London Twist: A Delilah Novella

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