London Twist: A Delilah Novella (15 page)
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 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
T
hanks 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
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
Notes Music & Coffee, London
Momtaz Shisha
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
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.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
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
B
arry 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
.
