below. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and continued across the lawn. Artists had always held an honored role in Iraqi society, and that afforded her some leeway from the regime’s restrictions on associating with foreigners. Still, she knew she was walking a high wire.