London Twist: A Delilah Novella (4 page)

“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.”