London Twist: A Delilah Novella

when they got out.”
    It was a familiar story, and Delilah hated it. It made her own work seem so pointless. No, not just pointless. Pernicious. Part of some huge, insensate machine capable of nothing but fighting fire with fire, and causing a conflagration in the process.
    “You say Fatima was radicalized, too. In what way?”
    “We believe she’s a recruiter. As you know, London has a substantial Muslim population. Fatima’s a poet—getting quite renowned, in fact. Written up in the
London Review of Books
, and
The New Yorker
set to publish one of her pieces. She’s also become something of a freelance journalist, a chronicler of the Muslim diaspora for various leftie publications like
The Guardian
. In addition to all that, what happened to her family has conferred upon her a kind of… status in the community. We believe she’s putting local radicals in touch with her brother, who provides training. These radicals then return to Britain and perhaps elsewhere, where they reside as sleeper cells.”
    “I was told you’ve tried offering her two insiders as potential recruits.”
    “Yes, without success. She has a keen nose for deception. We were hoping a different approach might produce better results. Instead of a potential recruit, a possible friend. Instead of a local Muslim, a foreigner. Instead of a man, a woman.”
    It all sounded a bit desperate to Delilah, but no more so, she supposed, than other ops she’d worked on, many of which had borne fruit.
    “How do I approach her?”
    “I understand you’re a photographer.”
    Delilah was instantly on guard. “How is that relevant?”
    “Did your people not tell you?”
    “Tell me what?”
    “Your cover is that you’re here on assignment. You’re going to photograph Fatima. Is that… a problem?”
    It wasn’t a problem, exactly, but she didn’t like it either. She really was a photographer, and really did freelance for various magazines, mostly covering fashion—after all, a deep cover legend had to be real if it was going to be worth anything. But it was one thing to have that legend as background for a man she met and was exploiting some other way. It was another to use it as the actual basis for a relationship with a target. They were really exposing her on this op. It was their right, she supposed, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Or that she couldn’t question it.
    “You say she has keen instincts. Don’t you think she’ll check out my story? How thoroughly am I backstopped?”
    “As I understand it, you’re not just backstopped—the assignment is real. Apparently, the editor who’s hired you is some sort of CIA asset.” He moved the copy of
Granta
aside—discreetly, she was pleased to see—revealing a thumb drive beneath it. “I’m told you’ll find all the details in here.”
    He seemed to be talking out of school. She didn’t respect it, but she couldn’t help being curious. “A CIA asset?” she said, pocketing the drive.
    “Yes, it’s all fairly aboveboard, or nearly so, anyway, if you look at it just right. When the government or some corporate interest needs coverage of a certain topic or location, they pitch the idea to various media contacts, offering to bankroll the story if the editor agrees to it. No pressure, of course. But the financial backing reduces to zero the risk of running a story, so unless the topic is a complete nonstarter, the editor always bites. Not so remarkable, really—just another version of the usual access-in-exchange-for-favorable-coverage arrangement we all depend on from the establishment media.”
    “Still, an exchange of favors is one thing. A cash payment is another.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. There are all kinds of prostitution, after all. Not all of them involve cash, strictly speaking.”
    Delilah wondered how much he knew of her role with Mossad, and whether his reference to prostitution was deliberate.
    “Anyway,” he went on, “I’m sure most of the editors in question believe that in exchanging these favors and taking these payments they’re not even compromising their journalistic integrity and independence. And who knows? Maybe they’re not. In the end, we’re all doing God’s work.”
    She couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or facetious. Or if he even knew the difference. “How do I make contact?”
    “That should be easy enough. The U.S. defense secretary is in town tomorrow for a meeting with the prime minister. There’s going to be a