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used to live here," said
Diane. "But he’s gotten over all that and moved on."
    Forget psychic wounds. The deaths of
the Riggins boys had, for Diane, been no more than a psychic
scratch. Had her parents’ divorce toughened her?
    "He moved back," he said.
"Obviously."
    "But he was with me all last week,"
Diane complained. "You tricked him into coming back here! I bet I
can prove it. Where’s your family? They would tell the
truth."
    Now she was the one opening wounds. Ari
had lost two boys during the invasion of 2003. The third was with
his mother in Iceland, where she lay blind and mangled after being
wounded by the same CBU that had killed his youngest son. They had
been sent there when Ari came to the U.S. The reason for this was
not quite specious, but not entirely legitimate, either. There were
about 90,000 Iraq-born immigrants now in this country, most of them
of Chaldean and Assyrian descent. They had settled, for the most
part, in and around Chicago, which was the location of the oldest
and largest community of American-born Iraqis. Though carefully
vetted by the Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration Services, a few
bad eggs would inevitably squirm through the net. More likely, a
perfectly honest man would be coerced by threats to his family back
in the homeland. Hunting down a former member of Saddam Hussein’s
Special Security Organization who was now collaborating with the
Americans would have a high priority on any insurgent’s list.
Keeping Rana and Qasim half an ocean away was intended to protect
them from becoming collateral victims in case Ghaith/Ari was
located by the enemy. But the bonus for the Americans was that they
had the perfect whip to keep Ari cooperative. One day, he might be
allowed to join what remained of his family. If.
    "My wife and son are staying with a
sick relative."
    "In Italy? Mr. Nottoway says you’re
Italian."
    "In Sicily, yes," said Ari, sticking to
the cover story Karen Sylvester had concocted.
    "Sicily?" Diane shivered as the cold
air coming through the open front door reached the
kitchen.
    "Have you ever seen a map of Italy?"
When she nodded, he continued: "You’ve seen how it’s shaped like a
big boot, and the boot is kicking a football?" She thought a
moment, then nodded again. He concluded: "I’m from the football
that’s being kicked."
    "Well…I’m sorry you’re all alone. But
so am I, most of the time."
    Her eyes darkened and Ari
realized he was finally witnessing genuine emotion in the
girl. Yela’an , he
thought bitterly. What a country, where immigrants and little girls
had only pets as families. But he remained resolute. "I’m sorry,
Diane. I can imagine your situation. But Sphinx
belongs—"
    Tired of being manhandled, the cat
suddenly put its all into escaping. Ari fought Sphinx for a moment,
but let go when Diane gave a cry of dismay and repeated, "You’re
hurting him!"
    Sphinx leapt onto the floor and dashed
into the dining room.
    "He’s getting out!"
    But when they followed, they found
Sphinx hesitating at the threshold. Sensing the frigid air, he was
having second thoughts about the benefits of freedom. Not wanting
to scare him outdoors, Ari and Diane kept their
distance.
    "See?" said Ari. "He wants to
stay."
    "He wants to stay warm . My house is warmer
than this. And we’ve got furniture he can sleep on. I’ve got a
scratching post, too."
    This was new to Ari. A scratching post?
A host of improbabilities flew through his mind, but he had no
desire to once again put his ignorance on display before this
girl.
    "Not everything revolves around
comfort," said Ari, a little pompously.
    She spent a moment rolling this around
in her mind. Physical comfort was the norm for her and she was
struggling to think of a contrasting situation.
    A car door slammed in the street. This
spooked Sphinx, who made a dash for the stairs. With striking
agility, Diane swooped down and trapped him against the floor. Ari
moved in to assist—not her, but the cat. It was obvious