He frowned and said, “I’m sorry you would think so little of me.” He paused to sip his tea, then added with a smile, “I mean, I would never expect you to tell me your reasons.”
The truth was, maybe she should have been grateful. Farid had been a cruel, sick man. Obsessed with her, determined to hurt her. Now he would never be able to do so. Because of Kent.
And yet she couldn’t get past everything killing Farid had set in motion.
“And after all,” he said, after a moment, “the op is done. I suppose we’re colleagues no longer.”
“We were never colleagues, Kent.”
“No? What, then?”
She thought of what was going to happen to Fatima’s brother. “Collaborators. And the collaboration is finished.”
“Exactly my point. If all the dreary professional obligations are done with, perhaps I could take you to dinner. Purely to celebrate your success. Tomorrow night, all right?”
She wondered what sort of pressing business he must have had that evening if he was willing to delay his hoped-for personal conquest. She didn’t get the feeling that deferring gratification was one of Kent’s strengths.
“Under other circumstances, maybe. And even then against my better judgment. But I’m afraid I’m done in London. It’s time for me to go.”
“I understand you have the Notting Hill flat for the rest of the week.”
She was irritated that he had access to such details, but she didn’t show it. “Yes, and as soon as I’m gone you’re welcome to use it for the duration of the lease. I’ll send you the key.”
He made an expression of exaggerated hurt. “Why are you so hard on me? I don’t think you can reasonably blame me for being attracted to you, you know.”
It was actually a fair question, and combined with a nice, direct compliment, too, but she found she didn’t have an answer. Just a sense that Kent, and the Director, and all these men… had put her in a position she wouldn’t soon recover from. If ever. And a foreboding that the weight she already felt from everything she had done was only set to worsen, perhaps more than she could even presently understand. Under the circumstances, his assumption that she might now want some sort of personal relationship with him felt like a calculated insult, though she doubted he really intended it as such, or would even have understood if she tried to explain.
“I’m not trying to be hard on you. I’m trying to be gentle. It would be cruel to fuel your hopes.”
“Try me.”
She finished her tea and stood. “I’m glad the operation was a success, Kent. But I’m quite sure we won’t see each other after this.”
He stood and offered his hand. “You won’t take me seriously, I know, but that really does make me very… sad.”
The sincerity in his expression was as off-balancing as it was appealing. But she didn’t answer. She shook his hand and started to withdraw. But he leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “I hope you’re wrong,” he said. “About seeing me again.”
• • •
Delilah arrived at Fatima’s flat, a walk-up in Covent Garden, at just after dark. She took the usual precautions to ensure she wasn’t being followed, and though she was confident the “after dark” request had been made for discretion’s sake and nothing more, she was extra careful on the final approach. She saw no one out of place. If there were people watching Fatima’s flat, it was from a distance.
Of course, it wasn’t just the exterior she needed to be concerned about. John would have told her the whole thing might have been a setup, that there could be men waiting inside the flat itself, and if so she would be walking right into an ambush. Her mind gave his professional paranoia enough credence to remain alert as she knocked on the door, but her gut told her the caution was excessive. Besides, she would have taken this risk before the op was done; why would it be unacceptable to take it now that the op was finished? If she was concerned about anything, it was that MI6 might have Fatima’s place under surveillance, or even bugged. Kent had told her that at some point they’d black-bagged the flat. So in her purse, along with a bottle of Montée de Tonnere she thought would be perfect for a summer evening, she had brought Boaz’s bug detector. If there was a problem inside, she’d know it.
Fatima answered quickly, opening the door wide and stepping aside so Delilah could walk right in. Delilah glanced quickly left and right and saw no one else in the tiny flat. Fatima immediately bolted the door behind her. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t have many visitors, but when I do, the neighbors have been nosy.”
That,
Delilah thought.
Or you’ve developed the uncomfortable—and correct—sense that you’re under a bit more scrutiny than you might really care to acknowledge.
Fatima was barefoot, in faded jeans and a black cotton turtleneck. Her hair was down and she wore no makeup, not even any foundation over the dark circles. Fatima was presenting herself the way she lived at home, without any of the glamorous trappings or makeup or persona with which she mediated the world. Delilah liked that she would let Delilah see her this way. And she liked that Fatima seemed as jumpy as she felt.
“It’s all right,” Delilah said. She looked around the flat again. It was a corner studio, quite plain, with a single Bokhara rug at the center, a desk and chair, a couch under one window, a small bed and nightstand under the window opposite. There was an iPod plugged into a small stereo system on the desk, Sigur Rós’s
Samskeyti
, a song Delilah loved, issuing from the speakers. The laptop was on the desk, too. Strange, to see the object of so much previous attention, now irrelevant to her. Everything was visible from where she stood, even the bathroom and a single closet, its door open. Nowhere for anyone to hide. And the bug detector lay silent in her purse.
“I like your place,” Delilah said. “It’s cozy.”
Fatima smiled. “You mean small.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Delilah thought,
The hell with it.
She stepped forward and kissed Fatima gently on the lips. “Hey,” she said.
Fatima smiled. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would want to, when I asked.”
“I wanted to.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not so much. I slept all afternoon and ate when I got up.”
“Jet lag. I did the same.”
“But… I brought some wine. If you’d like.”
They drank the wine and talked comfortably enough, about life in Covent Garden, about when Delilah might be able to come back to London, about whether Fatima might come to Paris. Delilah had never felt this confused, not even in the early stages of her relationship with John, when they’d been circling the same target and her pretense of attraction, intended to get John to stand down, had become increasingly real. What was she doing here? She liked this woman, really liked her. Admired her. Empathized with her. And was so improbably attracted to her. But even setting aside everything else, could they have a real relationship? Delilah had never considered such a thing with a woman. And of course, the notion of everything else being set aside was insane. In all likelihood, very soon Fatima would be devastated by news about her brother. What then? Would Delilah comfort her? Use her as an asset? The thought made her feel sick and with a great effort she managed to suppress it.
They talked about Bora Bora. It was delicious to hear Fatima’s take on what had happened, her expectations leading up to it. Yes, she had wondered whether Delilah might make a pass at her. Yes, she had found herself hoping she would, a hope she found equal parts confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying. Talking about it all, remembering the ambiguity, the nervousness, was a huge turn-on. They wound up making love on Fatima’s small bed, more slowly then before, taking their time, exploring each other’s bodies, talking, touching, laughing. Well after midnight, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
At some point, Delilah was awakened. She didn’t know by what—not a sound, exactly; more an absence of sound. The music, she realized. The iPod stereo on the desk—it had been playing the entire time they’d been awake, set to some sort of playlist loop. And now it had stopped.
She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. She couldn’t see it. But she’d been aware of the soft glow from its readout earlier.
She glanced around. There was no other light on in the flat—nothing from the microwave display in the kitchen, nothing from the stereo on the desk.
There was some illumination from the streetlight outside the window. Meaning the electricity was out in the flat, but not in the area generally.
Instantly she was fully awake, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her torso. She glanced at Fatima, naked beside her. The woman was breathing deeply and seemed to be asleep.
She pulled herself up and looked down at the street. No daylight, but what time was it? Sometime after three, she sensed, but her body was still a bit scrambled from travel and she wasn’t sure. There were two men in dark clothes and baseball caps emerging from a parked car. She saw no dome light in the car, even though the door was open.
Her heart began to hammer. Who were they? Fatima’s people, or MI6?
It didn’t matter. Keeping her eyes on the approaching men, she reached for Fatima’s shoulder and shook her. “Fatima,” she whispered. “Wake up.”
Fatima moaned softly, the sound thick with wine and lovemaking and sleep.
“Fatima,” Delilah said again, more sharply this time. “Wake up. Now.”
Fatima moaned again, then said, “What is it?”
She scanned the street, then went back to the two men. “Something’s wrong. There’s trouble.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Another dark figure stepped out from the shadows behind a parked car. The figure fell in behind the two men. From the gait, posture, and pace of the third man, she instantly understood he wasn’t with the first two. No, not with them—he was stalking them. One of first two must have heard the sound of the third man’s approach. He began to turn. The third man raised his arm, a pistol with a long suppressor at the end of it. The pistol jumped, a hint of muzzle flash escaping from the bore of the suppressor. From the flat, she heard no sound. The man collapsed to the street. The other man began to turn, too. The pistol jumped and flashed again. The second man went down. The newcomer took a step closer and put a finishing shot into each man’s head. Then he calmly checked his flanks. Delilah saw his face.
Kent.
Seeing what he’d just done didn’t make her trust him. Quite the opposite. “We have to go,” she said to Fatima. “Right now.”
“What?”
She jumped out of bed and grabbed Fatima’s arm. “Someone’s coming for you. I can’t explain. Come on!”
“I don’t even have clothes—”
She pulled so hard Fatima fell out of bed. “Forget it! Now!”
Fatima pulled her arm free and stared at Delilah from the floor. “What are you talking about?”
There was no time to explain. Fatima wasn’t moving fast enough. She had to think of something.
Only one chance—get to the side of the door. The first thing to come through would be that long suppressor. She dashed to where she’d left her pants and pulled free the Hideaway knife. “Fatima!” she hissed. “Get away from the bed, it’s the first place they’ll key on!”
In the glow of the streetlight, Fatima’s eyes were huge and terrified. “They’re not here for me!” she said, hysteria at the edges of her tone.
Delilah didn’t understand the reaction. Not here for her? Why—
There was a loud pop and the door swung violently inward—a specialized charge to take out the lock.
Too far to attack. Delilah leaped back toward the bed and threw her body over Fatima’s. If Kent had known in advance that both she and Fatima were here, they were dead. But if he hadn’t known, there was a chance. “Don’t shoot her!” she cried out. “If you do, you have to shoot both of us.”
Fatima was struggling to get out from under her, shouting something in Urdu. Delilah looked up and in the dim light saw Kent, wearing night vision goggles as she’d expected. That was the point of taking out the electricity.
There was a moment’s pause. Kent said, “What the hell?”
Fatima froze, suddenly silent. Delilah said, “Just take the laptop and go. Go!”
But he wasn’t here just for the laptop. She knew that. If he’d wanted only the laptop, he would have taken care to arrive when he knew Fatima was out. Or he would have picked the lock, which would have taken time, rather than blowing it for instant entry.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he said. From their nakedness and the lateness of the hour, the question was largely rhetorical, but it was also a huge relief. He hadn’t been expecting Delilah. She had leverage. She had a chance.
“It’s on the desk. Take it and go!”
He eased the door closed behind him. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Put your clothes on and come with me.”
“No. You’ll have to kill both of us.”
“I’m not going to kill you. But I’m afraid she’s a different story.”
Delilah felt Fatima tremble in terror. “No, she’s not. Unless you want to explain to my colleagues how you killed me, too. Maybe your organization’s management could smooth that over with mine, I don’t know. But I assure you, my colleagues won’t be so understanding.”
“I don’t mean to be unkind, but you’re hardly in a position to be issuing threats.”
“It’s not a threat. It’s a statement of fact.”
“I don’t think you understand. Do you know she had two operatives who were on their way in just as I arrived? Why do you think they were here? What do you think they were going to do to you?”
Suddenly, she was confused. It didn’t make sense. But… who were those men? And they had been heading straight for the flat. She’d seen that.
All at once, she understood why Fatima had said, ‘They’re not here for me.’ Why she’d been shouting in Urdu.
A long, silent moment spun out. “Fatima,” Delilah said. “Is it… true?”
Fatima sagged beneath her. “Not the way he says it.”
Delilah felt like everything around her was spinning. “How did you know?”
“Momtaz,” Kent said. “It was a test. You didn’t pass. A bit too cool for your good, I’m afraid. Too handy with that knife. I see you’ve got it right now, in fact.”