London Twist: A Delilah Novella (8 page)

And then Delilah was laughing, too—really laughing, not just playing a role. They remained like that for a few moments, doubled over, leaning against each other, wiping tears from their eyes.

“Seriously, girl,” Fatima said, wiping her eyes, “I can’t believe the balls on you. You’re my new hero.”

Delilah was aware of a changed dynamic. It made sense. They had just shared danger, and now the catharsis of laughter once the danger had passed. And she was intrigued, and pleased, at the changes she’d detected in Fatima’s speech patterns. This was the first time the woman had permitted herself to use vulgarities, for one thing. And calling Delilah “girl” was new, too. Those two assholes outside Momtaz might have been a blessing in disguise.

“Me?” she said. “What about you? ‘Whores don’t look for cock, they look for money. Although I doubt the two of you could help with either’? That was brilliant!”

And then they were cracking up again. When the second bout had subsided, Fatima said, “Oh man, I’m completely wired. I’m never going to sleep tonight.”

“I know. Me, too.”

“Do you want to get a drink?”

“Want one? Hell, I need one.”

They laughed again. Fatima led the way to a nearby place called The Union Bar & Grill. It was a nice enough spot—a lot of wood, leather couches, windows overlooking the Grand Union Canal, the smell of coffee and pub food—but the main thing for Delilah was the alcohol. She wanted to see how much further Fatima might drop her guard, how much additional rapport she might build on top of what the incident outside of Momtaz had fortuitously initiated.

The place was crowded, but they prevailed upon a few women to move to the end of one of the couches, and were then able to squeeze in alongside each other easily enough. Delilah was glad they were sharing the couch with women. If it had been men, they never would have been left alone.

“You feel like some wine?” Delilah asked. She had nothing against cocktails, but with a cocktail it was too easy to stop after one glass. A bottle was different—it was there, it was paid for, it was a shame to waste it. And given Fatima’s current giddiness, Delilah was curious indeed to see what elements of her personality might reveal themselves after several glasses.

“Perfect. Do you want to recommend something?”

“Ah, you’re putting me on the spot because I’m French?”

Fatima laughed. “Do you get that a lot?”

“Sometimes. But I don’t mind. I love wine.”

She was thinking about a Beaujolais Cru, but was surprised to see on the menu a 2007 Emilio’s Terrace from Schlein Vineyard in Napa Valley, California. That was a rare find. She ordered them a bottle.

“Why do you carry a knife?” Fatima asked, when the waitress had departed.

“I was attacked once, in Paris.”

“I’m so sorry. Were you… hurt?”

A politely oblique way of asking and Delilah appreciated it. As usual in such matters, she wasn’t lying. She was simply rearranging the truth.

“No. I was lucky. But I decided I didn’t want to have to be lucky again. So when I go out, especially at night, I make sure to carry my little friend.”

“Can I see it?”

Delilah looked around. A few men were watching them, and Delilah made sure to avoid eye contact, lest someone mistake it as an invitation.

She eased the Hideaway out and concealed it in her palm. She wasn’t worried that Fatima would notice the unusual material. Composite knives could be had commercially, though not of this quality.

“Behind the menu,” she said. “Too many of these men are looking at you and I don’t think it’s okay to carry a knife in London.”

“At me? I think they’re looking at both of us.”

“Well, that’s probably true.”

She gripped the blade and extended it grip-side forward to Fatima. “Here, let’s see if it fits. Over your index and middle fingers. Careful, it’s very sharp. Oh yes, I think it fits quite nicely.”

Fatima made a fist, turned it toward her face, and observed it for a moment. “Wow.”

“You see? Small, but concealable, accessible, and very hard to take away. Those assholes got lucky tonight, no? That those other two men came to save them.”

Fatima laughed and gave her back the knife. She extended it edge-first, something someone experienced with blades wouldn’t do.

The waitress brought the wine. Delilah eschewed her offer to pour. She wanted just a little at first. The rest should have a chance to breathe.

“Who do you think they were, though?” she asked as she filled each glass with a small measure. “One guy with a knife, one guy with a baton… undercover cops? But then why would they have said, ‘Police no good’?”

She was deliberately playing it clueless. There was no way those men were cops. A cop might carry a baton, but he wouldn’t attack without warning like that. And she’d yet to see a cop pull a knife and hold it to someone’s throat to gain compliance. Or chase an assailant away after without bothering to arrest him.

“I don’t know who they were,” Fatima said, picking up her glass. “But I’m glad they showed up.”

For the second time, Delilah had the sense that Fatima was being untruthful about those men. She needed to think more, to process things. But that would have to wait.

They touched glasses and drank. “Wow,” Fatima said. “You’ve upheld your national honor. Even if you didn’t order something French.”

Delilah laughed. “You like it?”

“It’s delicious.”

“Yes, the 2007 harvest was a winemaker’s dream. A warm, dry spring; no heat waves during the summer months; the fruit maturing slowly and evenly. Any honest French vintner must salute this wine.”

Fatima, still obviously giddy from the aftermath of danger, finished her glass quickly. Delilah followed suit, then poured them each another. The wine was wonderfully warm in her belly, and she felt a slight, welcome fuzziness at the edges of her perception.

They settled back into the couch side by side. The sounds of laughter and conversation around them were comforting and convivial, a cocoon of warm sound that made their end of the couch feel personal, private, a refuge from the world.

“May I ask a question?” Delilah said as they sipped the wine. “Not for the interview. Just as a friend.”

Fatima looked at her, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Of course.”

“When you said before, ‘This is the choice they impose on us,’ how did you mean it?”

Fatima took a swallow of wine. “I meant… when someone hurts you. Really hurts you, irreparably hurts you. You have to fight back, or you’ll die inside.”

“Fight back… you mean, hurt them back?”

“Sometimes it means that. Like those men tonight. Do you wish you could hurt them now?”

“No. That one guy who got hit with the baton, he might be past hurting, I don’t know.”

“Yes. And why don’t you want to hurt them? They certainly wanted to hurt us.”

“But they didn’t.”

“Again, yes. And that man—I’m assuming it was a man—who attacked you in Paris. Do you wish you could hurt him?”

“No.”

“Because, as you say, you got lucky. He didn’t hurt you. But what if he had? What if he had raped you? What if he had raped your own sister, your own brother? Would you want to hurt him then?”

“I’d want to kill him.”

“And what if
he
blamed
you
for the rape? Told you it was your fault, you provoked him, you were asking for it?”

“That would be even worse.”

“Well, now you can imagine what it’s like for families like mine. You’d think there could be nothing worse than America murdering your brothers, your sisters, your children with drones. But there actually is. It’s when afterward, as you gather to mourn your murdered child, America sends
another
drone to bomb the funeral. It’s when a White House advisor tells you your child was murdered because you weren’t a good parent. It’s when some overprivileged
Time Magazine
columnist tells you your child had to be murdered so his could live. It’s when America’s Ambassador to the United Nations tells you a half-million dead Iraqi children was ‘worth it.’”

Delilah nodded. “Yes. That would be even worse.”

“You say you’d want to kill him. And if you had the opportunity?”

“I don’t know. But… what about ‘hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that’? The things you were saying in your address to the American defense secretary?”

“I think it’s a beautiful aspiration. But sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes I think the need for revenge must be there for a reason. It’s so natural, so universal, so deeply ingrained. So maybe at some point, fighting it might be unwise? I mean, going against something that fundamental to our nature is like teaching yourself to walk on your hands instead of your feet. Yes, it’s possible, you can do it for short distances, but does it make sense? It’s not the way we’re built.”

Delilah sensed that whatever pressurized contents kept this woman tossing and turning at night were now swirling alluringly near the surface. The trick now was to elicit, without ever seeming to press.

“I understand what you mean. But isn’t our reason, the quality of mercy, also deeply part of what it means to be human? You know, the better angels of our nature.”

“But the real trick is knowing what aspects of our nature the situation calls for, isn’t it? You quoted Shakespeare—well, here’s another quote, from Henry the Fifth. ‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man/As modest stillness and humility/But when the blast of war blows in our ears—’”

Delilah continued the line. “‘Then imitate the action of the tiger/Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood—’”

Fatima nodded, her expression grave. “‘Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage.’” She drained her glass, closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply. Then she looked at Delilah. “I’m glad you like Shakespeare. And I’m sorry I’m being so heavy.”

It was disappointing to have Fatima close off what felt like a promising line of discussion, but Delilah knew to push no further. At least, not directly.

“No, not at all. I asked. And besides, I like you when you’re heavy. Well, not heavy, necessarily, but when you’re honest. Wherever that leads you.”

Fatima offered the sad smile. “You really won’t print any of this?”

“I told you, I support your work. I only want to write an article that helps you. You can trust me. All right?”

Fatima smiled and squeezed Delilah’s hand. “Thank you. I’m glad I met you. You know, I was a little intimidated when you first approached me at the rally.”

Delilah was keenly aware of the warmth of Fatima’s touch. “Intimidated? Why?”

“Because you’re so beautiful. And confident.”

“This is quite a compliment, coming from you. Do you know, it was the same for me?”

Fatima laughed. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying. I think you’re being too modest. We’ll take care of that with another glass of wine.”

She refreshed their glasses, then settled back next to Fatima. “Anyway, it’s true. You’re beautiful, and accomplished, and magnetic in front of a crowd. How could I not be intimidated?”

Fatima smiled. “You’re really too nice. And I’m sorry if I seem paranoid about what you print. I just have… a lot of people watching, do you know what I mean?”

Delilah was intrigued. “Not exactly. You mean, because you’re a public figure?”

Fatima nodded, perhaps a shade too eagerly, as though Delilah had provided a ready explanation for the comment and Fatima was grateful for it. “Yes… that. It can be… a lot of pressure. I swear, there are times I want to escape my own life.”

Delilah thought again of the way Rain had taken her to Phuket. She had already been warming to the idea of trying something similar with Fatima… and now the woman had created a perfect opening. It seemed worth a try at least. How else would she ever spend enough concentrated time with her to get close to the laptop, or otherwise observe what MI6 was hoping to see?

She hoped it wasn’t the wine talking, that the plan taking shape in her mind made sense. She thought it did. The trick would be to make it stick with management once she’d presented it to them. Well, there was nothing like a fait accompli to get things done.

“I have a… crazy idea,” she said. “I mean, it’s a good idea, I think, but crazy because it’s on short acquaintance.”

Fatima took a sip of wine. “Yes?”

“One of the magazines I freelance for. They have an assignment coming up. They want someone to go to French Polynesia. A puff piece on paradise. All expenses paid. A lot of people are volunteering for the gig, as you can imagine. But I think I can get it if I call in the right favors. So, my crazy idea… would you want to go?”

Fatima looked at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, very. I’d have to shoot this and that for a few hours a day, but other than it’s all downtime. Good food, good beaches, lots of sunshine. It would be fun to have a friend to share it with.”

“I would love to. But I don’t know if I could get away.”

Delilah didn’t know whether the woman was politely trying to excuse herself, or if there really was something in London that might be preventing her from leaving. If the latter, she wondered what it might be. She decided to press a bit further.

“But you’re a writer, yes? Bring your laptop and write on the beach.”

Fatima nodded her head and looked away as though imagining. “I guess I could do that.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mean to push. And I don’t even know for sure that I can get the gig. But if I can, all you’d need to pay for is airfare. And in fact, if that’s a problem, I have so many frequent flyer miles you’d be doing me a favor helping me use some.”

“No, the airfare isn’t a problem, especially with everything else taken care of. I just… I haven’t been out of London in a while. Which isn’t good, actually. Sometimes I think I’m needed here less than I really am. And even if I am needed, they’ll just have to miss me. Or find me online. How long are we talking about, anyway? A few days? A week?”

Again, that… discomfort, with her circumstances in London. And needed by whom? So many hints, threads, possibilities to examine. But later.

“Just a few days, probably, but I’ll try to stretch it out. It’s a long trip from London, maybe twenty-four hours, door to door, so I think we should stay as long as possible, no?”