London Twist: A Delilah Novella

by Barry Eisler

  Delilah was aware of the irony. Fatima had said how her family’s tragedy continued to haunt even her happiest moments, especially her happiest moments. And now, in the afterglow of such a beautiful and moving and unexpected connection, Delilah was haunted, too. And not by a tragedy past. But by one to come. One that she herself had just set in motion. One in which she had used all her guile, all her skills, to make Fatima complicit.

  She knew this was the wrong way to look at it. It was the lives she was saving that mattered. And what was she supposed to do, allow by her inaction for Fatima to be delivered up and be tortured? But no matter how she tried to reason with herself, the horrible guilt persisted. Along with the foreboding sense of punishment to follow.

  • • •

  The trip back was long and felt fraught. Delilah could imagine what Fatima was thinking—some version of what she herself was grappling with. What would they do now? Was it a one-time thing they could attribute to too much wine and leave behind in paradise? Would they stay in touch? Visit each other in their respective cities? Were they friends now? Something more?

  All of which confusion was compounded for Delilah by her knowledge of what their “relationship” had really been about. About the horror that was now in store for Fatima and her family, the horror Delilah had set in inexorable motion.

  She knew she should turn her face away now, not watch what was coming, not see the results. Focus on the lives saved, the trauma prevented.

  But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want it to be over. It was strange. She had never failed to seek an excuse for ending a “relationship” the moment her operational objectives had been achieved. But now she found herself seeking a way to prolong things, instead. It was worse than stupid. It was dangerous. She had to end it. She had gotten what she had come for and her cover offered the perfect excuse to break contact. Now was the moment. She told herself to make it quick, make it clean. Make it over. And to not look back.

  They arrived at Heathrow on a gray, rainy morning. They took the express train to Paddington Station, then stood awkwardly outside the turnstiles to the subway. Fatima broke the silence.

  “When do you go back to Paris?”

  It was the perfect cue. Delilah said, “Soon, I suppose. I’ve already sent in our interview. I don’t have a reason to stay much longer. A professional reason, I mean.”

  Shit. There had been no good reason to add that last part.

  Fatima nodded. “I know. That was pretty… crazy, wasn’t it?”

  Delilah nodded, thinking, You have no idea.

  Fatima said, “You’re not… sorry?”

  Delilah shook her head quickly. “No, not at all. Are you?”

  What the hell was wrong with her? She should be sorry. She was sorry, though not at all in the way Fatima had intimated. And regardless, reassuring Fatima was exactly the wrong way to play it.

  There was a long pause, then Fatima, her eyes on Delilah’s said, “Stay with me tonight?”

  Say no, Delilah thought. You have to go back to Paris. For work. Don’t be an idiot.

  Instead: “I want that, too.”

  Fatima’s face flushed with relief—and excitement? She smiled and said, “Anytime after dark. I’ll text you the address.”

  Delilah nodded wordlessly, and suddenly they were in each other’s arms. The embrace felt like a delicious secret—a harmless hug to any of the passers-by around them; recollected intimacy, and the promise of pleasure to come, between the two of them only.

  She showered and changed back at the rented flat, then went out, did a surveillance detection run, and called Kent from a payphone, using the code he had established to tell him where he could set up a meeting.

  Two hours later, they were sitting in a back corner of The Wolseley, a posh restaurant near the Ritz in Piccadilly, all vaulted ceilings and dramatic pillars and huge chandeliers. Over pluperfect English breakfasts, tea, and a basket of croissants so mouthwatering they would have induced a fit of jealousy in any self-respecting boulanger, Delilah briefed Kent on Bora Bora. He had already received the upload from the app and was delighted by her success.

  “The technicians are optimistic,” he told her, amid the buzzing backdrop of conversation among the scores of power brokers, beautiful people, and wannabes around them. “Of course we can’t be certain until we can access her laptop, but I’m told the recording was exceptionally clean. You must have been very close, and in a quiet place. Was it your room?”

  Nothing about Plan B being forestalled. She supposed he didn’t particularly care. Or maybe he really had just invented it to motivate her, and now barely remembered having done so.

  “Yes. My phone was right next to her laptop.”

  “But you only managed to bring it off on the last night. Had she been careful before then?”

  “Yes. It was the first time she’d logged in when I was nearby.”

  “Well, how did you manage it? Considering how careful she’d been.”

  “I shot some pictures of her and gave her the card. She downloaded them to her laptop.”

  “But only on the last night.”

  She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “As I told you.”

  “She hadn’t let you shoot her before then? Because you’d shot her in London. Why was she suddenly so… modest?”

  “She’s concerned about her image. She didn’t want to be photographed in a bathing suit and a sarong. That’s all.”

  “And yet you managed to persuade her.”

  She was getting annoyed, and not sure why. “Yes. By telling her she could have the card as soon as we were done with the shoot. Why are you so interested?”

  He smiled and took a sip of tea. “Well, I’d like to tell you I’m just curious about your tradecraft. But honestly? I find I’m rather enjoying the thought of the two of you, scantily clad, photographing each other. It reminds me of some of my boarding school… ruminations. Appallingly unprofessional, I know. I really should apologize. Do you still have the pictures?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, you cochon, as I told you, she kept the card. And I wouldn’t give them to you even if I still had them.”

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Protecting her, are you?”

  She wondered if he had been deliberately baiting her. He’d read the sympathetic interview she’d sent in; just how concerned about her loyalties might he be? Her irritation increased.

  “Protecting you, Kent. From your own unprofessional proclivities.”

  He smiled. “I don’t think you give me enough credit.”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “What I mean is, who do you think was sent to Riyadh to sew up loose ends there?”

  She looked at him for a long moment. Yes, she could believe it. She’d sensed the hardness beneath the humorously urbane exterior. She had no doubt that, were it part of the job, he could kill without compunction.

  She bit off a piece of croissant, slowly chewed, and swallowed, taking her time, the nonchalance deliberate. “And you’re telling me this now why? You want me to sleep with you out of gratitude?”

  He frowned and said, “I’m sorry you would think so little of me.” He paused to sip his tea, then added with a smile, “I mean, I would never expect you to tell me your reasons.”

  The truth was, maybe she should have been grateful. Farid had been a cruel, sick man. Obsessed with her, determined to hurt her. Now he would never be able to do so. Because of Kent.

  And yet she couldn’t get past everything killing Farid had set in motion.

  “And after all,” he said, after a moment, “the op is done. I suppose we’re colleagues no longer.”

  “We were never colleagues, Kent.”

  “No? What, then?”

  She thought of what was going to happen to Fatima’s brother. “Collaborators. And the collaboration is finished.”

  “Exactly my point. If all the dreary professional obligations are done with, perhaps I could take you to dinner. Purely to
celebrate your success. Tomorrow night, all right?”

  She wondered what sort of pressing business he must have had that evening if he was willing to delay his hoped-for personal conquest. She didn’t get the feeling that deferring gratification was one of Kent’s strengths.

  “Under other circumstances, maybe. And even then against my better judgment. But I’m afraid I’m done in London. It’s time for me to go.”

  “I understand you have the Notting Hill flat for the rest of the week.”

  She was irritated that he had access to such details, but she didn’t show it. “Yes, and as soon as I’m gone you’re welcome to use it for the duration of the lease. I’ll send you the key.”

  He made an expression of exaggerated hurt. “Why are you so hard on me? I don’t think you can reasonably blame me for being attracted to you, you know.”

  It was actually a fair question, and combined with a nice, direct compliment, too, but she found she didn’t have an answer. Just a sense that Kent, and the Director, and all these men… had put her in a position she wouldn’t soon recover from. If ever. And a foreboding that the weight she already felt from everything she had done was only set to worsen, perhaps more than she could even presently understand. Under the circumstances, his assumption that she might now want some sort of personal relationship with him felt like a calculated insult, though she doubted he really intended it as such, or would even have understood if she tried to explain.

  “I’m not trying to be hard on you. I’m trying to be gentle. It would be cruel to fuel your hopes.”

  “Try me.”

  She finished her tea and stood. “I’m glad the operation was a success, Kent. But I’m quite sure we won’t see each other after this.”

  He stood and offered his hand. “You won’t take me seriously, I know, but that really does make me very… sad.”

  The sincerity in his expression was as off-balancing as it was appealing. But she didn’t answer. She shook his hand and started to withdraw. But he leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “I hope you’re wrong,” he said. “About seeing me again.”

  • • •

  Delilah arrived at Fatima’s flat, a walk-up in Covent Garden, at just after dark. She took the usual precautions to ensure she wasn’t being followed, and though she was confident the “after dark” request had been made for discretion’s sake and nothing more, she was extra careful on the final approach. She saw no one out of place. If there were people watching Fatima’s flat, it was from a distance.

  Of course, it wasn’t just the exterior she needed to be concerned about. John would have told her the whole thing might have been a setup, that there could be men waiting inside the flat itself, and if so she would be walking right into an ambush. Her mind gave his professional paranoia enough credence to remain alert as she knocked on the door, but her gut told her the caution was excessive. Besides, she would have taken this risk before the op was done; why would it be unacceptable to take it now that the op was finished? If she was concerned about anything, it was that MI6 might have Fatima’s place under surveillance, or even bugged. Kent had told her that at some point they’d black-bagged the flat. So in her purse, along with a bottle of Montée de Tonnere she thought would be perfect for a summer evening, she had brought Boaz’s bug detector. If there was a problem inside, she’d know it.

  Fatima answered quickly, opening the door wide and stepping aside so Delilah could walk right in. Delilah glanced quickly left and right and saw no one else in the tiny flat. Fatima immediately bolted the door behind her. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t have many visitors, but when I do, the neighbors have been nosy.”

  That, Delilah thought. Or you’ve developed the uncomfortable—and correct—sense that you’re under a bit more scrutiny than you might really care to acknowledge.

  Fatima was barefoot, in faded jeans and a black cotton turtleneck. Her hair was down and she wore no makeup, not even any foundation over the dark circles. Fatima was presenting herself the way she lived at home, without any of the glamorous trappings or makeup or persona with which she mediated the world. Delilah liked that she would let Delilah see her this way. And she liked that Fatima seemed as jumpy as she felt.

  “It’s all right,” Delilah said. She looked around the flat again. It was a corner studio, quite plain, with a single Bokhara rug at the center, a desk and chair, a couch under one window, a small bed and nightstand under the window opposite. There was an iPod plugged into a small stereo system on the desk, Sigur Rós’s Samskeyti, a song Delilah loved, issuing from the speakers. The laptop was on the desk, too. Strange, to see the object of so much previous attention, now irrelevant to her. Everything was visible from where she stood, even the bathroom and a single closet, its door open. Nowhere for anyone to hide. And the bug detector lay silent in her purse.

  “I like your place,” Delilah said. “It’s cozy.”

  Fatima smiled. “You mean small.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Delilah thought, The hell with it. She stepped forward and kissed Fatima gently on the lips. “Hey,” she said.

  Fatima smiled. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would want to, when I asked.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Not so much. I slept all afternoon and ate when I got up.”

  “Jet lag. I did the same.”

  “But… I brought some wine. If you’d like.”

  They drank the wine and talked comfortably enough, about life in Covent Garden, about when Delilah might be able to come back to London, about whether Fatima might come to Paris. Delilah had never felt this confused, not even in the early stages of her relationship with John, when they’d been circling the same target and her pretense of attraction, intended to get John to stand down, had become increasingly real. What was she doing here? She liked this woman, really liked her. Admired her. Empathized with her. And was so improbably attracted to her. But even setting aside everything else, could they have a real relationship? Delilah had never considered such a thing with a woman. And of course, the notion of everything else being set aside was insane. In all likelihood, very soon Fatima would be devastated by news about her brother. What then? Would Delilah comfort her? Use her as an asset? The thought made her feel sick and with a great effort she managed to suppress it.

  They talked about Bora Bora. It was delicious to hear Fatima’s take on what had happened, her expectations leading up to it. Yes, she had wondered whether Delilah might make a pass at her. Yes, she had found herself hoping she would, a hope she found equal parts confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying. Talking about it all, remembering the ambiguity, the nervousness, was a huge turn-on. They wound up making love on Fatima’s small bed, more slowly then before, taking their time, exploring each other’s bodies, talking, touching, laughing. Well after midnight, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  At some point, Delilah was awakened. She didn’t know by what—not a sound, exactly; more an absence of sound. The music, she realized. The iPod stereo on the desk—it had been playing the entire time they’d been awake, set to some sort of playlist loop. And now it had stopped.

  She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. She couldn’t see it. But she’d been aware of the soft glow from its readout earlier.

  She glanced around. There was no other light on in the flat—nothing from the microwave display in the kitchen, nothing from the stereo on the desk.

  There was some illumination from the streetlight outside the window. Meaning the electricity was out in the flat, but not in the area generally.

  Instantly she was fully awake, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her torso. She glanced at Fatima, naked beside her. The woman was breathing deeply and seemed to be asleep.

  She pulled herself up and looked down at the street. No daylight, but what time was it? Sometime after three, she sensed, but her body was still a bit scrambled from travel and she wasn’t sure. There were
two men in dark clothes and baseball caps emerging from a parked car. She saw no dome light in the car, even though the door was open.

  Her heart began to hammer. Who were they? Fatima’s people, or MI6?

  It didn’t matter. Keeping her eyes on the approaching men, she reached for Fatima’s shoulder and shook her. “Fatima,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

  Fatima moaned softly, the sound thick with wine and lovemaking and sleep.

  “Fatima,” Delilah said again, more sharply this time. “Wake up. Now.”

  Fatima moaned again, then said, “What is it?”

  She scanned the street, then went back to the two men. “Something’s wrong. There’s trouble.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Another dark figure stepped out from the shadows behind a parked car. The figure fell in behind the two men. From the gait, posture, and pace of the third man, she instantly understood he wasn’t with the first two. No, not with them—he was stalking them. One of first two must have heard the sound of the third man’s approach. He began to turn. The third man raised his arm, a pistol with a long suppressor at the end of it. The pistol jumped, a hint of muzzle flash escaping from the bore of the suppressor. From the flat, she heard no sound. The man collapsed to the street. The other man began to turn, too. The pistol jumped and flashed again. The second man went down. The newcomer took a step closer and put a finishing shot into each man’s head. Then he calmly checked his flanks. Delilah saw his face.

  Kent.

  Seeing what he’d just done didn’t make her trust him. Quite the opposite. “We have to go,” she said to Fatima. “Right now.”

  “What?”

  She jumped out of bed and grabbed Fatima’s arm. “Someone’s coming for you. I can’t explain. Come on!”

  “I don’t even have clothes—”

  She pulled so hard Fatima fell out of bed. “Forget it! Now!”

  Fatima pulled her arm free and stared at Delilah from the floor. “What are you talking about?”

  There was no time to explain. Fatima wasn’t moving fast enough. She had to think of something.