The chandeliers were draped in a thousand crystals—exactly as Rania had described to Huda almost twenty years ago. As she tiptoed into the hotel, memories unspooled in her mind. She remembered Rania returning from her first trip to Baghdad, giddy with delight after attending a cousin’s wedding feast in the Rashid’s ballroom. She talked for days of women in jewel-toned Siamese silks, of dining on lamb stuffed with apricots, and dancing to disco music. Most of all, she talked about the moment she stepped under the great chandeliers.

Rania said when she looked up, it was like gazing into the sun, but when her eyes adjusted, the sparkling crystals seemed more like a constellation of stars, extending through the heavens, offering infinite possibilities. Back then Rania claimed anything was possible for a smart young Iraqi with the courage to follow her dreams. Huda had believed her.

It was summer at that time. Like most people in her village, Huda’s family slept on the roof of their mud-brick home to escape the heat. Lying on a thin bedroll, while her two brothers snuffled and snored, Huda imagined the milky stars were the lights of the Rashid Hotel. She fell asleep dreaming of crystal chandeliers and silk dresses.

Even after the seasons changed and the family returned indoors to sleep, Huda continued to dream, God willing, one day she too might bathe in the glow of those miraculous lights. Now, as Huda’s heels clacked across the lobby, she couldn’t find the courage to lift her head. Instead, she watched the thousand crystals cast their reflection on the smooth marble floor, as if they were shimmering on the surface of a lake.

The women continued through the lobby. On a gilded couch, a white-robed sheikh with a gold Rolex flipped through a magazine. Government minders in short-sleeved business shirts nursed coffee cups and sucked on cigarettes. Plump, mustachioed mukhabarat sulked by the doors, looking like spoiled boys who’d rather be elsewhere, tormenting small animals or ripping off grasshoppers’ limbs.

Every nerve in Huda’s body screamed at her to turn around and sprint for the door. She wished she could’ve allowed Ally to visit the hotel alone, but she knew Abu Issa would require a full accounting. Or else the Bolt Cutter might be called upon to intervene, to tighten a wrench around her knuckles, one by one, until they cracked.

On the far side of the marble hall, someone hissed.

“Russee.”

A snicker rippled through the lobby. Men stopped what they were doing, turned, and raised their heads like dogs sniffing the wind. Ally’s confident step faltered.

“Russee . . .”