“Of course not.” Blood rushed to her cheeks. “Ally is a married woman.”

“Married or not, these foreign women will lie down with anyone.”

Huda dared another glance at the coffee shop.

“Please, where is my husband?”

“He’s having a chat with my partner.”

Fear wrapped its icy hand around her throat. In the minaret, the muezzin fell silent. Static scratched at the gathering dusk.

“I’m to blame,” said Huda, “not my husband. I’ll do better, I promise.”

“Fortunately, your husband is proving to be a patriotic Iraqi.” Abu Issa rubbed the flat of his palm across his ring. “And what about your son, is he a patriot too? Has he trained with the Lion Cubs yet?”

Huda went cold. Every year the government took boys as young as ten and sent them to military boot camps in the desert. Often they were beaten, and it was said that to graduate, the young Lion Cubs had to tear a small animal apart with their hands and eat the flesh. Not all the boys came back. And those who did were changed inside.

“We can easily arrange entry to the Lion Cubs,” said Abu Issa. “It’s an honor, really. Graduates from the Lion Cubs get an express pass to the ranks of the fedayeen.”

The black of Huda’s eyes dilated. The fedayeen was a death squad led by Uday Hussein. They liked to make the families of their victims display their loved one’s severed head on their gates. Atop the minaret, the speakers squealed, then went dead.

“There are many benefits for members of the fedayeen,” murmured Abu Issa. The official title was Fedayeen Saddam—but even Abu Issa balked at saying his master’s name aloud, here at the ice cream parlor, surrounded by children licking soft serve.

“Khalid’s not . . .” A ribbon of pain wrapped around Huda’s chest. “He’s just a boy.”

Abu Issa leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. The band of pain around Huda’s chest grew tighter and tighter, until she could barely breathe.

“We can discuss this another time.” Abu Issa glanced across the street. “I must attend to another appointment.”

The wind rattled the paper-thin moon and stars strung overhead. Huda’s world felt just as fragile, just as easily undone. Abu Issa needed only to hook his finger and tug, and it would all come crashing down. He rose from the table, eyed the melted sundaes, and shook his head.

“I hate to see such waste.”

* * *

“Hello!” Abdul Amir waved from the far side of the road. “Over here!”

Huda dashed through the traffic to a crescent-shaped park on the fringe of Hurriyah Square. Overhead, hundreds of tiny flags stamped with the president’s face fluttered like nervous doves.

“Where did you go?” She clutched Abdul Amir’s arm. “I was so worried.”