London Twist: A Delilah Novella (14 page)

“A test… but those men. One of them was hit so hard he could have died.”

“What was it Cecil B. Demille said, when someone asked how he could afford all those stuntmen? ‘We use real bullets,’ I think that was it. Definitely ups the realism, doesn’t it, Fatima?”

Another long moment went by. Fatima said, “I’m sorry, Delilah. I didn’t know.”

Kent said, “Get out of my way.”

She had to think of something. “But you don’t need her. It’s the brother you want, and the laptop gets you to him.”

Fatima struggled again. “No!”

“She’ll warn him,” Kent said.

“What if she does? He’ll have to move. He’ll be out in the open. You can track him.”

“No!” Fatima said again. She struggled to get free, but Delilah clung to her and pressed her down. If she got loose, Kent would drop her in a second.

“The woman is a conduit,” Kent said. “Her brother runs the classes, true, but the woman is practically the admissions committee. Now, if you’d be so kind.”

It wasn’t a good sign that he was referring to her as “the woman.” It was distancing, objectifying. The kind of thing many operatives needed to do before pulling the trigger.

“Don’t do this,” Delilah said. “Her parents have buried two children already. Don’t make them bury another. Don’t become what you hate.”

“Get out of my way,” he said again.

He was too smart to close with her. As long as he kept his distance, she had no chance of disarming him.

She thought of the hotel bars, the hide-in-plain-sight, the overconfidence about his lack of tradecraft generally. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had left.

“Did you miss the surveillance camera on your way in? You took out the electricity, but are you sure there was no backup generator?”

There was a pause. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I? Then go ahead and shoot us. But you better hope your people can retrieve that tape from wherever it backs up to before anyone finds our bodies. Of course, you’ll have to explain to them how you created the problem in the first place by missing something so obvious.”

“I really don’t—”

“And even if you can retrieve the tapes, are the London police such lapdogs to your organization? I hope so. Because two naked women with gunshot wounds might stir some detective’s conscience. Or a prosecutor’s. Do you expect your people to have your back then? Or will they turn on you for missing something so obvious as a security camera in a civilian flat?”

He said nothing, but she could swear he was almost smiling beneath the night vision goggles.

“The hell of it is, I actually want to believe you. And I suppose you have a way of persuading me I’ll be all right in spite of those two bodies in the street?”

“I imagine they were on multiple watch lists. They may even have been illegals. I doubt anyone will care. If you move fast, you and your people can clean up the mess. You have someone on site, the person who cut the electricity, yes? But you’re wasting time.”

He stood very still for a long moment, the muzzle of the suppressor pointed at them. Then he lowered the gun, walked over to the desk, and picked up the laptop.

“I’m going to tell my people no one was here,” he said. “It would be a shame if anything were to contradict my story.”

Delilah didn’t respond. She was too afraid to let her breath out.

He walked to the door, opened it, and turned back to them. “You know, all my life, I’ve hoped to wander into a scene pretty much exactly like this one. So I hope you’ll believe me when I say, I wish we all could have met under different circumstances.”

He left. Delilah waited a long moment, afraid to believe it, afraid he was simply trying to separate her from Fatima so he could return for a clear shot.

When she was satisfied he was really gone, she stood. She checked the window. He was moving down the street, talking into a mobile phone, presumably summoning a cleanup crew. He raised a hand and waved as though he knew she was watching.

Delilah started pulling on her clothes. “You need to go,” she said, sliding up her panties and getting a leg into her pants. “You can’t stay here anymore.”

“Who are you?”

Delilah got her other leg in. She zipped up and snapped the button. “Who do you think I am?”

“My people think you’re French intelligence. Are you?”

“Because of what happened at Momtaz?”

“That. And they say you’re impossible to follow. After Momtaz, they told me to break contact.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Fatima didn’t answer.

“Why did you come to Bora Bora, if you thought I was French intelligence?”

Fatima looked at her. “Why do you think?”

“You didn’t believe them?”

“I didn’t want to.”

The comment stung. Delilah pushed the feeling away.

Fatima took her hands. “Whoever you are, please. Imran is my last brother. Please.”

Delilah pulled her hands free. “Don’t you see? It was him or you.”

“No, don’t you see? It’s going to be both of us! I can’t just—”

“You knew those men were coming tonight?”

Fatima shook her head violently. “No. I swear. They must have… I don’t know. They must have known I didn’t listen to them. They don’t trust me, and I think sometimes they watch me. Maybe they were watching my flat tonight. They saw you come and you never left.”

They were silent for a long moment. Fatima said, “Do you believe me?”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.”

Fatima took her hands again. “Do you believe me?”

Delilah looked into her imploring eyes. God, she was so beautiful.

“I want to,” she said.

Fatima nodded. Her mouth opened as though to speak.

Delilah placed her fingertips against Fatima’s lips. “But I don’t.”

Fatima made a small sound, a tiny gasp or whimper. Delilah turned away and picked up the cotton sweater she’d been wearing.

“Wait,” Fatima said. “Don’t you understand? What are my people going to think? They already don’t trust me. I kept seeing you even after they told me not to. They know you were here tonight, and the two men they sent for you are found dead or missing… they’ll think I was part of a setup!”

“It doesn’t matter what they think. It’s not my concern.”

“How can you say that?” Fatima said, a tremor in her voice.

Delilah pulled on her sweater and paused. She had to think. Her emotions were running her behavior now, she knew that.
Think.

If it was true Fatima hadn’t known about those men… she might be in trouble. Bad trouble. She said her people didn’t trust her. Based on Delilah’s own experience, that wasn’t so hard to believe. And if they really thought she was in some way working with Delilah…

She suddenly realized that what had begun as a straightforward access operation might inadvertently have become more akin to a defection.

“I can’t help you, Fatima. My people can, but I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re in danger, there are people who can protect you. In exchange for your cooperation.”

“In exchange for my cooperation… what are you talking about? Going to your embassy?”

“Or to MI6, yes.” Delilah knew cooperation with France or England would be easier to swallow—assuming Fatima could swallow it all—than with Israel. So the access op had now become a false flag, as well.

“That’s insane. I can’t do that, I have a life! And do you really expect I’m going to help you murder my brother? My mother and father’s son?”

“I can’t help your brother. I can only help you.”

“Yes, you can. Call them off. Please. Delilah, please!”

Delilah paused, thinking, hating herself for even considering it. “Would he come in?”

Fatima clapped a hand over her mouth as though she might be sick. “Oh, my God. This was a setup. This whole thing. Every bit of it.”

Delilah had the horrible sense that everything around her was moving again, that she couldn’t track it all, couldn’t manage it. “No,” she said. “That’s not true.”

Fatima sat heavily on the bed and put her head in her hands. “Of course it’s true. And I was too stupid to see it. Too… God, I was too infatuated with you. Oh my God, Imran. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.”

She started crying. Delilah watched her, feeling paralyzed. All she had to do was give Fatima a phone number and go. She’d be done. She’d be out.

Instead, she sat next to her. “Fatima,” she said. “Look at me. Please.”

Fatima didn’t move. Delilah took her hands and eased them away from her face. She reached for her chin and turned her head so they were looking at each other.

“I was sent to find a way to access your laptop. Because your brother is helping to plan horrific attacks. Do you want other people to endure what you and your family have suffered?”

“Of course I don’t. But it’s not my choice. It’s the choice they impose on us. It’s the only way to make it stop.”

“I don’t want to believe that.”

“Then call them off! Don’t let them kill Imran!”

Delilah didn’t answer.

“Say something! Answer me!”

Still Delilah said nothing.

“Do you see how full of shit you are?” Fatima said, her voice breaking. “You fucking hypocrite. Just go. Get out.”

“Fatima… I don’t know how to stop all this. Maybe we can’t. Maybe you were right about what you said about the human need for revenge. But… everything that happened with you… it was real for me. I didn’t intend it, but it was.”

Fatima said nothing.

“In Bora Bora, I got your passcode. Don’t ask me how; I can’t tell you that. But at that point, the op was over. I had no reason to see you after. No… professional reason. I’m sorry. But this is true.”

Fatima started crying again. Delilah’s stomach clenched.

“You can’t stay here. I agree with you, you’re probably in danger. Come with me, and I’ll help you anyway I can.”

Fatima wiped the tears from one cheek, then the other, the movement quick, economical. She cleared her throat.

“No. Just go. I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t be fine. You’ll—”

“Just go.”

“Please, listen to me, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Fatima smiled. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”

Delilah tried to think of something to say. She couldn’t.

“Fatima, please—”

Fatima looked at her, her eyes dry now. When she spoke, her voice was neutral. Even cold.

“Get out of my flat, Delilah. Or whatever your name is.”

Delilah felt like she’d been punched. She stood, picked up her bag, and went to the door.

“I want to help you,” she said. “Please, call me. You have my number. Please, Fatima.”

No response.

She left, stumbling down the stairs and through the front entrance. The street was dark and deserted. The bodies were already gone.

• • •

She left London the next day, traveling to Rouen, where she would meet and brief her Mossad handler. She called Kent before boarding the train.

“I was hoping you would call,” he said. “Change your mind about our date? The laptop was a treasure trove, you know. They were very close to bringing off something huge, and we’ll be able to stop it now. I’d love to brief you in person.”

Nothing about what he’d seen in the flat. But she didn’t really care one way or the other. She briefed him on what happened after he had left.

“With what’s on the laptop,” he said, “I don’t know how much further use she would be. I doubt anyone would be all that interested in bringing her in. But I’ll try.”

“Try hard,” she said. “It would mean… a lot to me. If that means anything to you.”

“It might be a bit awkward, given the story I told about no one being in the flat when I went in.”

“Don’t be a selfish asshole,” she said, surprised by her own anger. “That was your screw-up. Don’t make someone else pay for it.”

There was a pause. He said, “Was there really a camera there?”

“How the hell should I know?”

He laughed. “I knew it. Well, almost knew. And almost doesn’t count, does it?”

She didn’t answer.

“You really came to… care about her, didn’t you?”

“Your powers of perception will never cease to astound me, Kent.”

She thought he would have some riposte for that, some knowing comment about what he’d seen at Fatima’s flat. Instead, he said, “You know, I was afraid something like that might happen between us. And by afraid, I mean hoping. I still am, if you really want to know.”

“Just help her, Kent, all right? She’s useful to you now. Useful alive.”

“I understand that. Or at least I’ll try to make it so, all right?”

“Thank you.”

“And… what about us?”

G
od,
she thought,
doesn’t he ever get tired?

“‘Us’?”

“Am I going to see you again?”

“I don’t know, Kent. I really have a lot to think about right now.”

“I understand that. I’m sorry this one turned out to have… a strong aftertaste. That happens sometimes. I’m just commiserating, not talking down to you, all right?”

She smiled. It was funny the way he was getting to know her.

“Yes. Thank you for that.”

“Call me if you like. I really would enjoy seeing you again. There are a lot of other good bars in London, you know. Hotels, too.”

“I don’t think I ever want to come to London again.”

“Well, I may know a place or two in Paris, as well. It would be a pleasure.”

“Goodbye, Kent. I have to go.” She clicked off.

In Rouen, it was just her handler. No Director and his cronies again. Not enough of a red-light district in Rouen, she supposed. But they all sent their warm regards and their effusive gratitude for her latest stunning success.

She returned to Paris feeling listless, aimless. She wanted to call Fatima. Or Kent, just to know what was happening. But she didn’t.

Three days after she’d returned, she picked up a local paper and went for coffee and a croissant at Le Loir Dans La Théière, not far from her Marais apartment, a charming little place she had enjoyed many times with John. Now it felt haunted by his memory. She didn’t know whether she went there in spite of that, or because of it.

She was in luck—a window seat was open. She sat and opened the paper. On the front page was a story about an American drone strike in Pakistan. Seven militants killed. She thought of what Kent had said about the Americans’ kill metrics, and wondered how many of the dead had been civilians. Maybe all of them. No way to know. And she doubted anyone much cared, beyond the bereaved families.