London Twist: A Delilah Novella (2 page)

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.”