London Twist: A Delilah Novella

are.”
    “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just sometimes the lads at the office get so carried away with the secret handshakes and all that. Really, it’s too much. I knew the moment you walked in you were my girl.”
    The acoustics, she noted, were ideal for a discreet conversation. The music was just loud enough, and pervasive enough, to mask conversation from nearby tables, but not so loud you needed to shout over it.
    “Did you?” she said, for the moment choosing to overlook the condescending “my girl.”
    “Yes, of course. I was told I’d be meeting a stunning blonde. Not to say you’re the only one in London, of course, but what are the chances of such a creature showing up unaccompanied right here in the appointed place, an hour ahead of schedule like a good professional, with a casually watchful demeanor, as well? You checked the corners of the room first, the bar after. If you were just some socialite, you would have done things in reverse.”
    Like most men, he seemed to be a talker. That suited her. You didn’t learn when you were talking, only when you were listening.
    “Is that what I look like? A socialite?”
    “Well, you’re certainly gorgeous enough, if you don’t mind my saying.”
    She neither minded nor welcomed it. “What’s that you’re drinking?”
    “Gordon’s martini, vermouth wash, olive garnish. Would you like one?”
    She didn’t like to be steered and almost reflexively said no. But he seemed the kind of man who enjoyed sparring, and in fact she had the sense he was actively looking for buttons to push. So instead she said, “Shaken, not stirred?”
    He chuckled again. “Of course. Where would we British be without our traditions?” He signaled one of the waiters, then pointed to his drink. “Another of these, Henry—thanks.”
    “Henry?”
    “Yes, and at the bar we have Joseph and Giuseppe. Giuseppe isn’t quite a local, as you might have guessed from the name, but his bartending skills are unsurpassed.”
    She was appalled. “You’re known here.”
    “Good God, yes. It’s practically my second home when I’m in London. It’s all right. They all think I’m a financier. Hide in plain sight and all that.”
    She looked around. The clientele did indeed seem to be about half bankers in suits, half hipsters in skinny jeans. Still, there would have been no downside to meeting someplace where neither of them was known. She didn’t like his dilettante’s approach. Probably the worst an MI6 operative faced for a mistake was a declaration of persona non grata and expulsion from a host country. If Delilah screwed up, she’d almost certainly be killed, most likely after being raped and tortured. He could afford to treat all this as a game. She couldn’t.
    “Why didn’t we just meet at your flat?” she said.
    He blinked and laughed, but for once, the laugh wasn’t self-assured. “That would be a bit forward, wouldn’t you say?”
    “I’d say it would be stupid. As stupid as meeting anywhere you’re known and will be remembered.”
    He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She knew exactly what he was thinking, what they were all always thinking:
What a bitch.
    She didn’t care. She didn’t want his friendship. She didn’t even want his respect. What she wanted was compliance.
    “I need to know you’re reliable,” she said. “So far, I’m not impressed.”
    He cocked his head and smiled, but the smile looked strained. “Really? And what if I’m not?”
    “Then I’ll tell my people I can’t be part of this op because our counterparts sent an amateur. They’ll tell your people. I don’t know what happens after that, but on the other hand, I don’t really care. Though I have a feeling your superiors already have their concerns about your attitude and your tradecraft, and, if I’m right, they won’t be pleased at all about this latest development.”
    He watched her, his lips pursed and his eyes cold. The bonhomie suddenly gone, he looked quietly dangerous. Good.
    “You don’t know the first thing about my attitude. Or about my superiors. Or about me.”
    “I only know what I can see. Show me something better.”
    The waiter arrived with her martini. He deftly placed a leather coaster on the table, set the drink precisely in the coaster’s center, nodded formally, and moved off.
    Delilah lifted the drink, thinking,
Your move.
    A long moment went by. He said, “All right. What do I call you?”
    “Bertha.”
    His eyes widened