The American has his hand on Haaruun's shoulder, his grey shirt wet under the arms.
"You speak English, right?"
"I do, sir." Filsan is self-conscious about her strong accent but has studied well.
"I was just telling our American friend how strong Somali women are, that we don't have any of that purdah here. Women work, they fight in our military, serve as engineers, spies, doctors. Isn't it so?"
"Absolutely, we are not like other women." She nods fervently.
"I bet you this girl could strip a Kalashnikov in a minute," the General boasts, placing his gold-rimmed sungla**es on top of his bald head.
"Yes, and she could annihilate an Ethiopean battalion while unicycling. I don't doubt it," the American laughs.
"Look, buddy . . ." General Haaruun grabs Filsan's hand and raises it before twirling her around. "You're going to tell me that American women can be trained k**ers and still look this good?"
Filsan fixes her gaze to the floor: she can feel others looking her up and down, eyes flicking over her like tongues.
"Not bad, not bad. I wouldn't want to meet her down a dark alley. Or maybe I would if it was the right kind of alley."
General Haaruun clasps the attache's shoulder and hoots his approval before recovering himself.
"Keep your capitalist hands to yourself." He mock wags his finger in his face.