London Twist: A Delilah Novella (10 page)

“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?”