London Twist: A Delilah Novella

that means anything to you.”
    “It might be a bit awkward, given the story I told about no one being in the flat when I went in.”
    “Don’t be a selfish asshole,” she said, surprised by her own anger. “That was your screw-up. Don’t make someone else pay for it.”
    There was a pause. He said, “Was there really a camera there?”
    “How the hell should I know?”
    He laughed. “I knew it. Well, almost knew. And almost doesn’t count, does it?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “You really came to… care about her, didn’t you?”
    “Your powers of perception will never cease to astound me, Kent.”
    She thought he would have some riposte for that, some knowing comment about what he’d seen at Fatima’s flat. Instead, he said, “You know, I was afraid something like that might happen between us. And by afraid, I mean hoping. I still am, if you really want to know.”
    “Just help her, Kent, all right? She’s useful to you now. Useful alive.”
    “I understand that. Or at least I’ll try to make it so, all right?”
    “Thank you.”
    “And… what about us?”
    G
od,
she thought,
doesn’t he ever get tired?
    “‘Us’?”
    “Am I going to see you again?”
    “I don’t know, Kent. I really have a lot to think about right now.”
    “I understand that. I’m sorry this one turned out to have… a strong aftertaste. That happens sometimes. I’m just commiserating, not talking down to you, all right?”
    She smiled. It was funny the way he was getting to know her.
    “Yes. Thank you for that.”
    “Call me if you like. I really would enjoy seeing you again. There are a lot of other good bars in London, you know. Hotels, too.”
    “I don’t think I ever want to come to London again.”
    “Well, I may know a place or two in Paris, as well. It would be a pleasure.”
    “Goodbye, Kent. I have to go.” She clicked off.
    In Rouen, it was just her handler. No Director and his cronies again. Not enough of a red-light district in Rouen, she supposed. But they all sent their warm regards and their effusive gratitude for her latest stunning success.
    She returned to Paris feeling listless, aimless. She wanted to call Fatima. Or Kent, just to know what was happening. But she didn’t.
    Three days after she’d returned, she picked up a local paper and went for coffee and a croissant at Le Loir dans la Théière, not far from her Marais apartment, a charming little place she had enjoyed many times with John. Now it felt haunted by his memory. She didn’t know whether she went there in spite of that, or because of it.
    She was in luck—a window seat was open. She sat and opened the paper. On the front page was a story about an American drone strike in Pakistan. Seven militants killed. She thought of what Kent had said about the Americans’ kill metrics, and wondered how many of the dead had been civilians. Maybe all of them. No way to know. And she doubted anyone much cared, beyond the bereaved families.
    She read the lede. The Americans were claiming one of the militants was the number-three man in al Qaeda. She smiled. Had there ever been an organization with more number-three men than AQ?
    And then she saw a name. Imran Zaheer. Fatima’s brother.
    She sighed and lowered her head. Ordinarily, at a moment like this she would feel exultant. The fruits of her labors, a dead terrorist and innumerable lives saved.
    But not this time. This time she felt nothing but emptiness, and horror, and regret.
    She turned the paper over. Just below the fold was a headline:
Pakistani Activist Found Dead in London.
    Delilah’s hand flew to her mouth and tears filled her eyes. Alongside the headline was a photograph of Fatima—one of the ones Delilah had used in her article. The magazine must have sold rights to the newspaper. It was Delilah’s favorite of the bunch, showing Fatima’s face in three-quarters profile, lit up in that characteristic smile that had always carried with it some secret sadness. A sadness that now felt like prophecy.
    She read further, fighting rising nausea and vertigo. It had happened in the Covent Garden flat. Raped, then strangled. She fought down the urge to vomit.
    How,
she thought, shaking her head and silently crying.
How could someone do something like this?
    She thought of the way Fatima had called them “my people.” My God, had there ever been a more horrible appellation than that?
    And then an even more horrifying thought occurred to her. How did she know it had been