Fatima looked at her, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Of course.”
“When you said before, ‘This is the choice they impose on us,’ how did you mean it?”
Fatima took a swallow of wine. “I meant… when someone hurts you. Really hurts you, irreparably hurts you. You have to fight back, or you’ll die inside.”
“Fight back… you mean, hurt them back?”
“Sometimes it means that. Like those men tonight. Do you wish you could hurt them now?”
“No. That one guy who got hit with the baton, he might be past hurting, I don’t know.”
“Yes. And why don’t you want to hurt them? They certainly wanted to hurt us.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Again, yes. And that man — I’m assuming it was a man — who attacked you in Paris. Do you wish you could hurt him?”
“No.”
“Because, as you say, you got lucky. He didn’t hurt you. But what if he had? What if he had raped you? What if he had raped your own sister, your own brother? Would you want to hurt him then?”
“I’d want to kill him.”
“And what if he blamed you for the rape? Told you it was your fault, you provoked him, you were asking for it?”
“That would be even worse.”
“Well, now you can imagine what it’s like for families like mine. You’d think there could be nothing worse than America murdering your brothers, your sisters, your children with drones. But there actually is. It’s when afterward, as you gather to mourn your murdered child, America sends another drone to bomb the funeral. It’s when a White House advisor tells you your child was murdered because you weren’t a good parent. It’s when some overprivileged Time Magazine columnist tells you your child had to be murdered so his could live. It’s when America’s Ambassador to the United Nations tells you a half-million dead Iraqi children was ‘worth it.’”
Delilah nodded. “Yes. That would be even worse.”
“You say you’d want to kill him. And if you had the opportunity?”
“I don’t know. But… what about ‘hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that’? The things you were saying in your address to the American defense secretary?”
“I think it’s a beautiful aspiration. But sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes I think the need for revenge must be there for a reason. It’s so natural, so universal, so deeply ingrained. So maybe at some point, fighting it might be unwise? I mean, going against something that fundamental to our nature is like teaching yourself to walk on your hands instead of your feet. Yes, it’s possible, you can do it for short distances, but does it make sense? It’s not the way we’re built.”
Delilah sensed that whatever pressurized contents kept this woman tossing and turning at night were now swirling alluringly near the surface. The trick now was to elicit, without ever seeming to press.
“I understand what you mean. But isn’t our reason, the quality of mercy, also deeply part of what it means to be human? You know, the better angels of our nature.”
“But the real trick is knowing what aspects of our nature the situation calls for, isn’t it? You quoted Shakespeare — well, here’s another quote, from Henry the Fifth. ‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man/As modest stillness and humility/But when the blast of war blows in our ears—’”
Delilah continued the line. “‘Then imitate the action of the tiger/Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood—’”
Fatima nodded, her expression grave. “‘Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage.’” She drained her glass, closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply. Then she looked at Delilah. “I’m glad you like Shakespeare. And I’m sorry I’m being so heavy.”
It was disappointing to have Fatima close off what felt like a promising line of discussion, but Delilah knew to push no further. At least, not directly.
“No, not at all. I asked. And besides, I like you when you’re heavy. Well, not heavy, necessarily, but when you’re honest. Wherever that leads you.”
Fatima offered the sad smile. “You really won’t print any of this?”
“I told you, I support your work. I only want to write an article that helps you. You can trust me. All right?”
Fatima smiled and squeezed Delilah’s hand. “Thank you. I’m glad I met you. You know, I was a little intimidated when you first approached me at the rally.”
Delilah was keenly aware of the warmth of Fatima’s touch. “Intimidated? Why?”
“Because you’re so beautiful. And confident.”
“This is quite a compliment, coming from you. Do you know, it was the same for me?”
Fatima laughed. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying. I think you’re being too modest. We’ll take care of that with another glass of wine.”
She refreshed their glasses, then settled back next to Fatima. “Anyway, it’s true. You’re beautiful, and accomplished, and magnetic in front of a crowd. How could I not be intimidated?”
Fatima smiled. “You’re really too nice. And I’m sorry if I seem paranoid about what you print. I just have… a lot of people watching, do you know what I mean?”
Delilah was intrigued. “Not exactly. You mean, because you’re a public figure?”
Fatima nodded, perhaps a shade too eagerly, as though Delilah had provided a ready explanation for the comment and Fatima was grateful for it. “Yes… that. It can be… a lot of pressure. I swear, there are times I want to escape my own life.”
Delilah thought again of the way Rain had taken her to Phuket. She had already been warming to the idea of trying something similar with Fatima… and now the woman had created a perfect opening. It seemed worth a try at least. How else would she ever spend enough concentrated time with her to get close to the laptop, or otherwise observe what MI6 was hoping to see?
She hoped it wasn’t the wine talking, that the plan taking shape in her mind made sense. She thought it did. The trick would be to make it stick with management once she’d presented it to them. Well, there was nothing like a fait accompli to get things done.
“I have a… crazy idea,” she said. “I mean, it’s a good idea, I think, but crazy because it’s on short acquaintance.”
Fatima took a sip of wine. “Yes?”
“One of the magazines I freelance for. They have an assignment coming up. They want someone to go to French Polynesia. A puff piece on paradise. All expenses paid. A lot of people are volunteering for the gig, as you can imagine. But I think I can get it if I call in the right favors. So, my crazy idea… would you want to go?”
Fatima looked at her. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, very. I’d have to shoot this and that for a few hours a day, but other than it’s all downtime. Good food, good beaches, lots of sunshine. It would be fun to have a friend to share it with.”
“I would love to. But I don’t know if I could get away.”
Delilah didn’t know whether the woman was politely trying to excuse herself, or if there really was something in London that might be preventing her from leaving. If the latter, she wondered what it might be. She decided to press a bit further.
“But you’re a writer, yes? Bring your laptop and write on the beach.”
Fatima nodded her head and looked away as though imagining. “I guess I could do that.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mean to push. And I don’t even know for sure that I can get the gig. But if I can, all you’d need to pay for is airfare. And in fact, if that’s a problem, I have so many frequent flyer miles you’d be doing me a favor helping me use some.”
“No, the airfare isn’t a problem, especially with everything else taken care of. I just… I haven’t been out of London in a while. Which isn’t good, actually. Sometimes I think I’m needed here less than I really am. And even if I am needed, they’ll just have to miss me. Or find me online. How long are we talking about, anyway? A few days? A week?”