London Twist: A Delilah Novella (6 page)

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.