Huda grimaced. This was not the Iraqi way. And if the men thought Ally was a Russian whore, what did that make Huda? From the corner of her eye, Huda saw Ally hesitate. Then her spine uncurled, and once again she took on the haughty air of a princess. Chin high, she sailed toward the reception desk. Huda followed. Like flotsam trapped in the slipstream of a boat, she couldn’t fight the forces around her; all she could hope was to stay afloat.

A clean-shaven man in a dark blue suit darted from behind the reception desk. He gave Huda one brief, dismissive glance, then beamed at Ally as if she were his favorite niece.

“Welcome, madam.” He opened his hands wide. “What a pleasure to greet you at the Rashid Hotel. I am Saadi, the concierge. May I assist you to check in?” Like a well-trained sheepdog, he looped behind the women and herded them toward the mahogany desk. Huda trotted dutifully onward. Ally didn’t budge.

“There’s no need,” she said. “I’m meeting a friend.”

“In that case, madam, please sign our guest register.”

The concierge gave a little bow and waved her toward the desk. Ally hesitated for a moment. Once again, men shifted in their seats, lowered their newspapers, set down their coffee cups. Huda’s breath dried up. Stay calm, she told herself. Pretend you are a sheikh’s daughter attending your cousin’s wedding, dressed in a fine silk gown.

“Ally!” A bald man with skin as pink as ham loped across the room. Behind him, the elevator operator checked his wristwatch, pulled a notebook from his pocket, and scribbled a note.

“Peter.” Ally smiled awkwardly. “I’ll just be a moment. It seems I have to sign the visitors’ log.”

“They’ll get your information.” The bald man chuckled and tipped his head toward the elevator operator. “One way or another.”

The concierge’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“Who is this woman?” He hissed at Huda in Arabic. “And who are you?”

In the periphery of her vision, Huda sensed men drawing closer. Her pulse began to gallop. She offered the concierge a placating smile.

“Ally, give me your ID.” She stuck out her hand. “I will sign us in.”

“Good idea,” said the sunburned journalist. He waved Ally in the direction of the nearest couch. “Let’s have a cup of coffee while Saadi does what he must. Hotel policy, right, Saadi?”

“Yes, sir.” The concierge’s lips contorted. “Hotel policy.”

Huda trailed Saadi to the far end of the reception desk. The wall behind it was decorated with a portrait of the president and a series of identical clocks showing the time in Baghdad, Beijing, Moscow, and Mecca. Hand trembling, Huda laid Ally’s ID on the counter. Two men appeared beside her. Fat-cheeked, dead-eyed, solid as bookends.

“Madam,” one of them said, “please come with us.”