Amal sat on a bench alongside an enormous bronze jug. A hole had been cut in the jug’s side, making a window onto the miniature city within. The city’s outline and the river that bisected it suggested Baghdad, but a Baghdad from an alternate universe: The sort-of-familiar landmarks were all in the wrong place and the streets were laid out differently.

Amal switched on her cell phone. She had two missed calls, both from Mustafa. She was about to check messages when a ninja sat down beside her and began speaking in Gulf Arabic. It took Amal a moment to realize the woman’s words were addressed to her.

“I beg your pardon?” Amal said.

“I said, your mother cannot help you.” The woman raised a hand and pointed to another of the park’s sculptures. “You see that globe over there? It models the world as the Abbasid cartographers knew it. If you walk around to the other side, where the Western Hemisphere should be, there’s nothing. No Americas. The lines of latitude and longitude don’t meet. From this angle, though, it looks almost whole. A tourist might even mistake it for the Unisphere.” The woman chuckled. “Your mother’s authority is like that. Hollow and incomplete. A trick of perspective . . . A mirage.”

Amal slipped her cell phone into her pocket and turned to face the woman fully. “Who are you?”

“A servant of a true servant of God. Someone whose power is real. Someone who can guarantee your son’s safety.”

“Osama bin Laden,” Amal said nodding. “And should I take it as an insult or a compliment, that he sends a woman with his message instead of Abu Yusuf?”

“It is a sign of respect.” The ninja sniffed behind her veil. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with proper decorum.”

“Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the penalty for threatening a federal agent.”

“I do not threaten. I speak the truth. Salim bin Anwar will not be saved by Anmar al Maysani—or by Amal bint Shamal. But the man I serve can remove him from harm’s way.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Do nothing. Mustafa al Baghdadi has chosen a path to self-destruction. Do not follow him. Do not help him. Do not interfere.”

“You expect me to just sit on my hands?”

“Ask to be taken off the investigation. Your mother’s name is good for that much, at least.”

“That’s your idea of nothing, is it?” Amal laughed. “And once I’ve made it clear to my colleagues that I can no longer be relied upon, then what? Just wait and see whether the senator holds up his end of the bargain?”

“Give me your word that you’ll ask to be reassigned and Salim will be on his way home in forty-eight hours.”

Amal fell silent, still skeptical but also not wanting to believe it.

“Here, let me show you something.” The ninja took out her own cell phone. “The other day on your computer you looked up Abu Salim’s file, but you didn’t look up the boy’s. That’s understandable, but before you decide his fate you really should see his face.” She passed the phone to Amal, who accepted it reluctantly. “He is a handsome boy,” the woman continued. “A good Sunni Muslim, strong and intelligent. He should have a bright future, if—”

But Amal, suddenly livid, cut her off: “Is this a joke? Are you mocking me?”

“Mocking you?” The woman glanced at the cell phone’s screen. “That is Salim bin Anwar. What—”

Amal interrupted again, this time by drawing her pistol. “What are you doing?” the woman said.

Amal leveled the pistol at the woman’s face and flicked off the safety. “You say your master has power. Can he raise the dead?”

The woman shook her head. “You are making a mistake.”

“No, the mistake is yours,” said Amal. She understood now, but understanding did not lessen her fury. “Go back to your master. Tell him I don’t need any favors from him.” She gave it another ten seconds, then put away the gun.

But the woman didn’t leave.

“We’re done,” Amal said. “Why are you still here?”

The ninja held out her hand. “My phone.”

“Any guesses?” Mustafa said, gazing at the tiny parcel in his palm. It was slightly larger than a cigarette pack. The return address was a shop in Israel, Hillel’s Curios of Frankfurt.

Samir shrugged. “An antique mezuzah case?”

Mustafa laughed. “Yes, I’m sure Saddam collects those.”

The jeep was gone, Samir having waved it off discreetly while Mustafa spoke to the APS deliveryman. But now they had other observers. Their interception of the truck had been noticed by the Republican Guard, and when the driver went to deliver the rest of Saddam’s packages he must have told them what Mustafa had taken. Binocular lenses flashed from behind the gate; their license plate number was doubtless being forwarded to the Mukhabarat.

Untroubled by the attention, Mustafa picked at the tape seal on the package. “Do you have a box cutter?”

“Sorry, I left mine at the airport.”

Mustafa used the van’s ignition key as a crude knife and managed to get the package open. Inside, in a slim plastic case, was a deck of playing cards. Each card bore a picture of a man’s face, captioned with an English transliteration of his name and a job title. Mustafa recognized many of the names and faces—almost all of them were prominent Baath Union members—but the job titles were whimsical.

Here, for instance, the five of clubs: Barzan Ibrahim Hasan, Saddam’s half brother, who was said to have come up with the idea for the Mukhabarat. The card caption called him a “Presidential Advisor.” Or the eight of diamonds: Hikmat Mizban Ibrahim al Azzawi, a Baathist long suspected of running Saddam’s money-laundering operation. His caption read “Finance Minister.”

The eight of spades: Tariq Aziz. “Deputy Prime Minister?” Samir let out a snort as Mustafa translated. “What, is he moonlighting as a member of the Persian government?”

Mustafa shuffled through the deck, looking for the aces. The ace of diamonds was Abid Hamid Mahmud, Saddam’s publicist, identified here as “Presidential Secretary.” The ace of clubs was Qusay Hussein. The ace of hearts was Uday: “Olympic Chairman,” Mustafa read.

“Yeah, chairman of the bookmaking division, maybe,” said Samir.

The ace of spades was Saddam himself: “President.” Not “Baath Union President,” just “President.” There should have been another joke here—the biggest joke of all—but Mustafa’s sense of satire suddenly abandoned him.

A folded sheet of paper had been enclosed in the package with the cards. It was a printout of a private eBazaar auction page, the same one Wajid Jamil had forwarded to Mustafa late last night. The item description was short and cryptic: “From beyond the mirage, Lot #157. Interest tags: Iraq, Saddam Hussein, Baath Party, U.S. invasion.” The winning bid, placed by eBazaar user King_Nebuchadnezzar, was fifteen hundred riyals.

Mustafa’s cell phone rang.

“Hello, Amal,” he said. “Nice of you to check in . . . No, it’s OK. We do have a lead, though.” He told her where they were. “How soon can you get here? . . . Fifteen minutes, excellent. Samir will be waiting in the van.” He hung up.

“Samir will be waiting?” Samir said. “Where will Mustafa be?”

“Making a delivery.” Mustafa slipped the cards and the paper back into the package. “Fifteen hundred riyals is a pittance for King Nebuchadnezzar, but something tells me he’ll be anxious to get this.”

“You think he’ll talk to you?”

“It can’t hurt to try. And I must admit I’m curious to see the inside of that house.”

“As long as it’s not the last thing you see.”

“Ah, that’s where you and Amal come in,” Mustafa said. “If I’m not back out in an hour, you come rescue me.”

“And is there some particular way you’d like us to do that, or should we just blow the gates in?”

“Improvise.” Mustafa smiled. “But please ask Amal not to shoot the Olympic Chairman unless it’s absolutely necessary.”