ABOUT LONDON TWIST

For Delilah, the Mossad’s top seductress, the parameters of the assignment were routine. The contractor: MI6. The objective: infiltrate a terror network, this one operating out of London. The stakes: a series of poison gas attacks on civilian population centers.

There’s just one wrinkle. The target is a woman—as smart, beautiful, and committed as Delilah herself. And for a cynical operative thrust suddenly out of her element, the twists and turns of the spy game are nowhere near as dangerous as the secrets and desires of the human heart.

This story is approximately thirty-six thousand words—the equivalent of about one hundred forty-five paper pages. It is a novella, not a novel.

ALSO BY BARRY EISLER

Novels

John Rain series

A Clean Kill in Tokyo (Originally published as Rain Fall)

A Lonely Resurrection (Originally published as Hard Rain)

Winner Take All (Originally published as Rain Storm)

Redemption Games (Originally published as Killing Rain)

Extremis (Originally published as The Last Assassin)

The Killer Ascendant (Originally published as Requiem for an Assassin)

Ben Treven series

Fault Line

Inside Out

Rain/Treven combined

The Detachment (an Amazon exclusive)

Novellas

London Twist

Short Stories

The Lost Coast

Paris is a Bitch

The Khmer Kill (an Amazon exclusive)

Non-fiction

The Ass is a Poor Receptacle for the Head: Why Democrats Suck at Communication, and How They Could Improve

Be the Monkey: A Conversation About The New World of Publishing (with J.A. Konrath)

Available at Amazon and at Barry’s website store.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2013 Barry Eisler

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer

PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140

E–ISBN: 9781477857380

CONTENTS

EBOOK SETTINGS

LONDON TWIST

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
• REFERENCES
• SOURCES
• ABOUT THE AUTHOR
• CONTACT BARRY

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There were three of them when Delilah came in, arranged around a square wooden table so that when she sat they’d be facing and flanking her. She wondered why so many. A European boondoggle? A show of force? Safety in numbers? Some combination, probably. Whatever it was, it was hardly business as usual for the Director and two deputies to travel together to a safe house on the outskirts of Amsterdam.

None of them stood, despite certainly having been alerted to her arrival by the two security men in civilian clothes outside, whom she’d recognized by their demeanors and by the slight bulge of the Uzi Pros concealed beneath their jackets. No one spoke as she made her way through the living room, not even after she’d taken the remaining seat at the table. Her years in Paris had accustomed Delilah to small talk, and she had to remind herself that its absence here would be neither rude nor condescending. These men were Israelis, after all, justifiably famous for their gruffness, and beyond that, they had all spent a lifetime in the military and intelligence. She doubted they knew how to make small talk with their own mistresses, let alone with a field agent.

Still, the silence was now getting conspicuously long. She waited, watching them, thinking she’d be damned if she spoke before they so much as explained why she’d been summoned here.

“In case you’re wondering, Delilah,” the Director finally said. “That Saudi mess. It’s been cleaned up.”

She wondered why he was using Hebrew. She preferred to avoid it, staying in character to the extent possible even during a debrief. Was he reminding her of who she really was, who she really worked for? At least he wasn’t using her real name. Maybe he didn’t remember it.

A few strands of blond hair had come loose from her ponytail. She resisted the urge to brush them back, concerned the gesture would be interpreted as nervousness. “You’re talking about Farid?”

“Is there another Saudi mess we don’t know of?”

Farid was a Saudi financier, an unwitting access agent she had slept with and then had difficulty discarding. Increasingly obsessed, he had sent men to hurt her in Paris. They hadn’t succeeded, but from the standpoint of her sick former paramour, it would have been only a missed opportunity. His motivation would have remained.

“Cleaned up how?”

One of the deputies chuckled. “How else? Permanently.”

They were all wearing khaki pants and blue button-down shirts. One uniform in exchange for another. She thought they might as well have worn signs declaring themselves Israelis. But maybe she was being too critical. Most people would make them as indeterminate widowers and retirees, maybe on a European bus tour.

“How did you get to him in Riyadh?”

“We didn’t,” the first deputy said. “MI6 did.”

“At our behest?”

To that, they only nodded, watching her.

She was beginning to understand. “And the British want something in return.”

“Of course,” the Director said, offering her the grandfatherly smile for which he was famous, but that Delilah had always found false and manipulative. “What do you think, they did this for us as charity? They helped us with our problem. Now we have to help them with theirs.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

The second deputy tamped a package of cigarettes on the table. “It could be we’re being too generous in describing the problem as ‘ours.’ Really, it was caused by you.”

She fought to keep the indignation from rising to the surface. “Caused by me?”

The second deputy extracted a cigarette, slid it between his lips, held a lighter to it, drew in, and blew out a cloud of blue-gray smoke. He leaned back and looked at her, frowning. “We’ve discouraged you from continuing to involve yourself personally with that freelancer, John Rain. You didn’t listen.”

She was incredulous. “Rain had nothing to do with Farid. He helped me that night. He spotted the ambush before I did.”

The second deputy took another long drag on his cigarette. She realized he was nervous. They weren’t sure how this meeting would go.

“He saved you, did he?” the second deputy said. “You know what else he did? Two concussions; one broken throat cartilage; one crushed hand; one broken face, including nose, teeth, and cheekbone; two ruptured testicles. Injuries distributed among four men. One of whom—the one who will now never be able to father children, not that this is such a great loss for the planet—Rain chased for over a kilometer through the streets of Paris before catching and maiming him.”

“The other two,” the Director said, “the one whose face you slashed and the one whose knee you destroyed, might have been explained. Even a civilian photographer can get lucky in such circumstances. Maybe she’s been attacked before—she’s certainly attractive enough. So she carries a knife. Maybe she’s taken some karate classes. Her attackers underestimated her. And the moment she’d created an opening for herself? She fled. Rain’s behavior was different. One man, against four? And the gratuitous pursuit of the last one? This is not so easy so to dismiss.”

“And think about it,” the second deputy added. “Injuries like these, and not one death? It’s more difficult to cause such damage than it is to kill someone. Something like this could only have been accomplished by an operator with exceptional self-control. A trained killer, who held back this time so as not to leave a trail of corpses that would attract police attention. So how do you explain what a civilian photographer—who, it seems, might not be so much of a civilian herself—is doing with such a man? Do you understand how much risk you’ve caused to this cover we’ve invested so much to create for you?”

“Create for me?” Delilah said, disgusted. “How generous of you. So MI6 isn’t a charity, but apparently you are.”

She was aware she wasn’t adequately managing her anger, but she didn’t care. The constant doubt, the constant suspicions from her ostensible superiors who couldn’t handle her effectiveness, who couldn’t deal with their own discomfort at how well she literally slept with the enemy at their direction… at some point, she had to attack back or she would choke on her own bile.

And then there was the whole notion of their questioning, probing, her private life. That would have been bad enough, but on top of it was the topic of Rain himself. That memory was as fresh as it was painful. He’d saved her that night, or at least dramatically improved her odds, and she’d treated him horribly afterward. He’d left Paris and they hadn’t spoken since.

“There’s more,” the Director said, saving the second deputy from his misstep. “For whatever reason, perhaps to intimidate the man so he could more effectively interrogate before practically castrating him, Rain told the one he’d chased that the two of you were with GIGN, the French Gendarmerie’s elite counterterrorism unit. All of which got back to Farid.”

He paused, probably hoping Delilah would ask how he knew all this, which would give him the opportunity to remind her of her place by telling her it was all need-to-know. She wouldn’t give him that small satisfaction. Besides, she assumed it was some sort of technical means—a phone or computer tap, a compromised satellite link. They’d been watching Farid closely, after all.

After a moment, the Director continued. “And while Farid himself wasn’t intelligence, he was connected to people who are. I’m sure you understand we can’t afford to have Saudi intelligence scrutinizing you for GIGN ties. Yes, it was just something Rain devised on the spot, but that’s not what matters—the attention is what matters. It might have led to other discoveries, however inadvertent, and things might very quickly have gotten out of control. So we had to deal with Farid immediately.”

“Not to protect my life. To protect my cover.”

“If you think about it,” the first deputy said, his tone not unkind, “those two categories are not so easy to distinguish.”

The Director offered her the grandfatherly smile again. “I understand why you’re upset,” he said. “But would you want to work for an organization so irresponsible it didn’t even concern itself with the behavior of its employees?”

“I would in fact, yes.”

The grandfatherly façade faltered. “Well, you don’t.”

He could have added, “And if you want to, you’re always free to leave.” Apparently, they were sufficiently concerned about that possibility not to risk daring her. She just wished she were daring enough to do it. But then what would she do when she read about the next terror attack, knowing she might have done something to prevent it? How could she live with that?

The second deputy blew out another noxious cloud of smoke. “If we could have waited, we could have gotten to him abroad. But under the circumstances, we didn’t have the luxury of time. Which meant he had to be gotten to in Riyadh, where he lived. And Riyadh, as you know, is a denied area to us. But, thankfully, not to the British. No questions asked, they put two bullets in Farid’s head as he made his hypocritical way home from the morning prayer service.”

Other than a sense of mild relief and satisfaction that Farid was dead, Delilah felt nothing. The sex had been part of her job. She was good at her job. Good enough to feel something in the moment. But never after. And thank God for that.

“No questions asked,” she said. “But a price to be paid.”

The Director nodded. “Yes.”

“Paid by me.”

“It’s not a punishment,” the Director said. “You’re the right person for the job.”

Actually, she was quite sure, it was both.

The first deputy took a thumb drive from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table to her. “You’re going to London,” he said. “You’ll liaise with an MI6 operative—”

“Liaise? This is how you protect my cover?”

The Director shrugged. “Delilah, this kind of thing is inevitable. The longer you’re in the field, the more your cover gets scraped away. You’ve had an enviable run, a remarkable run, and we’ve all worked hard to keep you in the game. But we were faced with a difficult situation, and MI6 named its price. If we had someone else for it, we would use him. But we don’t. Yes, there’s a risk your cover could be compromised by this operation. But we’re in the risk business. And this is a risk we have to take.”

She wanted to pick up the thumb drive and fling it in the Director’s face. Instead, she said, “What’s the assignment?”

The first deputy cleared his throat. “MI6 is hunting a terrorist. And they think his sister is the key.”

Delilah was confused. “You want me to develop the sister?”

The first deputy nodded. “Yes.”

“But she’s a woman.”

The second deputy stubbed out his cigarette and offered a smile that was more a smirk. “Think of it as a unique challenge. Or a unique opportunity.”

Delilah ignored his suggestiveness. “But you said I’m the right person for this. I don’t see how that is.”

The Director said, “The target—Fatima is her name, by the way—has good instincts. Twice MI6 has tried to insert a man. Both British agents of Pakistani extraction, fluent in Urdu, mosque-goers, completely backstopped. Both times she smelled a rat. MI6 needs someone who can get under her radar. Who Fatima won’t see coming.”

The second deputy smirked again. “Unless you want her to see you coming.”

Delilah looked at him. “You know what, old man? If I wanted to, I could take your thumb drive and shove it up your nose into your senile brain. You’re lucky I’m not having my period or anything like that. PMS makes me so cranky.”

The room went silent and the second director’s face grew scarlet. For a moment, Delilah wondered whether he was having a heart attack. She hoped so.

“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?” he exploded.

Delilah looked at the Director and the first deputy. “Can you remind your colleague who he is? He seems not to be able to remember. Senile, as I said.”

“Enough of your insubordination!” the second deputy shouted. “Enough!”

Delilah found his outburst deeply satisfying, even soothing. He’d lost control of himself. When you’re not in control of yourself, someone else is, and right now they both knew the one in control was her. She smiled at him indulgently, as though he was an amusing, harmless child.

“Enough,” the second deputy said again. He turned to the Director. “I’ve told you before. She’s disrespectful, insubordinate, and has terrible judgment. Most of all, she’s unreliable. She’s—”

“Yes, I know,” the Director said, stopping the second deputy with an upturned hand. “And she also produces inarguable results. Your orders, Delilah, are to go to London. You’ll meet your MI6 contact there the day after tomorrow. Details are on the thumb drive. Do you have any questions? If not, this meeting is adjourned.”

She wondered whether this was a deliberate game of good cop, bad cop. She supposed it didn’t matter. Even if there were some genuine fissures among these men, from her standpoint their differences were much less significant than their similarities.

She scooped up the thumb drive and dropped it in her purse. “Enjoy your time in Amsterdam, gentlemen,” she said, standing. “I imagine you can find your own way to the red-light district. I’m sure you built in plenty of time for a visit.”

• • •

The thumb drive, it turned out, offered not much more than what they’d already told her. Her contact would be waiting for her at ten o’clock at the Coburg Bar of the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair two nights hence. She’d be traveling under her usual freelance photographer cover, and should expect to be in town for some weeks, perhaps longer. They had already rented her a flat in Notting Hill. She barely had time to get back to Paris, pack a bag, and catch a flight to London.

An unctuous real estate broker let her into the flat, a nice enough one-bedroom walk-up filled with late afternoon June sunlight, and showed her the operation of the appliances and the various other trivialities of everyday life there. The moment he’d left, she swept for bugs with some portable equipment her colleague Boaz had once provided her. Boaz was one of the few married men in the organization who had never made a pass at her. In fact, he treated her more like a sister than a colleague, and she trusted him more than almost anyone else. The place seemed clean, though she’d have to be careful to sweep it again later. The men she worked for were clever enough to delay a listening device’s activation until after a room had been declared secure.

When she was done unpacking, she showered and changed into a salmon-colored Akris linen sheath dress with an asymmetrical cut. Strappy pumps, a camel-and-cream patent leather handbag, and a matching bolero jacket for the evening chill. She used some makeup to accentuate her eyes, then added a pair of gold Cartier earrings as a finishing touch. This was a business meeting and she didn’t want to appear too enticing, but she did leave her hair down to avoid coming across as overly severe. She looked at herself in the mirror and was satisfied. Understated and professional, but also confident and stylish. Dressed for work, not to kill.

She spent some time exploring the neighborhood, which she had to admit was charming—rows of restored townhouses, some in the Victorian style, others painted in whimsical pastels of yellow and blue and pink; the antique shops and vintage clothing stores and fruit stalls of Portobello Road; a mix of tourists consulting maps and shoppers lugging bags and locals pushing babies in strollers. There were several routes by which she might come and go from the flat, and she knew her people must have selected the place in part for this reason. For any opposition surveillance to be effective, it would have to focus on her street, and because that was entirely residential, with no coffee shops or parks in which a team might unobtrusively wait, problems would be relatively easy to spot. She identified a few routes she could use to draw out followers, and used them to ensure she was clean while continuing to explore.

She stopped in an Apple Store in a swank shopping mall and checked out the Connaught on one of the display computers. She had never been there before. That was good: she knew her looks made her memorable, and she didn’t want to have to explain to a chatty employee what had brought her back to London. She wasn’t thrilled to discover the hotel was near the American Embassy, but she supposed prices at the Connaught bar would be a bit more than the average government worker would be prepared to pay, and anyway she wasn’t known to the Americans. She purged the browser when she was done and went back outside.

She was irritated at the way she’d been brought into this op, and was tempted to demonstrate her disdain and her independence by showing up late for the meeting. But that would have been both excessively immature and operationally stupid. Better to arrive early to reconnoiter before the meeting began. She did a final aggressive route to ensure she wasn’t being followed, then caught a cab not far from Holland Park Station. There were so many video monitors in London that public transportation offered no real operational advantage over a taxi. She had the driver drop her off at Berkeley Square. No sense in telling anyone her actual destination.

There was still some early summer light in the sky, and the brick and stone facades of Mayfair glowed pink with it, the windows of the area’s antique dealers and real estate brokers and galleries illuminated in equal measure by setting sun and silent streetlamps. She passed a few pedestrians, mostly well-dressed couples probably on their way to or from dinner in one of the neighborhood’s chic restaurants, their footfalls getting louder on the flagstone sidewalks as they approached, then fading away behind her. London was such a beautiful city in fine weather. A shame they didn’t get more of it, but she supposed it made it more special when they did.

She paused in front of an illuminated elliptical granite fountain, two leafy old trees rising from within it, and scanned the area. From here, she could easily see the impressive Georgian façade of the hotel, two liveried doormen flanking the entrance. She observed nothing out of the ordinary, but this meeting was scheduled, of course, so there wouldn’t have been any need to set up surveillance outside. Not that she was expecting trouble—it was more that she didn’t know what to expect at all.

One of the men held the door and welcomed her as she went inside, his colleague’s gaze dropping for the merest unprofessional instant to her ass as she passed. The interior was gorgeous—like an old British manor house, with a magnificent winding mahogany staircase as its centerpiece—without being the least bit stuffy. She freshened up in the restroom, familiarized herself with the location of emergency exits, and made her way into the bar.

It was only about half full—the hour was still early—but between the conversation and laughter, and the Billie Holiday playing from a hidden stereo system, it felt quite lively. There were dark paneled walls, softly lit by three tasteful chandeliers; a high, intricately carved ceiling; plush, eclectically colored chairs and cushions distributed haphazardly throughout; and a classic mirrored bar staffed by two men in ties and vests mixing cocktails with low-key assurance. She thought she caught the scent of vetiver. The atmosphere was lovely—elegant, effortless, and expensive. All of which brought an immediate pang of sadness and guilt. It was the kind of place John would have loved, and to which she would have loved to introduce him.

A good-looking man was sitting alone in the far corner, his back to the wall and with a full view of the entrance. About forty, she thought, though she was ten meters away and the light was subdued, with short dark hair and a face that would have been aristocratic but for a certain roughness of the jaw. He was wearing a charcoal chalk-striped flannel suit that looked like it was made for him—literally and figuratively. He held a martini glass casually in one hand and was gazing off at nothing in particular. She’d rarely seen someone look so at home in a high-end bar and couldn’t deny his ease and confidence were attractive. Between the tactical seat and the air of authority, she was reasonably sure this was her contact. She was glad—she’d been half expecting something more along the lines of the Director and the two deputies.

She walked over to his table, demurring with a gesture when one of the staff offered to seat her. He watched her approach, his eyebrows lifting slightly as she got nearer. She noted a copy of Granta on his table, which she’d been told to look for.

“Pardon me,” Delilah said when she had reached him. “Is there an outlet near you? I need to recharge my mobile.”

This was her half of the bona fides she’d been instructed to exchange. The man smiled and said in a posh British accent, “I’m not certain, but you’re welcome to have a look if you like.”

She was flustered—she’d been so sure, but it hadn’t been the correct response. She shook it off and said, “Thank you, I think I have a little power left, but I’ll come back if I’m wrong.”

She started to turn away. The man chuckled and said, “Only joking. Is it an iPhone? I could use a charge myself.”

That was the prearranged response. She turned back and looked at him, mildly annoyed that he would turn an exchange of bona fides into a prank, and at his evident amusement at having done so.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said, gesturing to the chair next to him. “And can I buy you a drink?”

She looked at him for a moment longer, then eased herself into the plush chair next to him. “I can buy my own drink.”

His eyes positively twinkled with good humor. “I didn’t mean to suggest you couldn’t. Just trying to be hospitable.”

“Of course you are.”

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just sometimes the lads at the office get so carried away with the secret handshakes and all that. Really, it’s too much. I knew the moment you walked in you were my girl.”

The acoustics, she noted, were ideal for a discreet conversation. The music was just loud enough, and pervasive enough, to mask conversation from nearby tables, but not so loud you needed to shout over it.

“Did you?” she said, for the moment choosing to overlook the condescending “my girl.”

“Yes, of course. I was told I’d be meeting a stunning blonde. Not to say you’re the only one in London, of course, but what are the chances of such a creature showing up unaccompanied right here in the appointed place, an hour ahead of schedule like a good professional, with a casually watchful demeanor, as well? You checked the corners of the room first, the bar after. If you were just some socialite, you would have done things in reverse.”

Like most men, he seemed to be a talker. That suited her. You didn’t learn when you were talking, only when you were listening.

“Is that what I look like? A socialite?”

“Well, you’re certainly gorgeous enough, if you don’t mind my saying.”

She neither minded nor welcomed it. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

“Gordon’s martini, vermouth wash, olive garnish. Would you like one?”

She didn’t like to be steered and almost reflexively said no. But he seemed the kind of man who enjoyed sparring, and in fact she had the sense he was actively looking for buttons to push. So instead she said, “Shaken, not stirred?”

He chuckled again. “Of course. Where would we British be without our traditions?” He signaled one of the waiters, then pointed to his drink. “Another of these, Henry—thanks.”

“Henry?”

“Yes, and at the bar we have Joseph and Giuseppe. Giuseppe isn’t quite a local, as you might have guessed from the name, but his bartending skills are unsurpassed.”

She was appalled. “You’re known here.”

“Good God, yes. It’s practically my second home when I’m in London. It’s all right. They all think I’m a financier. Hide in plain sight and all that.”

She looked around. The clientele did indeed seem to be about half bankers in suits, half hipsters in skinny jeans. Still, there would have been no downside to meeting someplace where neither of them was known. She didn’t like his dilettante’s approach. Probably the worst an MI6 operative faced for a mistake was a declaration of persona non grata and expulsion from a host country. If Delilah screwed up, she’d almost certainly be killed, most likely after being raped and tortured. He could afford to treat all this as a game. She couldn’t.

“Why didn’t we just meet at your flat?” she said.

He blinked and laughed, but for once, the laugh wasn’t self-assured. “That would be a bit forward, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say it would be stupid. As stupid as meeting anywhere you’re known and will be remembered.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She knew exactly what he was thinking, what they were all always thinking: What a bitch.

She didn’t care. She didn’t want his friendship. She didn’t even want his respect. What she wanted was compliance.

“I need to know you’re reliable,” she said. “So far, I’m not impressed.”

He cocked his head and smiled, but the smile looked strained. “Really? And what if I’m not?”

“Then I’ll tell my people I can’t be part of this op because our counterparts sent an amateur. They’ll tell your people. I don’t know what happens after that, but on the other hand, I don’t really care. Though I have a feeling your superiors already have their concerns about your attitude and your tradecraft, and, if I’m right, they won’t be pleased at all about this latest development.”

He watched her, his lips pursed and his eyes cold. The bonhomie suddenly gone, he looked quietly dangerous. Good.

“You don’t know the first thing about my attitude. Or about my superiors. Or about me.”

“I only know what I can see. Show me something better.”

The waiter arrived with her martini. He deftly placed a leather coaster on the table, set the drink precisely in the coaster’s center, nodded formally, and moved off.

Delilah lifted the drink, thinking, Your move.

A long moment went by. He said, “All right. What do I call you?”

“Bertha.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You don’t look like a Bertha.”

“What do I call you?”

“Kent, actually.”

“You don’t look like a Kent.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “What does a Kent look like?”

“I’m kidding, Kent.”

There was a long pause, and then he laughed. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I was also kidding about the name. Call me Delilah.”

He lifted his drink. “All right, Delilah. Sorry we got off to a bad start. Cheers.”

They touched glasses and drank. The drink was lovely—cold, crisp, and strong.

“Right,” Kent said. “Down to business, then. How much have they told you?”

“Very little.”

“Well, regrettably, there’s not all that much to tell. Our target is named Fatima Zaheer. Nationality, British; extraction, Pakistani; age, thirty; politics, radical.”

“And she’s of interest because… ”

“She’s the oldest of four siblings—three brothers, one of whom, named Imran, is her fraternal twin. The two younger brothers were killed five years ago outside the family home in Peshawar in an American drone strike.”

Delilah’s own brother, her only sibling, had been killed in Lebanon when Delilah was sixteen. Her parents had never recovered from it.

“That’s terrible,” she heard herself say.

Kent nodded. “Fatima and Imran were living in London at the time. After the death of their brothers, the two of them returned to Pakistan to care for their parents, who, as you can imagine, were devastated by the loss of their two children. Eventually, Fatima returned to London. Imran never did. There are indications he’s become a leader of the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan and is currently in hiding somewhere in the country’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas. The Americans have been hunting him with drones for years, so far without success. We believe Fatima knows where he is, or at least that she might inadvertently fix him. If we can acquire something actionable from her, we can pass it along to the Americans, who ought to be able to use it.”

“But the TTP is mostly a Pakistani problem. Why are the Americans so interested?”

“Ah, that. It turns out our man Imran is somewhat special. Before answering the call of jihad, he received a degree in chemical engineering at the University College London. After that, a promising few years in a research lab at INEOS, a British-headquartered chemical multinational. His expertise lies in aerosols.”

“Aerosols.”

“Yes. A very dangerous expertise when combined with, say, anthrax. Or cyanide. Or sarin. The sorts of matériel al Qaeda is known to traffic in, but has hitherto been unable to transform into a means of achieving mass casualties.”

“So he’s wanted for his knowledge? But you can learn these things on the Internet.”

“Some you can, yes, and half of what you find will get you killed. In fact, we believe Internet information is responsible for eliminating a not insignificant percentage of our potential problems, by blowing up the idiots who try to make their pipe bombs based on diagrams they find on jihadist blogs.” He smiled. “It’s even possible the unreliable information on some of those blogs was planted there by certain Western intelligence organizations. But don’t quote me on that.”

She wasn’t surprised. Mossad ran similar operations, with similar results. “The worry is that Imran is graduating a higher percentage of his students?”

“Precisely. And equipping them with advanced degrees in very unhelpful subjects.”

She took a sip of her martini and considered. “The two brothers. They were terrorists?”

He shifted in his chair. “According to the Americans, yes.”

“The Americans count as a terrorist every military-age male killed in a drone strike.”

“Yes, I know. You have to admire the Americans for their creativity. They’ve certainly come up with a convenient metric to reduce civilian casualties.”

He took a sip of his drink. “But candidly? No. No evidence they were terrorists, just two kids in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their deaths were tragic, not least because the tragedy really did radicalize the surviving brother and sister. It’s like all those prisoners the Yanks mistakenly ‘detained’ in Guantanamo. Were they innocent? Yes. And after a decade of abuse and encagement, how many of them could be counted on to return to their innocent civilian lives upon release? If they weren’t terrorists when they went in, they certainly would be when they got out.”

It was a familiar story, and Delilah hated it. It made her own work seem so pointless. No, not just pointless. Pernicious. Part of some huge, insensate machine capable of nothing but fighting fire with fire, and causing a conflagration in the process.

“You say Fatima was radicalized, too. In what way?”

“We believe she’s a recruiter. As you know, London has a substantial Muslim population. Fatima’s a poet—getting quite renowned, in fact. Written up in the London Review of Books, and The New Yorker set to publish one of her pieces. She’s also become something of a freelance journalist, a chronicler of the Muslim diaspora for various leftie publications like The Guardian. In addition to all that, what happened to her family has conferred upon her a kind of… status in the community. We believe she’s putting local radicals in touch with her brother, who provides training. These radicals then return to Britain and perhaps elsewhere, where they reside as sleeper cells.”

“I was told you’ve tried offering her two insiders as potential recruits.”

“Yes, without success. She has a keen nose for deception. We were hoping a different approach might produce better results. Instead of a potential recruit, a possible friend. Instead of a local Muslim, a foreigner. Instead of a man, a woman.”

It all sounded a bit desperate to Delilah, but no more so, she supposed, than other ops she’d worked on, many of which had borne fruit.

“How do I approach her?”

“I understand you’re a photographer.”

Delilah was instantly on guard. “How is that relevant?”

“Did your people not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Your cover is that you’re here on assignment. You’re going to photograph Fatima. Is that… a problem?”

It wasn’t a problem, exactly, but she didn’t like it either. She really was a photographer, and really did freelance for various magazines, mostly covering fashion—after all, a deep cover legend had to be real if it was going to be worth anything. But it was one thing to have that legend as background for a man she met and was exploiting some other way. It was another to use it as the actual basis for a relationship with a target. They were really exposing her on this op. It was their right, she supposed, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Or that she couldn’t question it.

“You say she has keen instincts. Don’t you think she’ll check out my story? How thoroughly am I backstopped?”

“As I understand it, you’re not just backstopped—the assignment is real. Apparently, the editor who’s hired you is some sort of CIA asset.” He moved the copy of Granta aside—discreetly, she was pleased to see—revealing a thumb drive beneath it. “I’m told you’ll find all the details in here.”

He seemed to be talking out of school. She didn’t respect it, but she couldn’t help being curious. “A CIA asset?” she said, pocketing the drive.

“Yes, it’s all fairly aboveboard, or nearly so, anyway, if you look at it just right. When the government or some corporate interest needs coverage of a certain topic or location, they pitch the idea to various media contacts, offering to bankroll the story if the editor agrees to it. No pressure, of course. But the financial backing reduces to zero the risk of running a story, so unless the topic is a complete nonstarter, the editor always bites. Not so remarkable, really—just another version of the usual access-in-exchange-for-favorable-coverage arrangement we all depend on from the establishment media.”

“Still, an exchange of favors is one thing. A cash payment is another.”

“Oh, I don’t know. There are all kinds of prostitution, after all. Not all of them involve cash, strictly speaking.”

Delilah wondered how much he knew of her role with Mossad, and whether his reference to prostitution was deliberate.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I’m sure most of the editors in question believe that in exchanging these favors and taking these payments they’re not even compromising their journalistic integrity and independence. And who knows? Maybe they’re not. In the end, we’re all doing God’s work.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or facetious. Or if he even knew the difference. “How do I make contact?”

“That should be easy enough. The U.S. defense secretary is in town tomorrow for a meeting with the prime minister. There’s going to be a rally against U.S. drone attacks to greet him. Fatima is one of the featured speakers. Details on the thumb drive. Also available on the website of the Stop the War Coalition and on several Facebook pages advertising the rally.”

“A terrorist, at an anti-drone rally?”

“Yes, why not? No reason she can’t use legitimate dissent to obscure its more extreme versions, when you think about it.”

“Where will it be held?”

“Along Whitehall, between Downing Street and Parliament. Noon. They’re looking for publicity, you know. It should be a perfect opportunity for you.”

“A photo shoot ordinarily lasts a few hours. Maybe a day. You really expect I’m going to learn something actionable in that time frame?”

“I don’t expect anything. Management devised this op. You and I are only here to make the best of what they’ve come up with. But if I were in your shoes? I’d use the time I spent shooting her, if you manage to get that far, befriending her. Turn the assignment into more than one shoot. Maybe a ‘one month in the life of a London peace activist,’ something like that. You’re very alluring, you know. I imagine it’s why they selected you. Bait the hook properly, and she’ll bite.” He smiled. “I know I would.”

What he’d suggested made sense. She ignored the last part, which she understood was intended as a volley he was hoping she might return.

“I need to know what you know about her relationship with her brother. How you think they stay in contact. How she sends people to him.”

“Sorry, why?”

“How else will I know whether what I’m able to observe myself is even relevant? I need a framework.”

“I’m afraid what little we know has been obtained through national technical means. The idea is, you and I will meet and debrief regularly. We’ll go through everything you’ve observed. We can put together your personal observations with what my people have already learned.”

She didn’t even bother to respond. It was hardly new, but still, the way ostensibly allied intelligence agencies focused on protecting information from each other rather than sharing so as to maximize the chances of success never failed to disgust her.

He must have known what she was thinking, because he said, “Look, I realize it’s stupid. Orders are orders and all that, but still, I’ll have to ask you some very leading questions during the course of our debriefs. It would hardly be my fault if you were able to deduce from my questions exactly what sort of information my organization already has. In fact, one of the things I’m quite certain I’ll be asking about is whether you ever see Fatima using a phone not her own. A separate mobile unit, for example. Or one borrowed from a friend. Or a public booth. All right?”

She nodded. It was too early to know whether he really was motivated to find ways around the bureaucracy, or whether he was just pretending so she would come to trust him, feeling they were somehow allied against a common enemy. Or maybe it was both.

“And one other thing,” he said. “Just an aside, really, because I shouldn’t go out of my way to make you understand it’s important. She has a laptop.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“More or less, yes. Fatima’s is a MacBook Air, and it’s encrypted. If she were to use it in front of you, and you were to catch a glimpse of a password… that sort of thing. Remember, you didn’t hear it from me.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just how compartmentalized did these people want to keep things? So much they were willing to jeopardize the success of the op? Apparently so.

“How do you and I stay in touch?” she said.

“My mobile number is on the thumb drive. Memorize it, and use it anytime from a public phone. Give me yours, and I’ll do the same. That way, each of us can contact the other without establishing any direct electronic paper trail between us. There are eight different locations on the thumb drive. Numbered one through eight, naturally. The first five are for live meets; the last three are dead-drops. When you call me, just say the number of the one you want to use.”

She sipped her martini. “All hotel bars?”

He smiled. “Most of them, anyway, at least for the face-to-face meets. There are some quite good ones in London, you know. It’s perfectly natural that after my good fortune in meeting you tonight, I’d see you again, if you were willing. And try to impress you by taking you to all the best places. We financiers are predictable that way.”

“Oh, we’ll be dating after this, is that it?”

He smiled again. “As I said, hide in plain sight.”

“I find discretion is usually the safer method.”

He looked into her eyes, his smile lingering. “Oh, I can be discreet.”

She was drawn to his confidence, which at times seemed to border on sexual arrogance. And under different circumstances, she might have welcomed the distraction of an affair. Something brief and torrid that would anesthetize the hurt of what had happened with John.

But right now, the prospect felt unwieldy and unprofessional. And she sensed that rather than helping her forget John, something with Kent would only sharpen her sense of loss.

She finished her martini. “Thank you for the drink, Kent.”

He nodded, perhaps concealing his disappointment, perhaps reassuring himself there would be other opportunities. “Well, if we’re already back in character, it would be only natural for me to ask for your number. Perhaps we can get together again while you’re in London.”

“Do you have a pen?”

He produced a Montblanc from his breast pocket and extended it to her. She took his hand in hers and carefully wrote her number on his palm. His nails were manicured, she noted—perhaps a concession to his financier cover. But the knuckles and palms were rough enough. She let her fingers linger for just an additional instant when she was done. Disappointment, she knew, was a short-lived emotion. Hope, on the other hand, could last a long time indeed.

“Memorize it,” she said. “And wash it off when you’re done.”

He smiled. “I’ll be sad to see it go. Now, look. I know we’re in London. My backyard, so to speak. But you need to remember the networks we’re up against are real, and for the most part unseen. If things go well, and you start spending time with Fatima, you will have people watching you. Watching you closely. If they see something they don’t like, they might do no more than advise Fatima to break contact. Or they might decide what needs to be broken is you. Do you understand?”

She looked at him, annoyed. “Kent? I’ve operated alone in environments that would have you blubbering for the headmaster who cared for you when you were homesick in boarding school.”

She thought he was going to express some satisfaction at having hit a nerve in suggesting she couldn’t look out for herself. But he said only, “Fair enough. I just… wanted to say it, even though I’m sure there was no need.”

She watched him, sensing his concern was genuine, afraid she was being played. “I’ll be fine.”

He finished his martini. “Good. Oh, and just so you know. That headmaster? He was anything but caring.”

• • •

The next morning, Delilah strolled south along Whitehall from Charing Cross Station. It was another beautiful early summer day, the sky soft blue, a few cumulus clouds drifting slowly along, the sun’s warmth balanced by a cool breeze. She was dressed for the weather in low-key photographer chic: distressed black skinny jeans; a vintage silk top, blue to accentuate her eyes, with the sleeves rolled up; lightweight Doc Martens boots. She’d left her camera bag and most of her equipment at the flat—she wasn’t here on a shoot, after all—but she had brought along her Nikon D4 and an adjustable 300-millimeter lens, slung over her neck and shoulder by a lanyard. The look was cool and unpretentious—not something Fatima would feel threatened by, not something she might sense she had to compete with, but something that hopefully in its casual simplicity would come across as genuine and prove intriguing.

The rally was set for noon and it was already 11:45, but she saw no protesters—only tourists, probably on their way to see Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, and locals enjoying the unusually fine weather. There were plenty of cops and she made a few plainclothes security officials, too, but that was to be expected for a visit from the American defense secretary. None of it felt like a precaution against a rally spilling out of control.

She walked on, logging her surroundings. Noise was subdued—trucks, conversation, a distant siren. She detected no sense of tension or confrontation in the air. Downing Street, home of the prime minister’s residence, was of course closed off with a tall iron fence, but the area’s low, stolid buildings and broad sidewalks had nothing like the kinds of barricades and bulwarks and overall sense of siege that had come to characterize the Washington, D.C. environs of the White House. Traffic passed by normally; tourists gawked through the bars; there were no displays of assault rifles or body armor.

South of Downing, the crowds were thicker, and many of the people looked to be of South Asian and Arab extraction, though their ranks weren’t short of Caucasian hipster types, either. There were furled banners and a number of tee shirts with pink bullseyes emblazoned on their fronts and backs. She estimated about two hundred people. If this was the rally, it wasn’t terribly impressive.

Just south of the Downing gates she saw a man, Pakistani from the dark skin, the moustache, and the expansive body language, talking to an armed, uniformed cop. The Pakistani wore a tie and ill-fitting suit jacket, and she wondered whether he was some sort of rally leader. The discussion had the air of a negotiation, with the Pakistani exuding frustration and the cop a quiet, implacable confidence. After a moment, the Pakistani’s shoulders slumped. He nodded and walked briskly south, where he paused to confer with two other Pakistanis, similarly attired. They nodded, glared briefly back at the cop, then began texting furiously into their mobiles.

She understood what had happened. The protesters had received permission to hold their rally between Downing and Parliament, where the American defense secretary would have to take note of it. At the last minute, doubtless citing security concerns, the police had told them they would have to move it elsewhere. The police didn’t tell them the permission was outright cancelled; had they done so, the decision might have seemed oppressive when described on the evening news. And besides, the protestors, not having anything to lose, might have become unruly. Instead, the police gave them an alternative: have your rally where we tell you, or you’ll all be arrested and you’ll get no rally at all. The real purpose of the exercise, of course, was just to disrupt and dispirit the organizers, cause them to waste time, and make them look like milling, confused losers. Her own government used the tactic routinely against Peace Now and other Israeli protest groups. It was almost always effective, and seemed to be getting the job done here, as well.

But this group must have been exceptionally well organized, because within a minute of the three Pakistanis sending out their texts, the protesters starting moving south en masse on Whitehall. Everything was brisk and orderly. She wondered if the leaders had some sort of text bona fides the rest of the crowd could rely on—it would be easy enough otherwise for the government to send out false messages to sow confusion and discord. Another tactic she knew was used routinely in Israel, and, she assumed, against America’s Occupiers, as well. If these people were smart enough to use a code, she assumed they’d be smart enough also to have agreed to use it only once. After that, the government, monitoring their phones, either in cooperation with the phone companies or via direct infiltration, would know it, too.

Delilah followed the protesters and watched them reestablish themselves in Parliament Square. Her earlier estimate was low, she saw, and she revised it to about three hundred overall. Still, not much of a turnout, especially given the weather. The Pakistanis and Arabs were generally middle-aged and conservatively dressed; the whites were younger and favored bandanas, facial hair, and piercings. The Pakistanis held up placards declaring DRONES CAN’T CARE and STOP KILLING CHILDREN and ARREST THE WAR CRIMINALS. The white kids seemed more to favor performance art, lying down on the street while their comrades chalked crime-scene outlines of their bodies. A reporter and cameraman moved among them all, interviewing anyone inclined to talk. The police gave them plenty of space, as though such a motley bunch was barely worth taking seriously. The whole thing felt pointless. Would the British prime minister and the American defense secretary even notice something like this, much less give a damn? It was a wonder these people even tried, and that more of them didn’t become terrorists themselves.

She took a few pictures—routine behavior for any self-respecting professional photographer. For a while, there was chanting—“This Is What Democracy Looks Like” and “Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect”; some earnest speeches; attempts to engage the few reporters who had bothered to show. The size of the crowd gradually increased, and by the end of an hour Delilah estimated well over a thousand people. The atmosphere was different now, too—tenser, more expectant, somehow determined.

And then she saw why. A woman, her full black hair cascading to her shoulders and contrasting perfectly with a stunning aquamarine Camilla Olson calf-length dress, was moving to the front of the crowd. It was Fatima, of course, and she had arrived, whether by accident or design, at just the right moment for the crowd to be maximally receptive to her presence.

She walked confidently and unhurriedly, exchanging a few words here, a pair of cheek kisses there, and a kind of electricity seemed to ripple through the crowd in the wake of her passage. Someone handed her a bullhorn and a crate was placed upside down on the ground. She stood on the crate and faced the crowd, which began cheering and applauding. She waited, offering a smile that was both dazzling and yet somehow also incongruously sad, and the applause and cheering doubled in intensity. In addition to her beauty, which was unmistakable even from a distance, she obviously knew how to work a crowd, reflecting its passions and, in so doing, enhancing them.

Delilah raised the Nikon, extended the lens, and focused. In close-up, Fatima was even more striking, with full, sensual lips; perfect, amber-hued skin; and eyes so dark they matched her hair. A strong jaw not only failed to detract from her overall femininity, but even enhanced it. Physically, she looked younger than the thirty claimed in her file, but an abundance of poise and style, which Delilah tended to associate with a bit more life experience, balanced her otherwise youthful appearance. The only flaw was a pair of dark circles under her eyes. Overall, she wore her makeup expertly, and if the circles were visible despite the presence of a quality under-eye concealer, they must have been fairly significant. Evidence of a coffee habit? Insomnia? A troubled conscience?

Delilah had to admit, the woman didn’t look like a terrorist. But she also understood that “what a terrorist should look like” was a silly and dangerous concept. Remember, she’d been told in the classes on terrorist psychology, they’re not monsters. They’re people. You can’t be fooled by their outward appearance anymore than you can be by the smooth veneer of a serial killer. Eichmann, after all, was a balding, bespectacled accountant.

After a few moments, Fatima raised the bullhorn to her lips. The audience immediately grew quiet.

“Dear Mister Secretary,” she began, the bullhorn carrying the words all the way to the back of the crowd, “when an American drone missile kills a child in a tribal society, the father will go to war with you, guaranteed. It has nothing to do with al Qaeda.”

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 card, and handed it to 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.

After killing three espressos—which made at least four for Fatima—Delilah said, “I feel very unprofessional. Half the time I forgot I was supposed to be interviewing you. And we haven’t even taken any pictures yet.”

Fatima laughed. “It’s fine. I wasn’t getting much writing done this morning, anyway, and you’re very nice to talk to.”

“So are you. Look, I don’t want to impose on too much of your time, but… I feel like we really just scratched the surface here for the kind of piece I’d like to do. I need to go back to my flat and write up the relevant parts of what we talked about while it’s all still fresh in my mind. Especially because I was enjoying our conversation too much and forgetting to take notes. So… later this week, I wonder if we could meet again?”

Fatima smiled what Delilah was beginning to think of as her trademark smile—radiant, and yet imbued with a strange hint of sadness, too. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Wonderful. I was thinking someplace else. Someplace… that reflects who you are and what you stand for.”

Fatima lifted her demitasse and drained a few last drops from it. She set it down and rubbed her chin. “Do you like shisha?”

“You mean… like a hookah?”

“Same thing. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine. Very popular in Pakistan. There’s a café I like—Momtaz, in Maida Vale. Pretty authentic, and it even has a private ladies-only room. I think if the regular clientele gets a look at you and your blond hair… ” She smiled. “Without the private room, we wouldn’t be left alone.”

Delilah returned the smile. “I doubt they’d be hitting just on me, but yes, that does sound nice.”

“Tomorrow night? Eight o’clock? If you haven’t eaten by then, they have great Lebanese food, too.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“They’re on Chippenham Road. You can find it on the Internet easily enough, but if you have any trouble, just call me.”

Delilah stood and slung the camera over her shoulder. “Do you have just a few more minutes? Maybe we can find a good place outside, with Notes or trendy London in the background. A nice contrast with the shisha place tomorrow. It’ll be, I don’t know, ‘Fatima, Woman of Two Worlds.’”

Delilah had meant the comment as a light crack, and it did make Fatima chuckle—but uncomfortably, Delilah thought. Well, the woman was of two worlds, after all, though not the ones Delilah was ostensibly referring to. And maybe she didn’t entirely like it. Not such a difficult thing for Delilah to understand.

During the twenty minutes they spent taking pictures, quite a few people strolled by. Most of them were ostentatious in the way they eyed Delilah and Fatima—because of their looks, Delilah understood, but also because passers-by were always naturally curious about anything that looked like a professional photo shoot. But there were two sets of dark-stubbled men who went by and gave them not much more than a passing glance. Their evident lack of interest felt studied under the circumstances, and Delilah made them as pros, though certainly their tradecraft was only amateur level. She remembered what Kent had said, that if she started spending time with Fatima, she would have people watching her.

If they see something they don’t like, they might do no more than advise Fatima to break contact. Or they might decide what needs to be broken is you.

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 more 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.

“You know what I think?” the shorter one said. “I think you’re two whores looking for cock.”

“Whores don’t look for cock,” Fatima said. “They look for money. Although I doubt the two of you could help with either.”

The taller one grabbed Fatima roughly by the elbow. “I’ll show you what we can help with.”

“Let go,” Fatima said, and Delilah, hearing the sudden fear in her voice, knew the woman was at the end of her bluff. Turning slightly to conceal the move, she slid the second and third fingers of her right hand into the ring at the end of the Hideaway. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t use a knife to threaten—she would use it to cut. But to the extent possible, she had to stay in character. A civilian might carry a knife for self-protection. But a civilian wouldn’t use it readily, or well.

“Let her go,” Delilah said, her tone deliberately calm and commanding.

“Or what?” the shorter one said with a sneer.

Hating to do it, Delilah held up her right fist, the razor-sharp talon clearly visible now. “Or I’ll slice you open and watch your guts spill onto the sidewalk.” She kept her left side forward and dropped her knife hand close to her ribcage. If he tried to grab for it, she could tie up his arms with her free hand and attack his balls and his belly with the blade.

The taller one looked to his friend for reassurance. But his grip on Fatima’s arm didn’t slacken.

There was a blur of movement to their right. Two more dark-skinned men, heading toward them from around the side of Momtaz. Delilah felt another adrenaline surge, but then immediately realized from the stealth and speed of the approach that she and Fatima weren’t the targets. And indeed, as she oriented on the two approaching men, she saw their focus was entirely on the two assailants, not the intended victims.

The shorter guy must have read something in Delilah’s expression, in the momentary direction of her gaze. He started to turn, but the first of the approaching men had already closed the distance. As the man moved in, he flicked his right arm out and a collapsible steel baton snapped into position. Delilah watched in adrenalized slow motion as the shorter guy kept turning, turning, and now the lead man had planted his left foot and the baton was rocketing in like a tennis forehand, and the shorter guy must have picked up the problem in his peripheral vision because he started to flinch, his shoulders reflexively rising, his arms coming up, his head turtling in, but it was too late, and before he could reverse his turn, the baton whipped into his face. His head blew back and his legs went flying out from under him, shattered teeth tumbling through the air as he fell. Delilah could tell from the instant loss of rigidity in his limbs that he was out before he even hit the pavement.

The taller guy hadn’t even begun to come to grips with his shock before the trailing man had reached him. He grabbed the taller guy by the back of his collar and suddenly there was a knife in his hand, pressed against the taller guy’s throat.

“Is there a problem?” the trailing man said in English. Delilah wasn’t sure of the accent—Punjabi, she thought, though maybe Urdu. Not Arabic.

Other than a pair of extremely bulging and frightened eyes, the taller guy seemed too stunned even to respond.

The trailing guy pressed the knife harder. “I said, is there a fucking problem?”

The taller guy vibrated his head no, as though he wanted to shake it violently but was too mindful of the knife. “No. No problem.”

“Good. Then get the fuck out of here. Now.” He shoved the taller guy so hard that the guy stumbled back and had to pinwheel his arms to keep from falling. The moment he had recovered his balance, he turned and sprinted away.

The lead man knelt and took a closer look at the guy he’d decked, who was, as Delilah already knew, unconscious, or, from the force of the blow, possibly even dead. He reversed his grip on the baton so he was holding it like an ice pick and smashed the tip against the sidewalk, collapsing it. Then he stood and looked at Fatima.

“Are you all right?” he said, in an accent like his partner’s.

Fatima looked at the guy on the ground, then at the lead man. For a moment, she was speechless. Then she stammered out, “Yes. Yes, we’re fine.”

The lead guy glanced at his partner, then at Delilah. “I’m… sorry,” he said. “This place, sometimes, bad men at night. I’m sorry.”

Delilah shook her head. “No need to apologize.”

The man glanced at the Hideaway protruding from her knuckles. “But maybe you are already okay.”

Delilah eased the knife back into its sheath. “Maybe. Thank you for your help.”

The other man glanced around nervously. “You should go. Police come. Police no good.”

Fatima seemed stunned. Delilah put a hand on her elbow and said, “Yes. We’re going. Thank you again.”

They headed quickly southeast, the general direction of Paddington Station. Delilah was intuiting a lot from the encounter and she wanted to process it more fully, but she needed to stay in character. There would be time later.

“Was that a knife?” Fatima asked, glancing back as they walked. Her tone was incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

“Later. I think we should get out of here. Do you go to that shisha shop a lot? Do they know you?” This was a little more tactical acumen than she would have preferred to reveal, but she thought the risk was less than the opportunity to learn more.

“I go there sometimes. And yes, they know who I am.”

“Well, that’s not good.”

“Why? We didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything.”

“No, but do you want to have to persuade the police of that? I mean, did you see that guy’s face? I think he might have been dead.”

“Oh my God, I know, I mean, he went flying!”

She was talking faster than usual, her demeanor giddy. Normal, in the aftermath of violence. “Do you know who those guys were?” Delilah said, being careful to inject some agitation into her own tone, lest Fatima wonder how she could be so cool after what had just happened.

“Just two assholes.”

“Not the two assholes. The other two.”

“No.”

Delilah would have expected something more—“Thank God they came along when they did,” something like that—and the brevity of the answer struck her as a false note. Fatima would know if she had bodyguards, and the deception Delilah sensed in her response suggested she did. And yet, while they were being accosted, she didn’t act like someone who was counting on a bodyguard. She acted like someone bluffing foolishly, reflexively, who was then genuinely frightened when the bluff got called.

They kept walking. Delilah periodically checked behind them as they moved, but this would have been normal behavior for a civilian who had just been spooked the way they had, not something likely to be read as anything else.

When they reached the streetlights and cabs and relative crowds of Paddington Station, they paused. Fatima said, “I can’t believe you pulled a knife on that guy!”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?”

“Did you really say, ‘I’ll slice you open and watch your guts spill onto the sidewalk’?”

“I’m not sure what I said. I was scared.”

“You didn’t sound scared! You sounded completely badass.”

“I didn’t feel badass, I can tell you that.”

Fatima held up a fist and made a face of exaggerated rage. “‘I’ll slice you open,’” she said, her tone faux ominous, and then she dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Oh my God, did you see the look on that asshole’s face?”

And then Delilah was laughing, too—really laughing, not just playing a role. They remained like that for a few moments, doubled over, leaning against each other, wiping tears from their eyes.

“Seriously, girl,” Fatima said, wiping her eyes, “I can’t believe the balls on you. You’re my new hero.”

Delilah was aware of a changed dynamic. It made sense. They had just shared danger, and now the catharsis of laughter once the danger had passed. And she was intrigued, and pleased, at the changes she’d detected in Fatima’s speech patterns. This was the first time the woman had permitted herself to use vulgarities, for one thing. And calling Delilah “girl” was new, too. Those two assholes outside Momtaz might have been a blessing in disguise.

“Me?” she said. “What about you? ‘Whores don’t look for cock, they look for money. Although I doubt the two of you could help with either’? That was brilliant!”

And then they were cracking up again. When the second bout had subsided, Fatima said, “Oh man, I’m completely wired. I’m never going to sleep tonight.”

“I know. Me, too.”

“Do you want to get a drink?”

“Want one? Hell, I need one.”

They laughed again. Fatima led the way to a nearby place called The Union Bar & Grill. It was a nice enough spot—a lot of wood, leather couches, windows overlooking the Grand Union Canal, the smell of coffee and pub food—but the main thing for Delilah was the alcohol. She wanted to see how much further Fatima might drop her guard, how much additional rapport she might build on top of what the incident outside of Momtaz had fortuitously initiated.

The place was crowded, but they prevailed upon a few women to move to the end of one of the couches, and were then able to squeeze in alongside each other easily enough. Delilah was glad they were sharing the couch with women. If it had been men, they never would have been left alone.

“You feel like some wine?” Delilah asked. She had nothing against cocktails, but with a cocktail it was too easy to stop after one glass. A bottle was different—it was there, it was paid for, it was a shame to waste it. And given Fatima’s current giddiness, Delilah was curious indeed to see what elements of her personality might reveal themselves after several glasses.

“Perfect. Do you want to recommend something?”

“Ah, you’re putting me on the spot because I’m French?”

Fatima laughed. “Do you get that a lot?”

“Sometimes. But I don’t mind. I love wine.”

She was thinking about a Beaujolais Cru, but was surprised to see on the menu a 2007 Emilio’s Terrace from Schlein Vineyard in Napa Valley, California. That was a rare find. She ordered them a bottle.

“Why do you carry a knife?” Fatima asked, when the waitress had departed.

“I was attacked once, in Paris.”

“I’m so sorry. Were you… hurt?”

A politely oblique way of asking and Delilah appreciated it. As usual in such matters, she wasn’t lying. She was simply rearranging the truth.

“No. I was lucky. But I decided I didn’t want to have to be lucky again. So when I go out, especially at night, I make sure to carry my little friend.”

“Can I see it?”

Delilah looked around. A few men were watching them, and Delilah made sure to avoid eye contact, lest someone mistake it as an invitation.

She eased the Hideaway out and concealed it in her palm. She wasn’t worried that Fatima would notice the unusual material. Composite knives could be had commercially, though not of this quality.

“Behind the menu,” she said. “Too many of these men are looking at you and I don’t think it’s okay to carry a knife in London.”

“At me? I think they’re looking at both of us.”

“Well, that’s probably true.”

She gripped the blade and extended it grip-side forward to Fatima. “Here, let’s see if it fits. Over your index and middle fingers. Careful, it’s very sharp. Oh yes, I think it fits quite nicely.”

Fatima made a fist, turned it toward her face, and observed it for a moment. “Wow.”

“You see? Small, but concealable, accessible, and very hard to take away. Those assholes got lucky tonight, no? That those other two men came to save them.”

Fatima laughed and gave her back the knife. She extended it edge-first, something someone experienced with blades wouldn’t do.

The waitress brought the wine. Delilah eschewed her offer to pour. She wanted just a little at first. The rest should have a chance to breathe.

“Who do you think they were, though?” she asked as she filled each glass with a small measure. “One guy with a knife, one guy with a baton… undercover cops? But then why would they have said, ‘Police no good’?”

She was deliberately playing it clueless. There was no way those men were cops. A cop might carry a baton, but he wouldn’t attack without warning like that. And she’d yet to see a cop pull a knife and hold it to someone’s throat to gain compliance. Or chase an assailant away after without bothering to arrest him.

“I don’t know who they were,” Fatima said, picking up her glass. “But I’m glad they showed up.”

For the second time, Delilah had the sense that Fatima was being untruthful about those men. She needed to think more, to process things. But that would have to wait.

They touched glasses and drank. “Wow,” Fatima said. “You’ve upheld your national honor. Even if you didn’t order something French.”

Delilah laughed. “You like it?”

“It’s delicious.”

“Yes, the 2007 harvest was a winemaker’s dream. A warm, dry spring; no heat waves during the summer months; the fruit maturing slowly and evenly. Any honest French vintner must salute this wine.”

Fatima, still obviously giddy from the aftermath of danger, finished her glass quickly. Delilah followed suit, then poured them each another. The wine was wonderfully warm in her belly, and she felt a slight, welcome fuzziness at the edges of her perception.

They settled back into the couch side by side. The sounds of laughter and conversation around them were comforting and convivial, a cocoon of warm sound that made their end of the couch feel personal, private, a refuge from the world.

“May I ask a question?” Delilah said as they sipped the wine. “Not for the interview. Just as a friend.”

Fatima looked at her, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Of course.”

“When you said before, ‘This is the choice they impose on us,’ how did you mean it?”

Fatima took a swallow of wine. “I meant… when someone hurts you. Really hurts you, irreparably hurts you. You have to fight back, or you’ll die inside.”

“Fight back… you mean, hurt them back?”

“Sometimes it means that. Like those men tonight. Do you wish you could hurt them now?”

“No. That one guy who got hit with the baton, he might be past hurting, I don’t know.”

“Yes. And why don’t you want to hurt them? They certainly wanted to hurt us.”

“But they didn’t.”

“Again, yes. And that man—I’m assuming it was a man—who attacked you in Paris. Do you wish you could hurt him?”

“No.”

“Because, as you say, you got lucky. He didn’t hurt you. But what if he had? What if he had raped you? What if he had raped your own sister, your own brother? Would you want to hurt him then?”

“I’d want to kill him.”

“And what if he blamed you for the rape? Told you it was your fault, you provoked him, you were asking for it?”

“That would be even worse.”

“Well, now you can imagine what it’s like for families like mine. You’d think there could be nothing worse than America murdering your brothers, your sisters, your children with drones. But there actually is. It’s when afterward, as you gather to mourn your murdered child, America sends another drone to bomb the funeral. It’s when a White House advisor tells you your child was murdered because you weren’t a good parent. It’s when some overprivileged Time Magazine columnist tells you your child had to be murdered so his could live. It’s when America’s Ambassador to the United Nations tells you a half-million dead Iraqi children was ‘worth it.’”

Delilah nodded. “Yes. That would be even worse.”

“You say you’d want to kill him. And if you had the opportunity?”

“I don’t know. But… what about ‘hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that’? The things you were saying in your address to the American defense secretary?”

“I think it’s a beautiful aspiration. But sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes I think the need for revenge must be there for a reason. It’s so natural, so universal, so deeply ingrained. So maybe at some point, fighting it might be unwise? I mean, going against something that fundamental to our nature is like teaching yourself to walk on your hands instead of your feet. Yes, it’s possible, you can do it for short distances, but does it make sense? It’s not the way we’re built.”

Delilah sensed that whatever pressurized contents kept this woman tossing and turning at night were now swirling alluringly near the surface. The trick now was to elicit, without ever seeming to press.

“I understand what you mean. But isn’t our reason, the quality of mercy, also deeply part of what it means to be human? You know, the better angels of our nature.”

“But the real trick is knowing what aspects of our nature the situation calls for, isn’t it? You quoted Shakespeare—well, here’s another quote, from Henry the Fifth. ‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man/As modest stillness and humility/But when the blast of war blows in our ears—’”

Delilah continued the line. “‘Then imitate the action of the tiger/Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood—’”

Fatima nodded, her expression grave. “‘Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage.’” She drained her glass, closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply. Then she looked at Delilah. “I’m glad you like Shakespeare. And I’m sorry I’m being so heavy.”

It was disappointing to have Fatima close off what felt like a promising line of discussion, but Delilah knew to push no further. At least, not directly.

“No, not at all. I asked. And besides, I like you when you’re heavy. Well, not heavy, necessarily, but when you’re honest. Wherever that leads you.”

Fatima offered the sad smile. “You really won’t print any of this?”

“I told you, I support your work. I only want to write an article that helps you. You can trust me. All right?”

Fatima smiled and squeezed Delilah’s hand. “Thank you. I’m glad I met you. You know, I was a little intimidated when you first approached me at the rally.”

Delilah was keenly aware of the warmth of Fatima’s touch. “Intimidated? Why?”

“Because you’re so beautiful. And confident.”

“This is quite a compliment, coming from you. Do you know, it was the same for me?”

Fatima laughed. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying. I think you’re being too modest. We’ll take care of that with another glass of wine.”

She refreshed their glasses, then settled back next to Fatima. “Anyway, it’s true. You’re beautiful, and accomplished, and magnetic in front of a crowd. How could I not be intimidated?”

Fatima smiled. “You’re really too nice. And I’m sorry if I seem paranoid about what you print. I just have… a lot of people watching, do you know what I mean?”

Delilah was intrigued. “Not exactly. You mean, because you’re a public figure?”

Fatima nodded, perhaps a shade too eagerly, as though Delilah had provided a ready explanation for the comment and Fatima was grateful for it. “Yes… that. It can be… a lot of pressure. I swear, there are times I want to escape my own life.”

Delilah thought again of the way Rain had taken her to Phuket. She had already been warming to the idea of trying something similar with Fatima… and now the woman had created a perfect opening. It seemed worth a try at least. How else would she ever spend enough concentrated time with her to get close to the laptop, or otherwise observe what MI6 was hoping to see?

She hoped it wasn’t the wine talking, that the plan taking shape in her mind made sense. She thought it did. The trick would be to make it stick with management once she’d presented it to them. Well, there was nothing like a fait accompli to get things done.

“I have a… crazy idea,” she said. “I mean, it’s a good idea, I think, but crazy because it’s on short acquaintance.”

Fatima took a sip of wine. “Yes?”

“One of the magazines I freelance for. They have an assignment coming up. They want someone to go to French Polynesia. A puff piece on paradise. All expenses paid. A lot of people are volunteering for the gig, as you can imagine. But I think I can get it if I call in the right favors. So, my crazy idea… would you want to go?”

Fatima looked at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, very. I’d have to shoot this and that for a few hours a day, but other than that it’s all downtime. Good food, good beaches, lots of sunshine. It would be fun to have a friend to share it with.”

“I would love to. But I don’t know if I could get away.”

Delilah didn’t know whether the woman was politely trying to excuse herself, or if there really was something in London that might be preventing her from leaving. If the latter, she wondered what it might be. She decided to press a bit further.

“But you’re a writer, yes? Bring your laptop and write on the beach.”

Fatima nodded her head and looked away as though imagining. “I guess I could do that.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mean to push. And I don’t even know for sure that I can get the gig. But if I can, all you’d need to pay for is airfare. And in fact, if that’s a problem, I have so many frequent flyer miles you’d be doing me a favor helping me use some.”

“No, the airfare isn’t a problem, especially with everything else taken care of. I just… I haven’t been out of London in a while. Which isn’t good, actually. Sometimes I think I’m needed here less than I really am. And even if I am needed, they’ll just have to miss me. Or find me online. How long are we talking about, anyway? A few days? A week?”

Again, that… discomfort, with her circumstances in London. And needed by whom? So many hints, threads, possibilities to examine. But later.

“Just a few days, probably, but I’ll try to stretch it out. It’s a long trip from London, maybe twenty-four hours, door to door, so I think we should stay as long as possible, no?”

Fatima smiled. “You’re very persuasive.”

“And you’re too kind. A few days or a week in paradise isn’t something that should require much talent for persuasion.”

“Okay, now you’ve gotten me excited. When will you know?”

“I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow and see what I can find out. And I’ll use all my persuasive talents.”

Fatima laughed. “They don’t have a chance.”

• • •

She met Kent the next day at The Fumoir at Claridge’s Hotel, just a few blocks from the Connaught. It was the second entry on Kent’s list, and when she’d called him that morning from a public booth, she decided it made as much sense as any of the other places he’d proposed on the thumb drive.

In fact, the bar was spectacular—dark, mysterious, hidden behind a gorgeous Art Deco door. Proper London ladies and well-heeled tourists were enjoying afternoon tea in the lobby; the main bar was similarly replete with the champagne-only set; and here was this 1930s speakeasy, all aubergine velvet and etched glass and hushed conversation. There was room for maybe a dozen people, and she was glad they were there in the afternoon. In the evening, she doubted they could have counted on seats.

Kent was waiting when she arrived, as she knew he would be, ensconced in the corner on a plush bench. She wondered whether the early arrivals were tactical for him, or if the behavior was driven more by the pleasure of feeling at home in such a gem while waiting for the woman he was designated to meet. Probably both. Once again he was playing the stylish financier: a navy windowpane three-button, a purple striped shirt, an even darker purple tie. There were a few other men in suits, apparently powerful enough, or irresponsible enough, to disappear from the office for a cocktail in the middle of the day. But none of them wore his clothes as well as Kent. He got up when he saw Delilah and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Well, hello there,” he said. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

She sat across from him. “Really? Why are your eyes sore?”

He chuckled. “You know, if you stay this prickly with me, I’ll only conclude it’s because you’ve taken a fancy. And the more you deny it, the more I’ll be certain I’m right.”

She liked his arrogance, even if she had no intention of succumbing to it. “You can think anything you like. I wouldn’t want reality to intrude on your reveries.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Would you like a drink?”

She looked around. “I suppose it would be a shame not to.”

“Yes, it is gorgeous isn’t it? Say what you like about the decline of the Empire, but my God, we know how to do a bar.” He signaled the bartender. “Two, please, Niall. Thank you.”

“Why am I not surprised you know the bartender?”

“Darling, I know the bartender at every London establishment worth a damn. When you have what Niall’s going to make you, you’ll be glad I do. And I know, I know, I was supposed to defer to you by letting you order for yourself. But don’t let’s argue, all right? I know the venue and I think I know you. If I’m wrong, you can throw it in my face. If I’m right, all I’ll need for thanks is the pleasure of watching you enjoy it. Fair enough?”

She shook her head. The man really was incorrigible. She might have told him as much, but was pretty sure it would only turn him on. Better to just let him have his fun.

While they waited for the drinks, they made small talk about London like any two normal people meeting in a bar and getting to know each other. After a few minutes, a waiter brought over two dewy cocktail glasses, each filled with a semitransparent golden mixture. When the man had departed, Kent raised his glass. “To your success.”

They touched glasses and drank. Kent was looking at her expectantly. “Well? Are you going to throw it in my face?”

“No, it’s actually quite delicious. What is it?”

“It’s called an Afterglow. Gin, absinthe, Amaro, ginger, lemon, orange, and nutmeg. All the major food groups. Had one at the Flatiron Lounge in New York and told Niall all about it. I like his interpretation better—less sweet, and served up, too. Packs a punch, though. Be careful.”

Afterglow. Well, at least he had the class, and the sense, not to order Sex on the Beach or something like that. And it was good.

She briefed him on her progress with Fatima. He was as curious about what had happened in front of Momtaz as she was.

“They felt like bodyguards,” Delilah said, “not Samaritans. And it didn’t feel like just a job, either. They hit those two guys like guard dogs off the leash, like they were enraged someone was threatening their master. What’s throwing me is, the way Fatima played it—as though she didn’t know they were there.”

“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe they don’t shadow her that closely. Or maybe they were shadowing you.”

She tamped down her irritation. “I guarantee you, Kent, no one was shadowing me. Not last night, not now. They were on her. Whether she knew it or not.”

“So she has people on her, but she’s not aware of it. Or not fully aware, anyway.”

“And how do you interpret that?”

He blew out a long breath. “She’s… more important to someone than that someone wants her to know?”

“Or someone doesn’t trust her the way she might want.”

“You think they’re monitoring her rather than protecting her?”

“I don’t know. She certainly seemed… I don’t know. Surprised, certainly, when the second set of guys showed up. But also discomfited as much as relieved. I think she suspected they were watching her, but wasn’t really sure. Maybe she’s aware of a security detail, or whatever it is, but also in denial?”

Kent nodded. “I’ll buy that.”

“Do you have access to police reports? I think it’s likely one will be filed—one of those guys, I don’t think he walked away.”

“I can certainly do some checking.”

“And let me know what you find.”

“That was my implication. In the meantime, now you know Fatima’s being watched. I told you, you need to be careful.”

She looked at him.

“Of course,” he added, “you already know that. Anyway, what’s your next move?”

“We talked about getting out of London together.”

“A getaway? You have made fast progress.”

She didn’t respond. She just looked at him evenly, wondering whether it was worth pointing out how ridiculous it was that he even thought he was in a position to evaluate the success or failure of her op.

He must have picked up on what she was thinking, because he said, “I’m impressed, that’s all. Remember, this is someone who immediately saw through the two previous operatives we sent against her.”

She realized he meant nothing by it, and knew she should try to be more forgiving. But she was so damned sick of men judging her. Whether the judgment involved a compliment or a complaint wasn’t the point. The point was their belief in their right to judge in the first place.

“Anyway. She mentioned if she left town, she’d have to take her laptop. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Of course it is. But look, I didn’t want to mention it earlier because I’m trying to respect all the need-to-know nonsense, but hypothetically, don’t you think we already would have black-bagged her flat? Her laptop is Firevault encrypted. It was useless.”

“Then maybe I can access it when she’s already logged in. Or find a way to record her inputting a password. A hotel would obviously create opportunities I’m not going to have if we just keep meeting for coffee and drinks.”

He nodded, looking at her. After a moment, he said, “You’re right, of course. I should have thought of that myself. Tell me what you have in mind.”

She outlined what she’d pitched Fatima—an all-expenses-paid trip for two to French Polynesia.

“Are you mad? MI6 is never going to pay for this. And I doubt your bean counters would go for it, either. I doubt even the Americans would, and they’ve got more money than God. Not to mention, how the hell are we going to get this backstopped on such short notice?”

She liked that he was raising practical objections. Practical objections meant the other side had already agreed in principle. Now it was just a question of negotiating a price.

“You mean to tell me that between MI6 and the CIA, you can’t find even one more malleable editor at the right magazine?”

“I have no idea what might be found. I only know it’s going to be a mad scramble, assuming it happens at all.”

“Well,” she said, enjoying the feeling of holding a winning hand, “it’s what I told her. It will look strange if I come back to her now and say, ‘Sorry, the Polynesia assignment didn’t work out, but I did manage to get something at a budget hotel in Bristol.’”

“You’re damned right it would look strange, and you knew that from the start.”

“What if I did? It’s the right move, Kent, and you’re smart enough to know it. Take her someplace different, someplace far away, someplace where she’ll relax and get swept away and forget about what occupies her mind when she’s in London. Someplace with a lot of activities—yoga, water sports, whatever gets her to forget to close her laptop before getting in the shower or diving into the lagoon or going for a spa treatment.”

“Spa treatments? That’s also part of the package?”

“Look, if your people’s priorities are so fucked up they’d rather risk a sarin attack than the possibility a foreign agent might enjoy certain elements of an op, you’ve already lost this war, and I’m wasting my time trying to help you.”

Kent sipped his drink, watching her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She also didn’t care. She knew she was right.

“That’s actually a pretty good line,” he said, after a moment. “The ‘risking a sarin attack’ part, I mean. I’ll use that with the zealots in finance. It might even work.”

She didn’t permit any of the satisfaction she felt to rise to the surface. “Whatever hotel reservation you make, remember, it’s just for me. The magazine shouldn’t know I’m bringing a friend—it’s not the kind of thing I’d tell them myself.”

“Yes, if they knew, they’d probably cut your per diem. And we wouldn’t want that.”

She didn’t respond. What mattered was that she’d won. She wouldn’t engage him beyond that.

He drummed his fingers on the table, looking away, obviously considering something, weighing it. Then he said, “Oh, what the hell. I’ll probably get fired for this, but if I do, at least we won’t be colleagues anymore and I’ll be able to ask you out on a proper date.”

She smiled. She didn’t want to like him, but it was hard not to. “All right, it’s good to know you win either way.”

“Here’s the thing. Our tech people have developed an application. It can run from a computer, a tablet, even a smart phone. It’s very sensitive to certain sounds. Particularly the sounds of keystrokes. I’d be surprised if your lab geniuses weren’t working on something similar.”

She waited, intrigued.

“Essentially, it’s a key logger program. Every key on a computer keyboard has an individual sound signature. The differences are far too subtle for the human ear to detect, but the program can make them out clearly enough. If there’s sufficient proximity, if the person isn’t taking care to type very quietly, if there’s not too much background noise, if the acoustics are right overall, if the person is using a mechanical keyboard and not a virtual one—”

“A lot of ifs.”

“Yes. But if I could get you access to the app, you could download it to your laptop or your phone. With just a little bit of luck, you could have it running close to Fatima when she accesses her laptop. If you manage it, you could eavesdrop on her passwords, the websites she visits, the messages she types… everything. If you’re on a Wi-Fi network, the app automatically uploads to a secure site. Or you can do it yourself manually. At a minimum, you’d get her Firevault password and our black bag specialists could do the rest when she’s back in London.”

“You haven’t tried this already?”

“It won’t work in a public place—well, a library, probably, but certainly not the type of coffee shops Fatima favors when she’s out. But a hotel room would be about as good an opportunity as anyone’s ever likely to get.”

“If it works, how will you explain my success to your people?”

“If you succeed, I promise no one will even ask.”

Delilah considered. She had nothing sensitive on her phone. Even if MI6 sent along any key loggers of their own in the downloaded app, they’d get nothing of value. And she’d just toss the phone when the op was done.

“Good,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

He nodded, his expression oddly grave. “There’s something else I shouldn’t tell you.”

She wondered how much of what he “shouldn’t tell” her was real, and how much artifice, intended to get her to trust him, maybe even to sleep with him. It wasn’t easy to know. She raised her eyebrows.

“According to the Americans,” he went on, “there’s been a lot of chatter just lately. You know, in all the networks their NSA monitors. And we’ve been picking up some quite worrying signals ourselves. The consensus is, some sort of mass-casualty attack is getting uncomfortably close to its launch date. And that Fatima’s brother Imran is at the heart of it. I’m afraid my people are close to implementing… a kind of Plan B.”

Her throat and stomach felt suddenly tight. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, if we can’t find some other way into that laptop, a team is going to acquire Fatima and get all the information they need—her password, everything—by other means. Quite unpleasant means, in fact.”

He was watching her closely. She didn’t know what to show him. Certainly not the distress the thought of Fatima tortured was causing her.

“Why do we become what we hate, Kent?”

There was a long pause. “I don’t know.”

“Do you ever ask?”

“I try not to.”

“Maybe that’s not such a healthy habit.”

“You and I don’t make the decisions, Delilah—”

“No, we only follow orders. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“Look, I don’t want to see that Plan B implemented anymore than you do. Just get the password, all right? And we won’t have to even worry about it.”

She wondered for an instant whether he was worried that Bora Bora was just a boondoggle, or that she’d developed too much of an attachment to Fatima, and had concocted his Plan B as a way to motivate her. If so, he’d certainly succeeded.

“Get me the app,” she said. “And I’ll get you her password.”

• • •

She didn’t know what strings Kent had pulled, but in the end it took him only one day to set things up. He left her a thumb drive at one of the dead-drops—the main Waterstones bookstore, at Piccadilly. A little old-fashioned compared to an Internet secure site, but on the other hand the space behind the spine-out volumes in a bookstore’s mystery section left no electronic trail for anyone to follow.

She took the thumb drive back to her flat and decrypted it. She was pleased: she and Fatima were going to Bora Bora, and, even better, would be staying at the island’s Four Seasons resort. The shoot was for a new travel magazine. Delilah had heard of it but had never worked with them before. The audio key logger app was also included on the thumb drive, along with instructions. She downloaded the app to her phone and tested it with her laptop, typing London Bridge is Falling Down, 123456789. The program deciphered the keystrokes perfectly, even the capital letters. But would it perform in the field? She was going to find out.

She called Fatima and gave her the good news. Could she leave in two days? Yes? Wonderful! And perfect timing—it would give Delilah time to assemble their discussions and photographs into the article she was, after all, sent to London to write.

It took her a day to get down the relevant parts of what she recollected. She arranged it all into an obviously sympathetic piece about Fatima’s commitment to justice, nonviolence, and the principles of Martin Luther King, Jr. She included a half-dozen shots of Fatima looking alternatively glamorous and serious—addressing the rally; at work in Notes; surrounded by other Muslim expats at Momtaz. She uploaded it, smiling as she watched it go. The whole thing was likely to make MI6, Kent, and the Director and his cronies apoplectic. She could imagine the reactions: “Sympathizing with a terrorist!” “Propagandizing for the enemy!” “Whose side is she on, anyway?”

She didn’t care. She’d heard it all before, had endured the accusations, the suspicion, the innuendo. They could all kiss her ass. If they wanted her results, they’d have to put up with her methods. Don’t like it, boys? she thought. Do me a favor, then, and fire me. But you won’t. You need me too much. And you know it.

They left the next day, a nonstop to Los Angeles, where they changed planes for Papeete on Tahiti, then a short flight to Bora Bora. Delilah hadn’t been kidding about all the frequent flyer mileage, and she used it to get both of them upgraded to business class. Fatima slept much of the way to Los Angeles, which Delilah found encouraging. Yes, there was something keeping this woman awake at night in London, and her gut told her it had been smart to take her away from it. Change created movement. Movement created opportunities.

They were greeted at Bora Bora’s tiny airport by a pretty young Four Seasons representative, who hung garlands of flowers around their necks and escorted them to a boat for the final leg of the journey. They slipped on sunglasses as a porter carried their bags onboard, Fatima shaking her head wordlessly in evident delight. They stood on the bow to take in the sights and a cabin boy gave them each a chilled washcloth and a bottle of water. The sky was blue, the air was perfumed with the salt spray of the sea, and as the wind whipped back their hair and the twin lines of the resort’s overwater thatched bungalows came into view, Fatima threw her arms around Delilah and squealed with delight.

“Oh, my God,” she said, stepping back and regaining her composure. “I’m sorry. I just… I feel like this can’t be real. I needed this so much, and I didn’t even know it. I’m overwhelmed. Thank you. Really, thank you.”

Delilah shook her head, moved by the woman’s delight and by her gratitude. And then she felt an odd surge of guilt. After all, under the circumstances, gratitude was the last thing she deserved. The feeling confused her. She was accustomed to expressions of gratitude, even declarations of undying love, from a subject, but beyond a certain satisfaction with successful progress, she never allowed herself to feel anything out of character until after the op was done.

“I’m the one who has to thank you,” she said, willing the feeling away. “If you hadn’t joined me, I would have had no one to enjoy this with. I’m really glad you came.”

They disembarked on the beach in front of the resort. The water was so clear and blue, the sand so white, the green ridge of Mount Otemanu so majestic, that Delilah momentarily understood Kent’s reluctance to agree to the plan. The island and its lagoon were like an archetype of paradise created from the collective unconscious of humanity, and it almost seemed unfair that anyone should be able to spend time here, let alone at the taxpayers’ expense.

They took care of some brief paperwork in a thatched-roof, open-air pavilion. The manager of the property, a nice-looking gentleman named Rajiv, came to greet them personally. If he was surprised to see that Delilah was traveling with a friend, he didn’t show it. He expressed his excitement that Delilah would be doing some of her shooting on the resort grounds, informed them that they had been upgraded to an Otemanu overwater bungalow suite with plunge pool, and offered his personal assistance with anything she and her friend should require. Kent had clearly come through with the backstopping, and Rajiv, obviously savvy, was hoping the feature on Bora Bora might, with the proper inducements, contain a particular focus on his own hotel.

A burly Polynesian attendant put their bags in a golf cart and drove them out to the end of the one of the piers, which provided access to the thatched wooden bungalows stretching out over the sparkling blue of the lagoon. As he showed them into the room, he exclaimed, “The best bungalow in the resort, you will see!” Delilah had heard similar lines enough times before to know how little they meant, but as they moved inside, her doubts crumbled. It really was spectacular—spacious, airy, with incredible views of the lagoon and Mount Otemanu from the living room, from the bedroom, from the giant bathtub. There was even a glass panel in the floor through which colorful fish were clearly visible in the rippling, crystal-clear water below. There was only one bed, a king, and Delilah hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. Well, they’d figure something out.

They moved outside to the deck—a table and chairs; a pair of chaise lounges; an outdoor shower; a ladder leading directly down to the lagoon; and, as advertised, a private plunge pool accessible from the bedroom. Even Delilah, who had been wined and dined by numerous wealthy, well-traveled men in some quite exotic locales, was knocked out. Fatima was dumbfounded, her eyes wide, her mouth open as she took it all in.

“Do you like?” the attendant asked.

“It’s just… mad,” Delilah responded.

His face lit up in a gigantic smile. “I told you.”

Delilah tipped him well. As he left, he said, “Mah-roo-roo. If there is anything at all that you’d like, please just let us know. I think you will have a wonderful stay.”

For a moment, Delilah and Fatima stood looking at each other wordlessly. Then they broke into identical laughs and threw their arms around each other. “I can’t believe it,” Fatima said. “Is this place real?”

“Let’s find out. I want to jump right into that lagoon.”

“Oh, let’s. I’ll just… change in the bathroom.”

Delilah wasn’t surprised at her modesty. She was westernized, but still Muslim. Had she been Israeli, or even French, they would likely have hit the lagoon naked. “Of course. Take your time. I’ll see you on the deck.”

Delilah changed into a cobalt bikini and went out through the sliding doors. The temperature was perfect—warm enough for a bathing suit, but not at all humid or oppressive. The colors were stunning. It looked like a screen saver, not like a place you could actually go. And yet here she was.

Fatima joined her a minute later. She was wearing a vermillion one-piece—not as revealing as Delilah’s bikini, but still a racy cut. Her body was beautiful, and with that long black hair flowing down her back, that skin, that smile… my God, the woman really was breathtaking. And with almost no makeup and after twenty-four hours of travel, too.

“What?” Fatima said, smiling.

“You are just… unearthly beautiful, my dear. And if you try to deny it, I’ll push you into the lagoon.”

Fatima laughed. “That’s not much of a threat. But thank you. And I was thinking the same about you.

They dove off the deck. The water was perfectly cool and delightful, and they spent a heavenly half hour splashing, diving, floating, and utterly unwinding from the long trip.

When they had had enough and were toweling off on the deck, Delilah decided she should bring up the sleeping arrangements. She was surprised to feel somewhat fraught about the topic, and realized Fatima’s beauty was affecting her. Would the woman think she was coming on to her?

The thought was strange and she shook it away. This was an op; she didn’t know what Fatima was expecting or what would make her uncomfortable; she didn’t want to blow things when they were going so well. That was all.

“I should have thought of this earlier,” she said, “but there’s only the one bed… ”

“I noticed that, too. It’s fine. I’ll take the couch.”

“Oh, no! I mean, if you want, of course, but… look, it’s a big bed, and I would feel very bad to have it all to myself while you toss and turn on the couch.” Again she pushed away the concern that Fatima would think she was coming on to her. The woman would know she was just being solicitous. She was overthinking it. Which was weird. She didn’t ordinarily second-guess herself.

“You’re really nice. But I don’t sleep that well, anyway. The bed would probably be wasted on me. And I might even keep you up.”

“I doubt that. And if you don’t sleep well, a couch isn’t likely to help, no? Look, I’m very happy to share the bed with you, it’s no imposition at all. But I want you to be comfortable, of course. Whatever you like.”

Fatima offered a smile Delilah couldn’t read. “Thank you,” she said. “This is already the best trip I’ve ever had. Why don’t we figure out the bed tonight?”

Delilah returned the smile, still feeling uncertain. “Of course. Whatever you like.”

They spent the afternoon exploring the resort, enjoying a leisurely lunch in one of the restaurants, and lounging by the pool. Conversation was so easy and comfortable, at times Delilah could almost have believed she was there on a legitimate assignment with a girlfriend tagging along. But at other moments, she was aware of the pressure of the op, the uncertainty of how she might access Fatima’s laptop. In the course of her job, she was always afraid, deep down, of being found out, of getting caught. But here, the fear was closer to the surface, and its nature felt different, as well. Ordinarily, the fear was of physical danger—of beatings, torture, death. Such thoughts seemed absurd in this paradise. If Fatima caught Delilah trying to access her laptop, Delilah would have some cover-for-action ready and that would be that. No real danger. And yet she was still afraid, of what she didn’t know.

They both were tired and jetlagged and went to bed early. Fatima decided to take the couch, and Delilah agreed only after getting her to promise that if she was uncomfortable she would absolutely take the other half of the bed, never mind worrying about disturbing Delilah.

The next two days were uneventful. They snorkeled; they sailed around the island and fed sharks and rays; they went parasailing. Delilah dutifully photographed the activities, capturing images of lazing sea turtles and azure waves and the various other elements of a vacation in paradise. Once, she tried to shoot Fatima in her stunning red bathing suit, but Fatima demurred, noting that the same concerns she had about appearing too fashion conscious made her reluctant to be filmed in attire that might shock certain Muslim sensibilities. Delilah told her she would give the photos to Fatima and keep no copies, but still Fatima was reluctant, which suggested either that she was nervous copies would get out anyway, or that she was shy about posing, or both. The woman was so beautiful and photogenic that Delilah really would have enjoyed shooting some glamorous shots of her, but she didn’t push the issue.

Several times, when they were back in the room between meals, activities, and visits to the beach and the pool, Fatima used her laptop. But she had a way of waiting for Delilah to get settled, at which point she would pick up the computer and use it somewhere else—whichever room was unoccupied in the suite, or on the deck—and Delilah wasn’t able to deploy Kent’s app to pick up her keystrokes. The good news was, Fatima clearly treated the laptop as something private. That suggested there was something on it worth accessing. The bad news was, they only had four nights and they were running out of time.

On the fourth and final evening, they had an early dinner, then strolled to the open-air bar over the lagoon for a drink. They were wearing sarongs, halter tops, and sandals, all purchased from one of the resort’s shops, perfect attire for an evening in paradise. Delilah was aware the clock was ticking, aware of what her failure would mean for Fatima, but she pushed the feeling away. She would come up with something. She felt it was already there, in fact, an idea, a stratagem, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. She just had to relax and let it come.

They sat on one of the couches with a view of the sunset and Delilah ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. Fatima was quieter than she had been. Delilah, pleasantly buzzed from the wine they’d drunk with dinner and enchanted by the yellows and pinks of the sky, didn’t notice at first. But as the sun sank below the horizon, she wondered whether something was on Fatima’s mind, and what it might be. She gave her a little shoulder check and said, “What is it?”

Fatima looked at her. In the glow of the fading sunlight, her expression was mysteriously solemn. Delilah wished she had brought her camera to the bar.

“Sorry,” Fatima said. “I get sad at incongruous moments. It’s a bad habit and I’m hoping to shake it.”

Delilah was intrigued. “No, no need to apologize. And I don’t think it’s a habit, at least not that I’ve noticed. Why do you say that?”

A long moment went by, then Fatima said, “Since what was done to my family, I can be a moody bitch. Sad. Depressed. Guilty. Angry. Sometimes, when I feel really good, like I do right now, I’ll suddenly be acutely aware of what happened to them. Of what was taken from them.”

“Yes. I had that for a long time after my brother died. And my parents… for my parents, it never went away.” As with all the best lies, though the facts were rearranged, the emotional essence was the truth.

“How long did you have it?”

“The first year was the worst. Then for another four years or so after that. Now, only infrequently. And I don’t really mind when it happens. It makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know. Still connected to him. He’s like a special memory I keep in a safe place, but that on certain occasions I get to unwrap and treasure, even if the treasuring involves sadness.”

For a moment, Fatima’s expression was so unguarded that Delilah was moved by it. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted… even her pupils were dilated. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly like that.”

“I don’t know. It may be different for you. The loss is still recent.” She sensed a possible opening, and decided to exploit it. “What about your other brother? Are you close?”

“We… used to be. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“But are you not even in touch?”

“Sometimes.”

The answers felt guarded. She wondered whether this was itself a form of honesty. If Fatima really wanted to protect her brother, she would have slipped into an anodyne cover story that would have raised no flags. It wasn’t an easy call on whether to push or not, but Delilah decided not to. The main opportunity here was the laptop. If she made Fatima suspicious by inquiring too much about her brother—inquiries that were likely to prove fruitless regardless—she might lose a chance at the primary objective.

She realized the laptop was all she really cared about at this point. Fatima could tell her anything at all about her brother and anything else, but if Delilah didn’t get that password—

She didn’t want to think about it.

She wished again she’d brought her camera. The light was so delicate, and Fatima, with her sad expression, so lovely in it. And then she had an idea—an idea that, even as it blossomed, she realized her subconscious had been trying to serve up to her for some time.

“Merde,” she said, “I wish I had brought my camera.”

“The sunset?”

Delilah laughed. “No, my dear. You.”

Fatima took a sip of wine. “You’re way too nice.”

“Let’s go back to the room. We can take the wine. The sky is going to be gorgeous—lavender and indigo and with that crescent moon rising, too—perfect for the magazine. And I want to shoot you, too. In this light, I promise you will look sad and solemn and not at all fashionable. Nothing that could detract from your well-deserved activist image, all right? Nothing that could make someone suspect there might be another side to you.”

Fatima smiled—a touch nervously? “You think I’m hiding something?”

“I think you’re afraid of something, yes. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if you do, either. All I know is, you haven’t let me shoot you since we arrived.”

Fatima gave her a theatrical sigh. “All right, let’s go back. I don’t know why you like to shoot me so much, but at least I can keep you company while you work.”

Interesting. Not an acceptance, but not a refusal, either.

They took the wine and walked back to the bungalow. Delilah noted the laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch. Good. She brought her equipment out to the deck and began to set up. Fatima came to the sliding door and said, “You get your shots—I’m going to take a shower.”

Delilah smiled. “Don’t think you will escape me that easily.”

Fatima laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t.”

Delilah used a tripod and a long exposure to capture some dramatic shots of Mount Otemanu, silhouetted by a violet sky and set off by the moon. The magazine would be pleased. When the best of the light had faded, she went inside. Fatima was coming out of the bathroom wearing one of the hotel terrycloth robes, her hair wrapped in a towel.

“If this is how you plan to get me not to shoot you,” Delilah said, “it won’t work.”

Fatima smiled. “How was the rest of the sunset?”

“Lovely. Though not as lovely as you.”

She set the camera down on the coffee table next to the bottle of wine and Fatima’s laptop. The lights were already quite low, and Delilah lit a pair of candles the hotel had thoughtfully left on the end table next to the couch. She sat, poured two glasses of wine, picked up both, and extended one to Fatima. “Join me?”

Fatima sat. They touched glasses and drank.

Delilah set her glass down and picked up the camera. “Look straight ahead.”

Fatima regarded her with mock suspicion. “Why?”

“Trust me.”

Fatima turned her head. Delilah raised the camera and snapped a shot. Fatima looked at her and said, “You’re really not going to let me stop you, are you?”

Delilah smiled. “When we’re done, you can take the card and do anything you want with it.” She poured more wine. “Here, this will relax you.”

Fatima laughed. “Do I not seem relaxed?”

“Maybe just a little tense.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“No. I want you to enjoy.”

Was there some double entendre there? She wasn’t sure. She realized she was a bit more drunk than she’d intended.

But… that concern she had, that Fatima might think she was coming on to her. She realized again this was something her unconscious was trying to tell her. If Fatima had any operational suspicions, any vague sense of ulterior motives, the possibility that Delilah might be attracted to her would provide a ready explanation her conscious mind could grab onto, to soothe the suspicions away.

Or was she rationalizing? She decided it didn’t matter—the dynamic would work either way.

She looked at the image she had just shot in the camera’s viewfinder. “Hmm, nice, but a little dark. Hang on.”

She got up, grabbed her iPhone, and quickly booted Kent’s app. Then she switched over to a light-meter app, which Fatima wouldn’t know she didn’t really need, and theatrically adjusted her camera and the two candles accordingly. She set the iPhone down next to Fatima’s laptop and took a few more pictures.

“Yes, that’s better,” she said, snapping away and checking the viewfinder. “I love this light. Here, take that towel off your head, all right? Yes, good. Now, shake out your hair. Ah, oui, beautiful.”

She stood, moved the coffee table aside, and circled Fatima, getting multiple shots from various angles. “Bring the glass to your lips. Yes. You’re contemplating something. Anticipating. Waiting for your lover. Yes, exactly like that. Now drink. No, don’t move your head, only the glass. Yes. Put the glass down. Now look at me. Head down, eyes up. Oui, like that. My God, girl, you are éblouissante. Stunning.”

And she was, too. As naturally smoldering for the camera as any professional model Delilah had ever shot.

Delilah lowered the camera and looked at her for a long moment. Fatima returned the look, her expression confident, almost serene, any hint of previous reluctance gone. Whether it was the wine, the setting, the company… Delilah didn’t know. But Fatima was past reluctantly surrendering to the shoot. She now seemed almost intoxicated by it.

Delilah felt her heart kicking harder. What was she doing? She had enough already. She didn’t need to go further. Kent’s app was active. When they were done with the shoot, she would hand the camera card to Fatima, and Fatima would plug it directly into her laptop. She’d type in her password, the app would capture it, the op would be done.

Delilah said, “Move the robe down one of your shoulders.”

Fatima’s mouth opened as though to say something, but she didn’t. She shook her head, once, wordlessly, her expression suddenly confused.

“Oui, yes, I want you to. While you look into the camera. Do it slowly. Deliberately. Like you would to seduce a lover.”

Fatima’s lips were parted. Was she breathing hard? Delilah was.

Gradually, uncertainly, Fatima crossed her left arm over her body and lowered one lapel of the robe with her right, stopping when it was halfway to her elbow. The glimpse of additional honey-colored skin against the white robe was deliciously tantalizing.

“Oui, yes, like that,” Delilah said, snapping away and circling back to the couch. She kneeled on one of the cushions. “Now clutch the material close to you. Not because you don’t want me to see. Because you don’t want to let me see. Because you’re tormenting me with your beauty. Like that, yes. Yes, yes.”

She lowered the camera. She felt her heart pounding in her chest. She was so excited she was wet. What was wrong with her? She had seduced countless men. It was her job, she was good at it, she enjoyed it, it didn’t make her nervous. And yet now her hands were shaking so much she wasn’t sure she’d be able to steady the camera.

“Fatima. Lower the other shoulder of the robe for me.”

Again, Fatima said nothing. Still looking at Delilah, she reached with the opposite arm to the opposite side of the robe and lowered it as she had the first. She crossed her arms just below the curve of her breasts, the upper half of which were now beautifully revealed.

Delilah lowered the camera. “More,” she said.

She saw that Fatima was trembling. Her lips were parted, her eyes directly on Delilah’s. She lowered the robe further.

“More,” Delilah said again, her breathing hard, her voice husky.

Slowly, so slowly, Fatima moved her hands to her lap. The robe fell away entirely.

Delilah lowered her eyes to Fatima’s breasts. God, they were beautiful, rising and falling with the woman’s breathing. A tiny cry escaped Delilah’s mouth.

Delilah set the camera on the floor. Fatima watched her, saying nothing.

Delilah moved forward on the couch, leaned in, and paused a few inches from Fatima’s face. She looked in the woman’s dark eyes, moved by the nervousness and desire she saw in them. Then she leaned closer, closer, until their lips were touching. Fatima didn’t press forward, but nor did she pull away.

“I want you to kiss me back,” Delilah whispered.

“I… I don’t know,” Fatima said, her mouth still touching Delilah’s. “Delilah, are you… gay?”

The movement of her lips against Delilah’s as she spoke was amazingly sensual, and Delilah became aware of an ache between her legs. She laughed softly. “Not before I met you, no.”

“I don’t… I don’t know about this.”

“Kiss me,” Delilah whispered.

There was a pause, and then gently, tentatively, Fatima moved her lips against Delilah’s. They were so full and soft and hesitant… not at all like a man’s. Delilah could feel Fatima’s breath against her face, and realized the woman was as excited as she was, and even more frightened. The thought excited her more. She wanted to reach down and touch herself, but was afraid it would be too much.

Fatima opened her mouth and kissed her harder. Delilah felt a burst of surprise and delight. She opened her mouth, too, and their tongues met, touching, teasing, tasting. She turned her head and pressed forward and opened her mouth more, letting Fatima’s tongue all the way inside. God, it was delicious, she couldn’t remember a kiss that tasted anything like it. She heard Fatima moan… or was it her? She moved her head to the side and kissed Fatima’s neck, her collarbone. She put one knee on the floor, pulled the robe opened further, and kissed lower, lower, her hands dropping inside the robe and taking hold of Fatima’s hips. Her mouth found a nipple and she sucked on it. Fatima gasped and her hands came to the back of Delilah’s head, pulling her closer.

Suddenly the halter and sarong felt like a diving bell. Delilah pulled back, crossed her arms, and pulled off the top. Even before it had cleared her head, Fatima was leaning forward, reaching for her, and then her hands were on Delilah’s breasts, touching, caressing, exploring. She took Delilah’s nipples between her fingers and gently squeezed, and Delilah felt the shock of the sensation all the way down to her toes. She seized Fatima’s face in her hands and this time the kiss went on and on, headlong, passionate, unrestrained. It was extraordinary, electrifying, she felt like they were making love just with their mouths.

Somehow she managed to open the sarong and get her panties off. She thought she’d never been so wet. Still with one knee on the floor and the other leg on the couch, she broke the kiss and took one of Fatima’s hands. She guided it closer, closer, looking into Fatima’s eyes, and when the woman’s fingers touched her Delilah gasped from the pleasure of it. She moved Fatima’s hand, showing her how she liked it, moaning “Oui, oui,” in rhythm with Fatima’s caress. She felt one of Fatima’s fingers slide slowly inside her, in, out, the pressure there, then gone again, then back, teasing, satisfying, teasing again. It was maddening. She couldn’t stand it anymore and she couldn’t stand that it might stop. She leaned back, pulling Fatima by the hand with her. “I want you to taste me,” she said. “Please. Please taste me.”

Fatima put her free hand on Delilah’s chest and pushed her all the way onto her back. The armrest was under Delilah’s head now, and she watched as Fatima leaned in and moved down, down, her fingers still touching, probing, and she kissed Delilah’s belly, her fingers still moving, moving, then lower, and finally, finally Delilah felt her tongue, her teeth, the pressure of her mouth. God, had she ever felt anything so simultaneously gentle and intense? She lifted her hips and put a hand on Fatima’s head and moaned “Oui, oui,” coaxing her with her hand and her voice, showing her what she liked, what she craved, what she needed. And Fatima obliged her, eagerly, her tongue flicking, her fingers probing. She reached for Delilah’s nipples, pinching them, rolling them, making her insane. Delilah felt her orgasm building and whispered, “Oui, ma chérie, oui, like that… just like that, don’t stop, make me come like that,” and Fatima’s tongue moved faster and she squeezed one of Delilah’s hands in her own. Delilah grabbed the back of her head and pulled her closer and ground against her face and then she was coming, the intensity of it hitting her like a shockwave, and as it rolled through her body and redoubled in strength she arched her back and gripped Fatima’s hand and heard herself cry out, “Oui, pour l’amour de Dieu, oui, oui!”

She came for what seemed like forever. Finally she collapsed back to the couch, her orgasm ebbing, her mind still reeling from the surprise of it, the violence with which it had taken her. Fatima crept forward, kissing Delilah’s belly, then her neck, then held her in her arms.

“My God,” Delilah breathed. “You are so sweet.

Fatima’s face was buried against Delilah’s neck. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“It was beautiful.”

“I’m glad.”

Delilah took her by the shoulders and pushed her to the side. She slid out from under and straddled Fatima’s hips. “Now it’s your turn.”

Fatima’s amber skin darkened. “No, you don’t have to—”

Delilah laughed. “Have to? I’m dying to.” She pushed Fatima’s shoulders back, leaned in, and kissed her for a long moment. Then she stretched out alongside her and while they continued to kiss she reached down and began to touch her. She felt a bikini wax, the skin soft and smooth and hot beneath her fingertips. Her fingers slipped easily inside Fatima’s wetness, and the feeling of the woman moaning into her mouth while Delilah touched her was enough to make her want to come again. She kissed her way down Fatima’s neck, her breasts, her belly, all the while touching her, deeply but slowly, slowly, teasing her, tormenting her, making her desperate for more. She used a hand to spread Fatima’s legs wider and kissed her inner thighs, her pubis, her labia, all the while her finger sliding slowly in and out. Fatima whimpered and twisted and arched, but Delilah wanted more, she wanted Fatima to ask for it, to beg for it, to be insane for it as she had been. She kept kissing and licking, her tongue dancing toward and then away from what she knew Fatima really wanted. Finally, Fatima panted, “Please, make me come, please,” and Delilah instantly flicked her tongue over her clit. Fatima shuddered and gasped and Delilah kept licking, sliding one hand up to Fatima’s breasts to squeeze her nipples and continuing to touch her with the fingers of the other hand. Fatima moaned, “Yes, oh God, oh yes,” and Delilah licked harder, faster, and as Fatima’s breathing quickened and her hips began to rock Delilah sucked her clit into her mouth and flicked her tongue rapidly all over it. Fatima gasped and cried out, “Oh, oh, ohhhhh… ” and her back arched and her hands twisted in Delilah’s hair and Delilah kept sucking and licking and touching while Fatima arched and writhed. Only when she had collapsed back to the couch and was panting, “Please, no more, no more,” did Delilah relent.

Delilah moved up and lay on her side next to her. Fatima turned her head and looked into her eyes. She saw the most delicious expression of… what? Wonder? Disbelief? Trust?

“Not so bad, no?” Delilah said, smiling.

And then a tear slipped out from the corner of one of Fatima’s eyes. Delilah was surprised, and a little worried. “Why are you crying?” she said.

“It felt so good. But I also… I don’t know. I feel ashamed.”

“Because it felt good?”

“Because of… that I did that with a woman. I’ve wondered what it would be like, sometimes, but I never really thought… have you done that before? I’m not the first, am I?”

A lie would have been safer, and more believable. But Delilah told her the truth. “You are the first.”

“I don’t think I believe you.”

“I’m sorry for that. It’s true.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t know. There’s something… something that makes me want to know everything about you. To know you in every way. Including in bed. Especially in bed. I don’t know why, but it’s true! I’ve never thought that way about a woman before—‘What would she be like in bed?’ Men, yes, all the time, and usually I’m right so it’s not even that interesting an exercise. But with you… I couldn’t tell. You’re so beautiful, and confident, and sophisticated, but also you’re Muslim, so maybe you would be… modest? Shy? Inhibited? Ashamed? I couldn’t tell. And I really… God, I really wanted to know.”

“I hope you weren’t disappointed.”

“Were you?”

Fatima shook her head emphatically. “No.”

“It was the same for me.”

“Really?”

Delilah laughed. “Could you not tell?”

Fatima smiled. “I thought so, but… ”

“If you have any doubts, you can do it again later.”

Fatima laughed, and then her expression was serious. “I want to. Do it again later, I mean. We shouldn’t have waited until our last night.”

“I know. We could have left here even better rested.” She moved her head closer and kissed Fatima softly. “God, you are lovely.”

“Thank you.”

They were running out of time. It might be now or never.

“Do you want to see the pictures I took?”

Fatima raised her eyebrows. “Now?”

“Yes, now. Don’t you want to see what enflamed me so much?”

Rather than wait for an answer and risk a demurral, Delilah sat up, grabbed the camera, and popped out the card. “Here, it’s yours. You can view the pictures on your laptop and do anything you like with them.”

Fatima smiled reluctantly, but she sat up and pulled the robe close. Even now she was modest, Delilah observed, but that wasn’t so unusual in her experience. She had known many men who could only make love with the lights out and were shy about their bodies even afterward.

Fatima took the card and opened her laptop. She turned it away from Delilah and typed in what sounded like a long passcode. Then she popped in the card.

Delilah glanced at her iPhone. It was on the hotel’s Wi-Fi network. So it was already uploading Fatima’s code. The op was done.

Ordinarily, at a moment like this, she would feel a flush of suppressed elation. But now… a jumble of emotions she didn’t understand. Relief, certainly, that MI6’s horrible Plan B had been rendered moot. But also a strange sadness. And guilt. It didn’t make sense. She needed to get a hold of herself.

Fatima spun around the laptop so they could both see the screen. She started scrolling through the pictures Delilah took. “I have to admit,” she said, smiling, “you make me look good.”

They spent some time going through the photos. They were great shots and Delilah pretended to enjoy them. But in fact they were making her feel worse and worse.

When the candles had burned low, they got in bed. They made love again and lay in each other’s arms for a long time after. But Delilah couldn’t sleep. For maybe the first time in her life, she felt like she’d committed a crime. The nature of the offense eluded her—what she had accomplished here would save lives, she knew that, she always knew that. And she’d likely saved Fatima from horrors she didn’t even want to think about it.

And then it hit her, so powerful and obvious she realized that until that moment she’d been willing it away. Yes, perhaps she’d saved Fatima from one set of horrors, only to inflict another. Because the most direct, the most immediate consequence of the information she had just acquired would be the violent death of Imran, Fatima’s last brother. The woman had already been brutalized by the loss of her other brothers, and now her shattered world, which she had labored in slow agony to reassemble, would be blown apart again. And her parents’ world, as well.

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.

Only one chance—get to the side of the door. The first thing to come through would be that long suppressor. She dashed to where she’d left her pants and pulled free the Hideaway knife. “Fatima!” she hissed. “Get away from the bed, it’s the first place they’ll key on!”

In the glow of the streetlight, Fatima’s eyes were huge and terrified. “They’re not here for me!” she said, hysteria at the edges of her tone.

Delilah didn’t understand the reaction. Not here for her? Why—

There was a loud pop and the door swung violently inward—a specialized charge to take out the lock.

Too far to attack. Delilah leaped back toward the bed and threw her body over Fatima’s. If Kent had known in advance that both she and Fatima were here, they were dead. But if he hadn’t known, there was a chance. “Don’t shoot her!” she cried out. “If you do, you have to shoot both of us.”

Fatima was struggling to get out from under her, shouting something in Urdu. Delilah looked up and in the dim light saw Kent, wearing night vision goggles as she’d expected. That was the point of taking out the electricity.

There was a moment’s pause. Kent said, “What the hell?”

Fatima froze, suddenly silent. Delilah said, “Just take the laptop and go. Go!”

But he wasn’t here just for the laptop. She knew that. If he’d wanted only the laptop, he would have taken care to arrive when he knew Fatima was out. Or he would have picked the lock, which would have taken time, rather than blowing it for instant entry.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he said. From their nakedness and the lateness of the hour, the question was largely rhetorical, but it was also a huge relief. He hadn’t been expecting Delilah. She had leverage. She had a chance.

“It’s on the desk. Take it and go!”

He eased the door closed behind him. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Put your clothes on and come with me.”

“No. You’ll have to kill both of us.”

“I’m not going to kill you. But I’m afraid she’s a different story.”

Delilah felt Fatima tremble in terror. “No, she’s not. Unless you want to explain to my colleagues how you killed me, too. Maybe your organization’s management could smooth that over with mine, I don’t know. But I assure you, my colleagues won’t be so understanding.”

“I don’t mean to be unkind, but you’re hardly in a position to be issuing threats.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a statement of fact.”

“I don’t think you understand. Do you know she had two operatives who were on their way in just as I arrived? Why do you think they were here? What do you think they were going to do to you?”

Suddenly, she was confused. It didn’t make sense. But… who were those men? And they had been heading straight for the flat. She’d seen that.

All at once, she understood why Fatima had said, ‘They’re not here for me.’ Why she’d been shouting in Urdu.

A long, silent moment spun out. “Fatima,” Delilah said. “Is it… true?”

Fatima sagged beneath her. “Not the way he says it.”

Delilah felt like everything around her was spinning. “How did you know?”

“Momtaz,” Kent said. “It was a test. You didn’t pass. A bit too cool for your good, I’m afraid. Too handy with that knife. I see you’ve got it right now, in fact.”

“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?”

God, 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.

She read the lede. The Americans were claiming one of the militants was the number-three man in al Qaeda. She smiled. Had there ever been an organization with more number-three men than AQ?

And then she saw a name. Imran Zaheer. Fatima’s brother.

She sighed and lowered her head. Ordinarily, at a moment like this she would feel exultant. The fruits of her labors, a dead terrorist and innumerable lives saved.

But not this time. This time she felt nothing but emptiness, and horror, and regret.

She turned the paper over. Just below the fold was a headline: Pakistani Activist Found Dead in London.

Delilah’s hand flew to her mouth and tears filled her eyes. Alongside the headline was a photograph of Fatima—one of the ones Delilah had used in her article. The magazine must have sold rights to the newspaper. It was Delilah’s favorite of the bunch, showing Fatima’s face in three-quarters profile, lit up in that characteristic smile that had always carried with it some secret sadness. A sadness that now felt like prophecy.

She read further, fighting rising nausea and vertigo. It had happened in the Covent Garden flat. Raped, then strangled. She fought down the urge to vomit.

How, she thought, shaking her head and silently crying. How could someone do something like this?

She thought of the way Fatima had called them “my people.” My God, had there ever been a more horrible appellation than that?

And then an even more horrifying thought occurred to her. How did she know it had been Fatima’s people? How did she know it wasn’t MI6 and the Director, cleaning up loose ends, but doing so in such a way that for her it would look like something else?

Could her people do something so monstrous, so wholly evil? Could Kent?

She didn’t want to believe it. But she didn’t really know.

A waiter came by to take her order. She wiped her face and waved him off. She took a deep breath, composing herself, then got up and left.

She wandered unsteadily down to Rue de Rivoli. It was warm and sunny. Cars and bicyclists and delivery trucks went by. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians, talking, laughing, enjoying the day.

She walked and thought, her rage growing, incandescing.

She didn’t have to just accept this. There were people who could help her, everything off the books. Kent’s tradecraft wasn’t nearly enough to protect him. And even if it was, one phone call from her and he would come running, fixing himself in time and place.

And then she would find out what really happened. And she would do something about it.

She thought, Don’t become what you hate.

She stopped, suddenly crying again. What could she do to avenge Fatima? If that’s what she really wanted, it was her own life she should take. Had she never gone to London, had she gotten out of this horrible business long ago, as John was continually telling her she should, Fatima would still be alive, unhurt, her sad smile intact and radiant.

She had never so badly needed to talk to John. But she couldn’t. He had left.

She sank to her knees next to a taxi stand and sobbed.

She reminded herself of the attack she had averted, of the lives she had saved. It didn’t help. Those lives were an abstraction, a probability equation, an uncertainty. What was real was Fatima, and that Delilah had killed her.

She would never be able to remedy any of it. There was no rectification, no redemption. Only regret.

She went on crying for a long time. A few people asked if everything was all right. Mostly she was ignored.

Eventually, her tears were exhausted. She straightened and wandered unsteadily through Paris. After many hours, she made her way back to her apartment. She went to bed early. She didn’t sleep at all.

• • •

Delilah went out early the next morning. She had no reason, nowhere special to go, she just needed to get out of her apartment, out of her head.

As she opened the heavy wooden exterior door, she looked out on the street, instinct honed by experience. A lone man, silhouetted by the slanting light of the morning sun, was walking toward her. It took her a moment to place him—she had never seen him in jeans and shirtsleeves. It was Kent.

He was already keying on the entrance to her apartment and noticed her immediately. He waved, keeping both hands in plain view.

She glanced left and right. She didn’t think she was in danger. If anyone was in danger, it was he. But the reflex asserted itself anyway.

She waited in the entrance until he had stopped several feet away. “Hello,” he said. “Apologies for the surprise.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

He offered a small smile. “The truth is, my tradecraft’s not really as bad as all that. When I care about something, anyway.”

“What do you want?”

“To tell you I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Delilah, it wasn’t us.”

“No? Why didn’t you protect her, then?”

“No one was interested. But I did call her myself regardless. I told her I was a friend of yours, and that we both wanted to protect her. She hung up on me.”

“I see.”

“I really am very sorry.”

“Why do you think I care?”

“About Fatima? Or about my being sorry?”

“About either.”

“Well, I think the answer to the first is what I saw at her flat.”

She said nothing, and he quickly added, “How you protected her, I mean.”

Still she said nothing.

“As for the second, I have no particular reason to think you care one way or the other. It’s just that… I’d be troubled to think you might believe I had anything to do with something so vile as what happened to Fatima.”

“You were going to kill her.”

“Yes. I’m afraid that’s part of what I do. Right now, I wish I had. It would have been better than what happened.”

She felt a surge of anger. “Don’t you fucking blame me for protecting her!”

“I don’t. I blame myself. It was my call, not yours. Anyway, I… admire you for what you did. After all, she was trying to set you up.”

“No.”

“But she knew those men were coming—”

“She didn’t know. She should have known. But she was trying not to. She didn’t want to face the implications of what she was involved in. Does that sound at all familiar?”

He didn’t answer.

She rubbed her temples. The sun was too bright. She felt the beginnings of a headache.

“Are you hungry?” he said.

“No.”

“Would you like to get something to eat anyway?”

“Why would I want that?”

“I think you need someone to talk to. Someone who understands.”

She thought of John. “The last time I was involved with someone who understood, it ended very badly.”

“Did it? Would it be selfish if I were to say I’m glad he’s not here?”

“Yes, it would be.”

“All right, I’m selfish then.”

A young mother with two small girls approached and then passed them, the children each holding one of the woman’s hands with one small hand of their own, and sipping what smelled like a chocolat chaud with the other. Delilah found the smell suddenly delicious. Maybe she was hungrier than she’d thought.

“If you had something to do with what happened to her, Kent, and I find out, nothing will protect you.”

“I believe you.”

“And if I believe you now, and I find out later you were lying to me, I will cut your heart out.”

“I realize you don’t mean that metaphorically.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I’m not lying to you, Delilah.”

She looked in his eyes. She believed him. She hoped she wasn’t being naïve. For her sake, and for his.

She sighed. “It’s never going to end, Kent. Never. Not while we perpetuate it.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you do it?”

He raised his arms, then dropped them helplessly to his sides. “I know we’re in a trap. A burning house, with all the doors and windows barred. I recognize it. But I don’t see a way out. All I can see is the possibility, very rarely and improbably, of small moments of… grace.”

“Is that what you’re offering me?”

He looked grave. “Actually, I was hoping you might offer it to me. I told you, I’m selfish that way.”

She gave him a small, reluctant smile. Maybe it would be good to talk. Or at least to not be alone. Maybe this was one of those small moments.

She didn’t really know. But it seemed a shame, not to at least try to find out.

“Buy me a chocolat chaud,” she said.

He nodded. “Let’s make it two.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Lori Kupfer for once again choosing Delilah’s clothes, makeup, and jewelry. Thanks to Naomi Andrews, novelist J.A. Konrath, Lara Perkins, and Laura Rennert for their indispensable feedback on the manuscript. It’s even possible Laura came up with the initial idea for this story, though that’s the kind of thing I always have trouble remembering. ☺

REFERENCES

The Uzi Pro

http://www.israel-weapon.com/?catid=%7B89B2D388-821D-424D-B8AB-CB619D165202%7D

The “Silence” water fountain in front of the Connaught Hotel—a lovely addition to Mayfair, declares your intrepid correspondent

http://www.dezeen.com/2011/07/14/silence-by-tadao-ando-and-blair-associates/

Website of the Stop the War Coalition

http://stopwar.org.uk/

A London protest like the one in the story

http://www.thenews.com.pk/TodaysPrintDetail.aspx?ID=48025&Cat=2&Result=0

Camilla Olson Fashion

http://camillaolson.com

Notes Music & Coffee, London

http://notesmusiccoffee.com

Momtaz Shisha

http://www.momtazshisha.co.uk

The FS Hideaway Knife. If you want yours in undetectable composite, you’ll have to contact Delilah—or the Mossad.

http://www.hideawayknife.com/new.php

The Union Bar & Grill

http://www.theunionbar.co.uk/index.asp

The Fumoir at Claridge’s

http://www.claridges.co.uk/mayfair-bars/the-fumoir/

The Wolseley

http://www.thewolseley.com

Sigur Rós’s Samskeyti

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVqNC8Y9SXQ

SOURCES

How America minimizes civilian deaths from drone strikes—by counting all dead military-age males in a strike zone as terrorists

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/29/world/obamas-leadership-in-war-on-al-qaeda.html

Just one example of the access-in-exchange-for-favorable-coverage arrangement that’s the life’s blood of establishment media: MSNBC’s Brian Williams prostitutes himself to Obama in exchange for an exclusive, exciting visit to the Situation Room

http://www.salon.com/2012/05/03/nbc_news_top_hagiographer/singleton/

And here’s CNN, selling favorable coverage to foreign governments

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/sep/04/cnn-business-state-sponsored-news

How Drones Help al Qaeda, an op-ed to which Fatima’s speech is indebted

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/14/opinion/how-drones-help-al-qaeda.html

Don’t insult him, don’t challenge him, don’t deny it’s happening

http://www.armedcitizensnetwork.org/defending-self-defense-knife-use

Is there anything more disgusting and depraved than deliberately bombing mourners at funerals and rescuers at bombing sites? Only the most loathsome, monstrous terrorist could do such a thing

http://www.thebureauinvestigates.com/2012/02/04/obama-terror-drones-cia-tactics-in-pakistan-include-targeting-rescuers-and-funerals/

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/24/world/asia/24pstan.html?_r=1&ref=global-home

Time columnist Joe Klein’s sociopathic defense of drone killings of children: “the bottom line is: ‘whose 4-year-olds get killed’?”

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/oct/23/klein-drones-morning-joe

Senior Obama Advisor Robert Gibb’s response (at 2:40 in clip) says when America drones a teenager, it’s the father’s fault

http://translationexercises.wordpress.com/2012/10/24/emily-hausers-disgusting-indifference-to-women-of-color/

A half-million dead Iraqi children “worth it”

http://www.democracynow.org/2004/7/30/democracy_now_confronts_madeline_albright_on

How Obama is making the War on Terror permanent

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/oct/24/obama-terrorism-kill-list

See if you can spot the terrorist mentality

http://www.tinyrevolution.com/mt/archives/003652.html

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Barry Eisler spent three years in a covert position with the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, then worked as a technology lawyer and startup executive in Silicon Valley and Japan, earning his black belt at the Kodokan International Judo Center along the way. Eisler’s bestselling thrillers have won the Barry Award and the Gumshoe Award for Best Thriller of the Year, have been included in numerous “Best Of” lists, and have been translated into nearly twenty languages. Eisler lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and, when not writing novels, he blogs about torture, civil liberties, and the rule of law at www.BarryEisler.com.

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