London Twist: A Delilah Novella (5 page)

Even with the distortion of amplification, Delilah could hear that the voice was feminine, the tone confident, and the accent international school British, poised incongruously between British precision and American flatness.

“You are creating your own enemies with these cruel, cowardly weapons, enemies who are driven not by ideology but rather by a universally human sense of revenge and despair. And when you bomb funerals and rescuers, you multiply the hatred a thousandfold. Among the dead might be militants, yes, but inevitably the deaths of so many innocents produces a new generation of leaders, who spontaneously emerge in furious retaliation for these savage attacks on their territories, their tribes, their families. You are fighting fire with gasoline, and, in so doing, causing a conflagration that rages hotter and burns more broadly with every strike you launch.”

The rhetoric was perhaps a bit florid, but in general Delilah didn’t disagree with the sentiments. She had no illusions about how many of her country’s problems, and those of the West generally, were self-made. But she wasn’t a politician. Her role was to try to keep the blaze from getting further out of control, no matter how much the politicians did to stoke it. It was a dismal job, thankless, and possibly, in the end, futile. But what else could she do—shrug off the possibility that one of the people Fatima described, no matter how righteous his outrage, might unleash aerosolized sarin on a subway platform, or in a shopping mall, or in a school? In many ways, the politicians presented people like Delilah with a never-ending series of faits accomplis. Maybe she was enabling them. Maybe if she and people like her told them all to fuck off, went on strike, refused to continue to put out the fires the politicians were continually feeding, it would shock them out of their idiocy. But in the meantime, more people, many more, would certainly die.

She sighed. If only Rain could understand that, maybe he could understand why she couldn’t get out of the life. Not yet, anyway. Because how could she live with carnage and catastrophe, no matter what its ultimate cause, knowing she might have stopped it, and instead stood aside?

Fatima spoke for twenty minutes, focusing her appeal both on America’s values and on its self-interest, her remarks frequently interrupted by applause. Delilah watched through the lens, periodically getting a picture. She liked the distance the camera created for her. Sometimes she needed it.

Fatima concluded by saying, “One of your own greatest Americans, Martin Luther King, understood this well. King said, ‘Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hatred cannot drive out hatred: only love can do that.’ Please, Mister Secretary. Learn this lesson. Turn away from darkness. Turn away from hate. Before they consume us all.”

She stepped down from the crate, surrounded by thunderous cheering and applause. The TV reporter hurried over, microphone in hand, followed by her cameraman. Delilah was struck that not once had Fatima mentioned her dead brothers. The crowd knew already, certainly, so perhaps she surmised that her real audience, the hard men, the ones who hated not passionately but coldly, patiently, would respect her reticence, and feel in it a bond based on shared but unspoken pain, a bond that would draw them to her, and from there to her brother, the means by which their hatred could at last find ecstatic expression. For was it not true that when the student is ready, the teacher appears?

Delilah began slipping through the crowd. She was aware of Fatima as the enemy, yes. But that awareness was walled off from her overall consciousness, buried deep in her mind along with the details of her true identity and affiliations, a deep code with no current attachment or relevance to the running of the external program. She was a photographer, here on assignment. Fatima was an intriguing subject for a story. She hoped things would go well—the magazine would be happy.

Fatima was still speaking to the TV reporter, who seemed to be doing not much more than asking Fatima to repeat what she had already said into the bullhorn. Delilah paused to the side, within the ambit of Fatima’s peripheral vision, and was pleased when her presence drew Fatima’s gaze for a moment. When the reporter and cameraman moved off, Delilah had only to step forward. Fatima was already turning her way.

“Thank you for your speech,” Delilah said, extending her hand. “It was beautiful and moving. I hope the defense secretary heard.”

Fatima shook Delilah’s outstretched hand, the grip firm and confident. In another life, Delilah thought, this woman could have been a model. Or movie star. Of course, she knew people thought the same of her. Beauty was an unfair advantage—without it, Fatima might have ignored her just now, or might have failed to notice her at all.

“He might have heard,” Fatima said. “But they will never listen.”

Delilah saw her opening. “Maybe I can help with that. In my small way.”

Fatima cocked her head. “Help… ?”

Delilah already had a card at the ready, and she handed it to Fatima now. She introduced herself, quickly explaining the story she’d learned from Kent’s thumb drive—the fashion magazine that had sent her from Paris to photograph Fatima, how it would be a fairly extensive spread, how she would try to ensure the story got the cover of the issue it appeared in. Most people would have jumped for the kind of exposure Delilah had just offered, and she expected Fatima to bite. So she was surprised when Fatima instead said, “I’m flattered, and I won’t deny that I love fashion—it’s a weakness I can’t seem to do anything about. But to be associated with it too much is dangerous for me—my enemies like to use that sort of thing to paint me as frivolous.”

Improvising, Delilah said, “Then let’s forget about fashion. Help me get your message out. I’m sympathetic and would welcome the opportunity to make more people aware of your work, and of the injustice of what America is doing in Pakistan with its drones.”

Fatima frowned for a moment as though at a loss. “Your… editors would be okay with that?”

Delilah smiled into Fatima’s eyes as though contemplating a conspiracy. “No. They’ll hate it. But for me, they’ll do it. An in-depth interview and the right kind of photo shoot. It would be perfect.”

Fatima smiled back, perhaps wondering what powers Delilah might have over her editors and how she had acquired them, but hesitating to ask. “What would you need from me?”

“An afternoon. Or a day. Or however much time you have to spare. You tell me what you want to convey, and I’ll capture it. I’m sick of catwalks anyway. I want to do something… important.”

Fatima glanced at the card. “This is how I can get in touch with you?”

“Yes. And here.” Delilah popped open the camera, removed the SD card, and handed it Fatima. It never hurt to give a small gift—doing so made most people feel they ought to reciprocate. “There are some good shots of you. You look serious, and passionate, with a huge crowd assembled before you. Not that you don’t also look fabulous in Camilla Olson, but I think you’ll see, that’s incidental.”

If Fatima was having any doubts about Delilah’s fashion photographer credentials, naming the designer of her dress should have laid them to rest.

Fatima laughed. “When do we do this?”

“Now. Tomorrow. Anytime that works for you. I have some other reasons to stick around, and if I have to stay in London a little longer at the magazine’s expense, it’s hardly a tragedy.”

“Where are you staying?”

“A rented flat. Notting Hill.”

“They treat you well, your magazine.”

“They don’t treat me badly. But this time, a flat is just cheaper than a London hotel. A good London hotel, anyway. Where can we meet?”

Fatima paused and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “There’s a coffee place I like—Notes, on St. Martin’s Lane, right next to the Coliseum Theatre. Do you know it?”

“No, but I can find it easily enough.”

“I go there to write. We can talk, enjoy a coffee, and you can photograph me at work. How would that be?”

“A good start, at least.”

“Okay. I’ll be there from ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Only after they had shaken hands again and Delilah had walked away did she permit herself a discreet moment of triumph. True, a meeting wasn’t much, and the chances of this op producing anything worthwhile were now only slightly less slim than they had been at the outset. But it was always satisfying to have the quarry nibble the bait. It brought things that much closer to the hook.

She considered contacting Kent—protocol would be to brief him after making initial contact with the subject. But she decided against it. She couldn’t see any value in a meeting at this point, and Kent, doubtless already realizing she was no slave to diplomatic courtesy, might wonder why she would have bothered. He might conclude her interest was personal, and might then decide to test that theory. She didn’t think she wanted that. At least not yet.

• • •

Delilah arrived at Notes at a little past ten the next morning, comfortable in jeans and a vintage navy cashmere V-neck sweater, her camera bag slung over her shoulder. She’d spent the previous ninety minutes doing a surveillance detection run, finishing her route at Charing Cross Station, and was confident she hadn’t been followed. In the course of her career, she’d rarely had the luxury of being able to flush out potential surveillance with ostentatious techniques. Instead, her countermeasures had to be disguised as ordinary civilian behavior, lest a team conclude simply by watching her that she was trained in more than just catwalk photography. And she had to be more circumspect now even than she was upon arrival. She’d made contact, of course, but beyond that, if things went well, she would be spending a lot of time with Fatima. The more time she spent, the more interested Fatima’s associates would likely become, and the more closely they would want to examine Fatima’s new acquaintance.

She approached St. Martin’s Lane from the south. If anyone wanted to watch her, of course they might have decided the expedient thing would be to keep the eye on Fatima until Delilah walked right into it. If that were the case, she would know soon enough.

St. Martin’s was a quiet, narrow street, apparently notable mostly for its antique dealers and secondhand booksellers and, as Fatima had said, the ornate Coliseum Theatre. Notes, a modest storefront announcing itself with stenciled letters on the front glass, was just a little ways up the road on the right. She headed in, and found herself in a long, rectangular room with a high ceiling, wood floors, and lots of natural light from a large skylight. There was a pleasant mix of conversation, laughter, and jazz playing through an unseen speaker system, the background hum punctuated by the mechanical buzz of burr coffee grinders, the
ka-thwack!
of hand-pulled espresso baskets being dumped, the hiss and bubbling of steam being shot into milk. The air was redolent with the delicious smell of fresh coffee.

She scanned the room and detected no obvious problems, just a collection of men and women of various ages, types, and ethnicities. She kept moving ahead, past a giant poster of Miles Davis. Tables lined the wall to her right; to her left, extending half the length of the shop, was a long wooden counter, manned by three baristas and dominated by a massive, gleaming Strada espresso machine. The rear of the space was more open, with two large communal tables, a bench, and walls lined with tall shelves of DVDs and music CDs

Fatima was sitting in the corner seat of the communal table all the way in back, facing the front of the store. A tactical view of the entrance, or a courteous way to make it easier for Delilah to spot her? Perhaps both. There was a laptop open in front of her—a MacBook Air. Good. She was wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. There was just a bit of makeup—eyeliner, a touch of foundation—and the overall effect was of effortless beauty.

She looked up, saw Delilah, and smiled. She closed the laptop and stood. “Delilah, hello. Thank you for coming.”

Delilah shook her hand, noting the care she had taken to close the laptop. “Not at all. Thank you for taking the time. I like your office.”

Fatima laughed. “The rent is good, and the coffee is better. Would you like something?”

Delilah glanced down at Fatima’s empty cup. “What’s that you’re having?”

“Red Brick espresso.”

“Looks like it was a double.”

“Yes.”

Delilah set the camera bag down on the table. “Why don’t you watch my bag, and I’ll get one for both of us.”

They wound up talking for hours. Rather than using a recorder, which she thought might make Fatima unhelpfully self-conscious, Delilah took notes. But at times the conversation was so involved and so comfortable that she forgot her role as journalist. Which was fine, of course, because she was trying to establish something more than just that.

“I read about your brothers, of course,” she said at one point. “I’m sorry.”

“It was hard. Have you ever lost anyone?”

“Like that? No. I doubt many people have. But my older brother died when I was sixteen.”

“I’m so sorry. May I ask what happened?”

“A car accident,” Delilah said. In fact, her brother was killed in combat in Lebanon, but like every other aspect of the legend she lived, this one was so painstakingly backstopped, custom tailored, and carefully rehearsed that the legend was what felt real to her, while the details of her actual childhood were suffused with the vagueness and improbability of an interrupted dream. “So I can only imagine what your family has endured.”

“Imagine? But you know.”

“Well, yes. But two children instead of one, and a deliberate killing—murder, really, rather than an accident. Your parents… I don’t know how people survive these things. My own were never the same.”

She could have pushed further, turning the subject to the brother, Imran, and what happened to him. But pushing on that topic too soon might set off warning bells. Besides, there was no reason to rush.

At one point, they ordered sandwiches. During the hours they’d been talking, the clientele had completely turned over. Fatima might have had people watching Delilah—enough of them so they could tag-team and remain unobtrusive. Or someone might have been waiting outside, to pick up Delilah as she left. But she doubted it. Maybe Fatima didn’t have, or didn’t tolerate, minders. Either way, Delilah’s sense was that she wasn’t yet on anyone’s radar.