by Barry Eisler
On the way back to her flat, she watched her back very carefully indeed. She was glad for the knife concealed in her right front pants pocket. The tiger-claw blade and index- and middle-finger ring grip were both made of glass bonded into epoxy resin, and reinforced with carbon nanotubes—cutting power like steel, but undetectable in airports. The Mossad tech guys had made it especially for her, working off an FS Hideaway design. It wouldn’t hold an edge, but nor was it intended to. This was no frequent-use tool; it was a last-ditch weapon.
No one was following her. But she knew she was being watched now. Watched and assessed. Whatever tests might be in store for her, she knew she’d better pass them.
• • •
The next evening, Delilah took the tube to Warwick Avenue Station, then continued on foot to Momtaz. The sun was low in the sky and the streets were bathed in the lengthening shadows of trees and apartment buildings and lampposts. She passed a group of students in backpacks and several couples pushing strollers, locals enjoying the lingering daylight of a long summer evening. She felt she blended among them nicely in her jeans and another cashmere V-neck, this one sea green, the camera bag slung over her shoulder. A few restaurants were open, but most of the establishments she passed were closed, hidden now behind rolled-down corrugated metal doors.
The area was hardly downscale, but it had a little edge to it—at least by the standards of Mayfair and Belgravia to the southeast. Further north, she knew, it bled into Kilburn, home to a large Pakistani and Muslim population. She would have liked to spend more time reconnoitering, but if she were spotted arriving too early or exploring too much, it would look suspicious. So she settled for the walk from the tube stop, which she’d mapped out on the Internet earlier in the day. The route allowed her natural shortcuts along various quiet residential streets, and included multiple left turns and right turns that afforded her ample opportunity to glance behind for followers. She detected no problems.
Momtaz occupied the first floor of a three-story brown brick building on a mixed commercial and residential street corner. Flanking the entrance were two long glassed-in patios—designed, Delilah supposed, to comply with London’s indoor smoking ban. She headed in and found herself in a large foyer, a pretty hostess in a modest dress at its center, the café branching out to her left and right. The air smelled of sweet tobacco and was filled with the sounds of Arab pop music and a low hum of conversation. A few couples and groups, most South Asian and Arab, occupied the booths and benches. Several of the men looked up when she entered and watched her with a frankness and intensity she disliked whenever she encountered it. Any number of them could have been with Fatima. There was no way to know.
Delilah told the hostess she was here to meet a friend, who might be waiting in the ladies-only section… ? The hostess told her of course, and gestured for her to follow. Every man in the restaurant stared at Delilah’s face as they walked, and she felt their eyes on her ass as she passed them. She had deliberately dressed low-key, but it didn’t matter. Partly it was her hair, partly her looks; partly it was the culture, the sense among these men that women didn’t really belong in a shisha bar, and that any woman who didn’t understand that deserved to be stared at, and probably deserved a lot worse.
The ladies-only section was at the far end of one side of the café, an intimate space with red and gold upholstered benches and wood tables and chairs, everything softly lit by track lights and candles. Technically, it was indeed a patio, and though Delilah could see that in colder weather it would feel like a room, tonight the heat lamps were turned off and the windows open to the sidewalk and evening air. The effect was of a private enclave connected to, but at a safe remove from, the outside world. There were a dozen women, all apparently of North African, Arab, and Pakistani extraction. Fatima wasn’t among them. Several glanced over at Delilah with evident curiosity, but with none of the blatant sense of entitlement and hostility she’d seen among the men. She told the hostess she’d be happy to wait, and asked for the corner table at the end of the room, which was open.
A waitress brought her sweet tea and she enjoyed it while she waited, along with the music, the aroma of shisha smoke, the hum of conversation in mixed Arabic and Urdu and English. She realized she felt more like she was waiting for a friend than for a target, and that the feeling seemed more real than simulacrum. Which was odd, but also good. The more genuine the emotion, the greater the likelihood of trust, and therefore of success.
Fatima showed after twenty minutes, elegant in a shoulderless black silk dress and fuchsia crepe scarf. She scanned the room and instantly spotted Delilah, her face lighting up in a smile as she headed over. Her dress showed a lot of leg, and the scarf might have been a concession to local expectations of female modesty—and implied threats to enforce them—as well as a precaution against the evening chill. Her hair glistened under the track lighting, and Delilah realized she had straightened it. There was also a bit more eyeliner than Delilah had seen the day before, and some lipstick, too. She sensed that her new friend had worked on her look tonight. The result was undeniably stunning, but what did the effort itself suggest? Was it for Delilah’s benefit? For a man? Both? She found herself hoping the effort was for her, and the feeling was strange. Well, if Fatima cared enough about Delilah’s opinion of her appearance to go to some trouble before an evening out, it could only be good, because it would suggest she’d be amenable to spending more time together. And without that, this already long-shot op would be stillborn.
Delilah stood as Fatima reached her table. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Fatima said, reaching for her shoulder and kissing her cheeks. “Trouble getting a cab.”
No, Delilah thought. It was a fashion crisis. You tried on several outfits, and couldn’t settle on what felt like the right look. The thought was strangely pleasing.
“It’s nothing,” Delilah said. “I haven’t been here long, and anyway I’ve been enjoying the ambiance.”
They sat. The waitress brought another tea, and they ordered a meze—small dishes like baba ghanoush and mekanek and souvlakia. While they ate, they chatted inconsequentially but pleasantly enough. Fatima told Delilah she loved the photos from the rally. Delilah told her if she copied and returned the memory card and indicated her favorites, Delilah would try to use them in the article.
At one point, over coffees and a dessert of baklava and sahlab, Fatima asked, “How long do you think you’ll be in London?”
Delilah had already thought about how she might answer. Too long would seem odd; too short, and their incipient friendship wouldn’t have time to bear fruit.
“It depends on a lot of things,” Delilah said after a moment, as though having paused to consider the question. “I needed a break from Paris and I’m glad to be in London. I suppose it depends in part on how long I can spin out this assignment before my editor tells me no more rented flat.”
This was calculated: by letting Fatima know that the duration of Delilah’s stay was in part a function of Fatima’s willingness to help her, she was offering Fatima an opening to become an accomplice in the deception of Delilah’s editor. And, if Fatima acted, and became complicit, it would be a good sign. It might create opportunities.
Fatima took a sip of her coffee. “Are you… seeing anyone?”
This question caught Delilah unawares, in part because of her own jumbled feelings about John. “You mean… in London?”
“In general. You’re very beautiful… I couldn’t help but wonder if you had someone.”
Delilah paused, then instinctively chose the response closest to the truth. “I was seeing someone, until recently. It wasn’t a good ending. Paris reminds me of him. I think that’s part of why I’m glad to be here.”
“I’m sorry.”
Delilah smiled. “Don’t be. You’re the reason I came. What about you?”
Fatima shook her head. “A recent breakup, like you. Not a bad one, though. It was harder on my parents than it was on either of us. I’m thirty,
and they think I’m running out of time. And they liked him. A good Pakistani boy. But he wasn’t right. And I guess I’m at a point where, if it’s not really going anywhere, I don’t want it to just… I don’t know. Roll along by inertia, I guess. It seems unfair to everyone.”
The opening was natural enough to be worth testing. “Your parents… they must be so ready for grandchildren. After what happened to your family.”
Fatima took another sip of coffee. “Yes. And I feel selfish not giving them that comfort. But I’m just not ready.”
“I don’t think it’s selfish. Or else, I’m quite selfish, too.” A slight detour from the route Delilah wanted to take, but it was important to share confidences, too.
“Your parents want grandchildren?”
“More than anything. And with my brother gone, I’m their only child. But… I don’t know. I’m not ready. Maybe not ready… to give up my freedom? I mean, I feel like I’m just getting started. There’s so much to do.”
Fatima’s jaw hardened slightly, and for an instant her expression shifted into something both distant and intense. Then it was gone. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
“So what will you do, then? Poetry? Activism? What’s next, where do you want to make an impact?
Fatima smiled. “Are you interviewing me now?”
Delilah laughed and took a sip of coffee. “Yes, those are good interview questions, thank you for the reminder. I keep forgetting. I don’t feel like a very good journalist with you.”
Fatima looked at her for a long moment. “Do you mean that?”
“I think so. I’m too sympathetic to what you’ve been through and what you’re trying to do. And I like you too much. It’s dangerous to get too close to your subject.”
“Has that happened to you?”
She was a good interrogator, Delilah noted. Or a good conversationalist—the skill set was similar. Sensing themes; assembling fragments; reflecting them back to draw the subject out. It was a role Delilah was accustomed to playing expertly, but she didn’t mind that for the moment the shoe was on the other foot. It suggested Fatima felt comfortable, in control.
“Maybe,” she said after a moment, thinking once again of Rain.
“Was that the relationship you were just talking about? The one that ended badly?”
A good interrogator indeed. Delilah laughed and said, “I thought I was supposed to be interviewing you.”
Fatima smiled her radiant, sad smile. “Aren’t you?”
“No, not at all, I’m afraid. So tell me. What’s next? You have your freedom, now how will you use it?”
There was a long pause. Delilah didn’t think she’d pushed too hard; after all, she was here under the guise of journalist, her job ostensibly an in-depth interview. She wished Momtaz served alcohol—even the most disciplined subjects tended to be more forthcoming after a few drinks. Environs less familiar to Fatima, someplace that might make her forget herself, would also have been helpful. Rain had used both techniques on Delilah back when they were still circling each other and probing for advantage—taking her to Phuket, getting her buzzed, reading between the lines of what emerged and exploiting it to his advantage. The memory didn’t sting. John was good, as good as she’d ever known. And she’d learned from the experience. In fact, she wondered whether she might be able to do something similar now.
Finally, Fatima said, “I don’t want you to print this, all right?”
Delilah nodded, wondering what was coming, pleased at the apparent expression of trust. “All right.”
“I don’t know what’s next for me. I feel like I’m… haunted. Haunted by what was done to my brothers.”
She paused again. Delilah noted the diction: not by what happened to her brothers, which would have implied a lack of agency behind their deaths, or at least de-emphasized it. No, instead, by what was done to them, with its focus on an implicit subject, an unspoken actor. The people who had sent the drones. America. The West.
“Why would you not want me to print that?” Delilah said. “Of course I won’t, but… ”
“Because it sounds so self-pitying. So grandiose. But it’s also true. I can’t let it go. What my family went through… no one should have to go through that. If I can do something to stop these murders—and they are murders—I have to. I can’t sleep if I don’t.”
It was unsettling to hear something so similar to the very refrain she had routinely deployed in response to John’s repeated insistence that she get out of the life. How could she ever sleep again after seeing the next televised news report of carnage at a Tel Aviv pizza parlor or shopping mall? Or of a rocket fired into a West Bank school? Or of, God forbid, a mass-casualty gas attack?
“I don’t think it sounds either self-pitying or grandiose,” Delilah said, feeling a sympathy that was both genuine and genuinely disquieting. “But what will you do?”
“Whatever I can,” Fatima said, her eyes distant again, and again Delilah was discomfited by the parallels with her own justifications, even her own words. She said no more than that, and Delilah found her silence faintly ominous, as well as disappointing. She wondered again how much more talkative Fatima might have been in a different setting, maybe after several drinks. She found herself warming to the idea, and wondering how she might implement it.
They finished their coffee and Delilah took some pictures—a westernized Pakistani, enjoying an evening out among others like herself. Fatima insisted on paying because Delilah had picked up the tab at Notes. On the way out, Delilah felt the eyes of every male they passed hot on their faces, their bodies. Some of the stares reflected no more than lust and a warped sense of entitlement. But in others, she recognized a resentment that bordered on hatred. For what? Because women had something they wanted but that they didn’t know how to legitimately acquire? Because they needed to denigrate and hurt someone else to reassure themselves they weren’t pathetic and powerless? Because a man could tolerate his own lack of status as long as there was a class of people he could remind himself was of lower stature still?
They paused outside the front door. Delilah would have preferred not to. The vibe she had picked up from some of the men inside had been ugly enough to make her wary of creating unintended opportunities for anyone. Not that she thought she couldn’t handle whatever trouble might come her way, but her way of handling it would likely expose her as something more than a civilian photojournalist—the same sort of thing that had gotten her in trouble in Paris with John.
“Sorry if I got a little intense,” Fatima said.
“To not get intense over what happened to your family, you’d have to be dead inside.”
Fatima nodded and looked at Delilah as though pleased she understood. “Yes. That’s exactly it. Exactly the choice they impose on us.”
Again, Delilah noted the active voice, the focus on the doer rather than the done. This was a woman who was bottling up a lot inside. Under the right circumstances, if a small opening could be created, some of those pressurized contents would leak.
Delilah heard the door to Momtaz and glanced back. Two young men were heading out, their stride fast and purposeful. She had noted them inside—close-cropped hair and dark facial stubble, ugly faces and expensive shirts. Their stares had been particularly hostile. Now their eyes locked on Delilah and Fatima, and Delilah saw the satisfied recognition, the pleasure of confirmation and ensuing confrontation. She felt a hot rush of adrenaline and thought, Merde.
“We can’t figure it out,” the taller of the two said, his English Arabic-accented, as they strode over.
There were two expected responses. One was, “What?” The other was silence. Either would betray nervousness, and therefore embolden the enemy. The correct move was a non sequitur, something incongruous that would momentarily occupy the enemy’s cognition while his brain tried to process the unanticipated response. So had she been alone, Delilah would have answered, “The square root of pi?” or “Given sufficient salinity, freezing does become mo
re difficult, doesn’t it?” or some other wildly off-track comment, and then dropped the lead guy by attacking the throat, or the knee, or whatever other target of opportunity presented itself. An overreaction? She didn’t think so. A man’s natural ally was his upper body strength. To counter it, she had speed, surprise, and violence of action. A man’s strategy was attrition. Hers was blitzkrieg. In a drawn-out confrontation, a man could press his advantages and negate hers. She wouldn’t allow that. If she had to err, she knew which side to err on.
But then she would have to explain herself to Fatima. And regardless of what Fatima herself might make of Delilah’s capability with violence, her people would have their own views, probably ones fatal to the op itself.
So she said nothing—in her judgment, the lesser of the two available evils. Fatima, less savvy, said, “What can’t you figure out?”, her tone dripping with derision.
It was a stupid move, though Delilah didn’t blame Fatima for not knowing better. In a confrontation, you don’t insult, you don’t challenge, you don’t deny it’s happening. And you always leave your adversary a face-saving exit. If he takes it, great; if he doesn’t, you act. But blustering en route serves only to engage the other person’s temper and his ego, while impeding your own opportunities for surprise. Fatima, whatever her involvement in her brother’s network, wasn’t trained, and she wasn’t experienced.
The two men stopped, so close Delilah could have hit one with a stomp to the instep and the other with a knee to the groin. The shorter one said, “What you’re doing out alone, the two of you. This is what we can’t figure out.”
Fatima laughed contemptuously. “Alone, the two of us? Here, let me ask you the same thing. What are the two of you doing out alone? Did your parents not notice you sneaking out of your bedrooms?”
They both reddened and the shorter one’s eyes narrowed. Delilah admired Fatima for her brass, but bluff was dangerous if you couldn’t back it up.
