Free The Amateur Spy by Dan Fesperman Page B

a pariah and made off-limits for American dollars. Abbas spent two days in a Manhattan jail before he was released, even though no charges were ever filed. No one ever offered an apology because, well, you just can’t be too careful anymore, you know.
    Even then Aliyah might have eventually found some way to laugh it off if not for what then happened to their daughter. How horrible to think that the New York photo that brought them such shame was now a cherished relic, because it was the last image of their whole family together, Shereen in the middle, smiling brilliantly into the summer sunlight, the brown waters of the Hudson behind them. Everyone arm in arm.
    “I said move back, lady.” It was the policeman again, forceful now.
    “Yes, I am moving.”
    He nudged her with his right hand, and she barely fought down an urge to push back. Her breathing was all bottled up in her throat, and she stepped briskly toward the Volvo, tears of anger and frustration springing hotly to her eyes.
    Of all places for this to happen. It was a block she knew well, having shopped here frequently, and its very nature had always made her feel good about where they lived. Just around the corner was an ATM equipped for seven languages. There was a package store run by Koreans, a restaurant run by Dominicans, and a barbershop run by a Hungarian. The backdrop to the crushed Ford was a kitschy billboard on the roof of the American City Diner. It depicted a 1950s family seated three abreast in a big sedan, all smiles and all white above the script, “There’s no way like the American Way.”
    Tell it to this smug asshole of a cop, she thought. She purposely avoided looking at him, and instead sought out Abbas, worried that he might have seen the brief confrontation. Another reason to keep holding back her tears.
    The ambulance arrived. Paramedics exited in a rush, followed by the aluminum clatter of a gurney. Abbas spoke a few words to a nodding attendant and then wiped bloody hands on a handkerchief.
    She saw that the policeman was still sizing up her husband. The officer then moved forward and said something to Abbas while pointing at her. Her husband went rigid, and color rose in his cheeks. Keep your head, she thought. Don’t take this an inch farther.
    Abbas turned toward her as if he had received her mental warning, and their eyes met. Patience, his expression replied. There was a hint of something else, too. Something new. Was it malice or just determination? Maybe both, almost like he was saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with this in my own way. You’ll see.”
    Something about it made her go faint for a second, and she put a hand to her chest. Whatever this new emotion of his was, it couldn’t possibly be good for either of them.
    Or maybe she was still worried because of what she had found in his top dresser drawer the night before. Some antidepressant, with God knows what sort of side effects. She had seen Abbas sneaking a pill in the kitchen and tracked down the vial later. What’s more, there was no prescription label from any pharmacy. He must have gotten hold of it himself from the hospital, one way or another.
    It was just like him to think he could deal with his feelings like a technician, tweaking his body’s chemical supply just as he might repair some patient’s veins and arteries. Instead of talking things out with her or anyone else, he would make everything right through medicine. Study the symptoms, consult a manual, perhaps chat with a specialist. Then find the right tool and make the necessary adjustment.
    Worrisome. And so was that look on his face. She resolved to start paying closer attention to Abbas. These were dangerous times, and losing one member of her family was quite enough. Losing another would be more than she could bear.

5
    I arrived in Amman on the cusp of Ramadan, watching from the window of the plane as the new moon rose over the desert. Like anything that has grown too fast, Amman lacks