Huda unzipped the inside pocket and removed a small piece of paper. He ripped it from her fingers, dragged a telephone across the desk, and punched in the number. Huda prayed the lines were working.

“Hello?” he barked. “Who’s this? General Intelligence, you say? M-5 division?”

He caught his partner’s eye and shrugged.

“I’m calling for Abu Issa.” Absentmindedly, he scraped the point of the letter opener across the desk, back and forth, back and forth. Huda kneaded her sweaty palms in her lap.

“Four o’clock? Okay, I’ll call back.” The scarred man put down the phone. He nodded to his partner, then he grabbed Huda’s chair and dragged her toward him. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the side. Could he feel the terror seeping from her pores?

Boots stomped in the corridor. A fist hammered on the door. A third man poked his head into the room.

“Excuse me,” he said coolly, as if he were interrupting a job interview not an interrogation. “The foreign woman is making a scene. She wants to know where her friend is. Should we detain her?”

The scarred man frowned. He grabbed Huda’s throat and dragged her from the chair. Eyes bulging, she tottered on her tiptoes. He leaned in close.

“Go out there and tell the foreign bitch you have completed the guest registry.” His breath was hot and sour. “Tell her there is nothing to worry about.”

He released his grip. Huda stumbled backward, choking.

“I’ll be talking to your so-called Abu Issa later today. If your story doesn’t check out, you can expect a visit from me. Now, get out there.” He shoved her toward the door. “And put a smile on your face.”

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

The queue outside al-Faqma ice cream parlor was six people deep when Huda hustled into line. She put her hands on Khalid’s shoulders and angled him toward the patio.

“Look, over there.” She pointed out a woman wiping soft serve from a toddler’s chin. “They’re about to leave, so see if you can get their table. And keep an eye out for your father.”

Huda glanced toward the coffee shop on Hurriyah Square. Abdul Amir was still out front, chatting with the men playing backgammon. Huda prodded Khalid toward the patio.

“Your dad won’t be long, inshallah.”

She shuffled to the serving window. A man in a white cap and coat prepared her order, scooping chocolate ice cream into a waffle cone and ladling chunks of tropical fruit over two creamy sundaes. When he was finished, Huda carried the sweets out to the picnic tables.

“I said strawberry syrup, not orange.” Khalid frowned at his sundae.

Huda raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you mean to say, ‘Thank you, Mom, for this delicious ice cream’?”

“Thanks.” Khalid stabbed a plastic spoon into the offending sundae. “I guess.”