London Twist: A Delilah Novella

Fatima’s people? How did she know it wasn’t MI6 and the Director, cleaning up loose ends, but doing so in such a way that for her it would look like something else?
    Could her people do something so monstrous, so wholly evil? Could Kent?
    She didn’t want to believe it. But she didn’t really know.
    A waiter came by to take her order. She wiped her face and waved him off. She took a deep breath, composing herself, then got up and left.
    She wandered unsteadily down to Rue de Rivoli. It was warm and sunny. Cars and bicyclists and delivery trucks went by. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians, talking, laughing, enjoying the day.
    She walked and thought, her rage growing, incandescing.
    She didn’t have to just accept this. There were people who could help her, everything off the books. Kent’s tradecraft wasn’t nearly enough to protect him. And even if it was, one phone call from her and he would come running, fixing himself in time and place.
    And then she would find out what really happened. And she would do something about it.
    She thought,
Don’t become what you hate.
    She stopped, suddenly crying again. What could she do to avenge Fatima? If that’s what she really wanted, it was her own life she should take. Had she never gone to London, had she gotten out of this horrible business long ago, as John was continually telling her she should, Fatima would still be alive, unhurt, her sad smile intact and radiant.
    She had never so badly needed to talk to John. But she couldn’t. He had left.
    She sank to her knees next to a taxi stand and sobbed.
    She reminded herself of the attack she had averted, of the lives she had saved. It didn’t help. Those lives were an abstraction, a probability equation, an uncertainty. What was real was Fatima, and that Delilah had killed her.
    She would never be able to remedy any of it. There was no rectification, no redemption. Only regret.
    She went on crying for a long time. A few people asked if everything was all right. Mostly she was ignored.
    Eventually, her tears were exhausted. She straightened and wandered unsteadily through Paris. After many hours, she made her way back to her apartment. She went to bed early. She didn’t sleep at all.
    • • •
    Delilah went out early the next morning. She had no reason, nowhere special to go, she just needed to get out of her apartment, out of her head.
    As she opened the heavy wooden exterior door, she looked out on the street, instinct honed by experience. A lone man, silhouetted by the slanting light of the morning sun, was walking toward her. It took her a moment to place him—she had never seen him in jeans and shirtsleeves. It was Kent.
    He was already keying on the entrance to her apartment and noticed her immediately. He waved, keeping both hands in plain view.
    She glanced left and right. She didn’t think she was in danger. If anyone was in danger, it was he. But the reflex asserted itself anyway.
    She waited in the entrance until he had stopped several feet away. “Hello,” he said. “Apologies for the surprise.”
    “How did you know where to find me?”
    He offered a small smile. “The truth is, my tradecraft’s not really as bad as all that. When I care about something, anyway.”
    “What do you want?”
    “To tell you I’m sorry.”
    “For what?”
    “Delilah, it wasn’t us.”
    “No? Why didn’t you protect her, then?”
    “No one was interested. But I did call her myself regardless. I told her I was a friend of yours, and that we both wanted to protect her. She hung up on me.”
    “I see.”
    “I really am very sorry.”
    “Why do you think I care?”
    “About Fatima? Or about my being sorry?”
    “About either.”
    “Well, I think the answer to the first is what I saw at her flat.”
    She said nothing, and he quickly added, “How you protected her, I mean.”
    Still she said nothing.
    “As for the second, I have no particular reason to think you care one way or the other. It’s just that… I’d be troubled to think you might believe I had anything to do with something so vile as what happened to Fatima.”
    “You were going to kill her.”
    “Yes. I’m afraid that’s part of what I do. Right now, I wish I had. It would have been better than what happened.”
    She felt a surge of anger. “Don’t you fucking blame me for protecting her!”
    “I don’t. I blame myself. It was my call, not yours. Anyway, I… admire you for what you did. After all, she was trying to set