It was a nice bit of theater, enough to get Amal’s mother, after a few more twists and turns, elected to the mayor’s office. But whatever good works she’d been able to accomplish there, and whatever good works Amal had accomplished as a fed, two things remained unchanged: Saddam Hussein was still a free man; and Shamal was still dead.

The outer lobby door opened and Amal’s mother came in, accompanied by Amal’s brother Ali, who was her chief of staff, and Amal’s brother Haidar, her head of security. As they crossed the room Amal’s mother spotted Amal, nodded, smiled, and gestured for her to follow, all without breaking stride or interrupting her ongoing conversation.

A moment later they were in the inner sanctum. Ali and Haidar both excused themselves, Ali saying “Ten minutes,” and winking at Amal as he stepped back out of the office.

“So,” Amal’s mother said. “I’ve been hearing good things about you lately. I’m told you saved another agent’s life.”

“Yes, I did,” Amal said.

“And shot a terrorist.”

“Yes.”

“But there’s been no press release,” her mother noted. “No public recognition of your heroism.”

“There were some problems with the mission.”

Her mother translated: “Somebody else screwed up and you saved his ass . . . All the more reason you should be lauded. Nobody needs to be embarrassed by it—they can leave the mistakes out of the official statement.”

“I am being recognized,” Amal said. “In-house.”

“ ‘In-house.’ ” Her mother rolled her eyes. “I know what that means.”

“Mother, please. It’s not that I don’t want a public commendation, but—”

“Well that’s good then, because you’re getting one.”

“But this isn’t what I came here to talk to you about. I—”

“Just let me put a note in my PDA. I have a meeting with the Deputy Director of Homeland Security on Wednesday, so—”

“I got a call from Anwar.”

Her mother paused, a hand on her purse. “Sadat, I hope,” she said.

Amal told her the story. By the time she finished her mother was standing with her arms crossed, shaking her head.

“Why would you agree to meet with him?”

“He practically begged me to.”

“So?”

“Well, I didn’t want him showing up at the office.”

“If he shows up at the office, you have security turn him away. My God, Amal . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Who chose the restaurant?”

“I did, why? . . . What, you think it’s a blackmail scheme? Hidden cameras? Anwar wearing a wire?”

“It’s not a joke, Amal,” her mother said. “I’ve got the vote on the marriage bill coming up soon. And now, out of the blue, this man you had a sigheh with a lifetime ago decides to get in touch to ask a favor?”

“You’re wrong,” Amal said. “The timing must be a coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences in politics. Trust me on this.”

“You didn’t see him. The way he talked about Salim . . .”

“Oh, I’m sure it was heartfelt. He may not even know he’s being used, you know. It could be that some friend of his in Riyadh, someone he confides in, suggested that he contact you.”

Some friend of his in Riyadh . . .

“Bin Laden,” Amal said.

“What?”

“Osama bin Laden . . . Would Anwar’s father know him?”

“I don’t know,” her mother said. “It’s possible. You think Senator Bin Laden might be behind this?”

“If he is,” said Amal, “then you’re not the one they’re trying to get to.”

“I would love for you to explain that statement to me.”

“It’s probably better if I don’t.” Then she said: “So what about Salim?”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do for him. If the Post publishes a Page Six exposé about my daughter’s temporary marriage, that’s embarrassing, but not really damaging. But if they run a story about how I used my influence to get my daughter’s son out of America, while other sons—beloved sons—are still fighting and dying there . . .”

“The Post.” Amal made a face. “You can stay a step ahead of Tariq Aziz, surely. You used to run rings around him.”

“You know, when you try to flatter me I fear the worst . . . Tariq Aziz is one thing, Osama bin Laden is another. What have you gotten yourself into, Amal?”

“I’m honestly not sure yet,” Amal said. “But will you do this for me, please? Whatever favor you were going to call in to get me a commendation, use it instead on Salim’s behalf.”

Her mother shook her head again. “You don’t even know the boy, Amal.”

“I know. But I don’t need to know him, to show him compassion. Anwar was right about that much.”

They called it the Republic of Saddam: a patchwork of estates and commercial properties that collectively formed an outlaw nation, a separate country within the UAS. Most of it was in Iraq, but there were scattered outposts throughout Arabia—villas in Alexandria and Tunis, a hotel in Abu Dhabi, a gambling den in Casablanca, rat cellars everywhere.

The Republic’s capital was of course Baghdad, where Saddam owned houses in each of the city’s major districts, with the notable exception of Sadr City. Back when Mustafa and Samir had worked for Halal Enforcement, Saddam had split his time between the Mansour lake estate that adjoined the Baghdad Airport and the downtown mansion in Karkh that many Baghdadis regarded as a shadow city hall.

After 11/9, increased security around the airport had made the Mansour estate less attractive—the TSA really had a bug about people firing rifles into the sky. Then in 2003, a mysterious fire gutted the mansion in Karkh; rumors of the cause ranged from faulty wiring to Uday. Saddam had been trying to rebuild the place ever since, but the Baghdad City Planning Commission, on orders from a certain mayor-turned-senator, kept delaying the necessary permits, and in the interim squatters had invaded the property, turning it into a palace of the homeless.

While Saddam’s lawyers tried to cut through the commission’s red tape, he had relocated the headquarters of his Republic to his compound in Adhamiyah. The walled estate occupied three hectares of prime riverfront property and had its own dock and helipad. It was patrolled night and day by a uniformed security force known colloquially as the Republican Guard.

Having raced across town, Mustafa and Samir were now parked at the end of the street that led to the estate’s main gate. The package they were hoping to intercept had been sent standard overnight delivery, which meant that in theory it could show up anytime between now and 6 p.m., but Mustafa doubted they’d have to wait long. “Think about it: If you were a deliveryman and Saddam Hussein was on your route, would you keep him waiting until afternoon?”

“I see your point,” Samir said, “but by that logic, couldn’t we already have missed him?”

“Let’s give it an hour. If the truck hasn’t showed by then, we’ll give that helpful fellow at the airport another call.”

They passed the time by speculating about the occupants of a jeep parked half a block behind them. Mustafa thought he’d seen the same vehicle at the APS hub; Samir was sure he had, but feigned uncertainty. “Who do you suppose they are?”

“Al Qaeda, most likely,” Mustafa said. “Unless the Mukhabarat has taken an interest in us.” Mukhabarat was a nickname for the network of Iraqi private investigators who donated free labor to the Baath Union in exchange for police favors, in effect serving as Saddam’s personal intelligence bureau. “What do you think, shall we go introduce ourselves?”

“You go right ahead.”

Mustafa shot him another concerned look, but didn’t push. “All right,” he said. “You stay here, I’ll go talk to them.”

But even as he opened his door, a brown truck rounded the corner, a familiar trademarked question on its side: WHAT CAN AL ARABI DO FOR YOU? Mustafa flipped out his ID and hurried to flag it down.

“Your mother cannot help you.”

There was a sculpture park adjacent to Amal’s mother’s office building. It was a popular open-air lunch spot, but at this hour of the morning it was empty except for a pair of elderly backgammon players and a few women pushing strollers.