London Twist: A Delilah Novella

close to implementing… a kind of Plan B.”
    Her throat and stomach felt suddenly tight. “What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying, if we can’t find some other way into that laptop, a team is going to acquire Fatima and get all the information they need—her password, everything—by other means. Quite unpleasant means, in fact.”
    He was watching her closely. She didn’t know what to show him. Certainly not the distress the thought of Fatima tortured was causing her.
    “Why do we become what we hate, Kent?”
    There was a long pause. “I don’t know.”
    “Do you ever ask?”
    “I try not to.”
    “Maybe that’s not such a healthy habit.”
    “You and I don’t make the decisions, Delilah—”
    “No, we only follow orders. Does that sound familiar to you?”
    “Look, I don’t want to see that Plan B implemented anymore than you do. Just get the password, all right? And we won’t have to even worry about it.”
    She wondered for an instant whether he was worried that Bora Bora was just a boondoggle, or that she’d developed too much of an attachment to Fatima, and had concocted his Plan B as a way to motivate her. If so, he’d certainly succeeded.
    “Get me the app,” she said. “And I’ll get you her password.”
    • • •
    She didn’t know what strings Kent had pulled, but in the end it took him only one day to set things up. He left her a thumb drive at one of the dead-drops—the main Waterstones bookstore, at Piccadilly. A little old-fashioned compared to an Internet secure site, but on the other hand the space behind the spine-out volumes in a bookstore’s mystery section left no electronic trail for anyone to follow.
    She took the thumb drive back to her flat and decrypted it. She was pleased: she and Fatima were going to Bora Bora, and, even better, would be staying at the island’s Four Seasons resort. The shoot was for a new travel magazine. Delilah had heard of it but had never worked with them before. The audio key logger app was also included on the thumb drive, along with instructions. She downloaded the app to her phone and tested it with her laptop, typing
London Bridge is Falling Down, 123456789
. The program deciphered the keystrokes perfectly, even the capital letters. But would it perform in the field? She was going to find out.
    She called Fatima and gave her the good news. Could she leave in two days? Yes? Wonderful! And perfect timing—it would give Delilah time to assemble their discussions and photographs into the article she was, after all, sent to London to write.
    It took her a day to get down the relevant parts of what she recollected. She arranged it all into an obviously sympathetic piece about Fatima’s commitment to justice, nonviolence, and the principles of Martin Luther King, Jr. She included a half-dozen shots of Fatima looking alternatively glamorous and serious—addressing the rally; at work in Notes; surrounded by other Muslim expats at Momtaz. She uploaded it, smiling as she watched it go. The whole thing was likely to make MI6, Kent, and the Director and his cronies apoplectic. She could imagine the reactions: “Sympathizing with a terrorist!” “Propagandizing for the enemy!” “Whose side is she on, anyway?”
    She didn’t care. She’d heard it all before, had endured the accusations, the suspicion, the innuendo. They could all kiss her ass. If they wanted her results, they’d have to put up with her methods.
Don’t like it, boys?
she thought.
Do me a favor, then, and fire me. But you won’t. You need me too much. And you know it.
    They left the next day, a nonstop to Los Angeles, where they changed planes for Papeete on Tahiti, then a short flight to Bora Bora. Delilah hadn’t been kidding about all the frequent flyer mileage, and she used it to get both of them upgraded to business class. Fatima slept much of the way to Los Angeles, which Delilah found encouraging. Yes, there was something keeping this woman awake at night in London, and her gut told her it had been smart to take her away from it. Change created movement. Movement created opportunities.
    They were greeted at Bora Bora’s tiny airport by a pretty young Four Seasons representative, who hung garlands of flowers around their necks and escorted them to a boat for the final leg of the journey. They slipped on sunglasses as a porter carried their bags onboard, Fatima shaking her head wordlessly in evident delight. They stood on the bow to take in the sights and a