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“What?” Fatima said, smiling.

“You are just… unearthly beautiful, my dear. And if you try to deny it, I’ll push you into the lagoon.”

Fatima laughed. “That’s not much of a threat. But thank you. And I was thinking the same about you.

They dove off the deck. The water was perfectly cool and delightful, and they spent a heavenly half hour splashing, diving, floating, and utterly unwinding from the long trip.

When they had had enough and were toweling off on the deck, Delilah decided she should bring up the sleeping arrangements. She was surprised to feel somewhat fraught about the topic, and realized Fatima’s beauty was affecting her. Would the woman think she was coming on to her?

The thought was strange and she shook it away. This was an op; she didn’t know what Fatima was expecting or what would make her uncomfortable; she didn’t want to blow things when they were going so well. That was all.

“I should have thought of this earlier,” she said, “but there’s only the one bed… ”

“I noticed that, too. It’s fine. I’ll take the couch.”

“Oh, no! I mean, if you want, of course, but… look, it’s a big bed, and I would feel very bad to have it all to myself while you toss and turn on the couch.” Again she pushed away the concern that Fatima would think she was coming on to her. The woman would know she was just being solicitous. She was overthinking it. Which was weird. She didn’t ordinarily second-guess herself.

“You’re really nice. But I don’t sleep that well, anyway. The bed would probably be wasted on me. And I might even keep you up.”

“I doubt that. And if you don’t sleep well, a couch isn’t likely to help, no? Look, I’m very happy to share the bed with you, it’s no imposition at all. But I want you to be comfortable, of course. Whatever you like.”

Fatima offered a smile Delilah couldn’t read. “Thank you,” she said. “This is already the best trip I’ve ever had. Why don’t we figure out the bed tonight?”

Delilah returned the smile, still feeling uncertain. “Of course. Whatever you like.”

They spent the afternoon exploring the resort, enjoying a leisurely lunch in one of the restaurants, and lounging by the pool. Conversation was so easy and comfortable, at times Delilah could almost have believed she was there on a legitimate assignment with a girlfriend tagging along. But at other moments, she was aware of the pressure of the op, the uncertainty of how she might access Fatima’s laptop. In the course of her job, she was always afraid, deep down, of being found out, of getting caught. But here, the fear was closer to the surface, and its nature felt different, as well. Ordinarily, the fear was of physical danger — of beatings, torture, death. Such thoughts seemed absurd in this paradise. If Fatima caught Delilah trying to access her laptop, Delilah would have some cover-for-action ready and that would be that. No real danger. And yet she was still afraid, of what she didn’t know.

They both were tired and jetlagged and went to bed early. Fatima decided to take the couch, and Delilah agreed only after getting her to promise that if she was uncomfortable she would absolutely take the other half of the bed, never mind worrying about disturbing Delilah.

The next two days were uneventful. They snorkeled; they sailed around the island and fed sharks and rays; they went parasailing. Delilah dutifully photographed the activities, capturing images of lazing sea turtles and azure waves and the various other elements of a vacation in paradise. Once, she tried to shoot Fatima in her stunning red bathing suit, but Fatima demurred, noting that the same concerns she had about appearing too fashion conscious made her reluctant to be filmed in attire that might shock certain Muslim sensibilities. Delilah told her she would give the photos to Fatima and keep no copies, but still Fatima was reluctant, which suggested either that she was nervous copies would get out anyway, or that she was shy about posing, or both. The woman was so beautiful and photogenic that Delilah really would have enjoyed shooting some glamorous shots of her, but she didn’t push the issue.

Several times, when they were back in the room between meals, activities, and visits to the beach and the pool, Fatima used her laptop. But she had a way of waiting for Delilah to get settled, at which point she would pick up the computer and use it somewhere else — whichever room was unoccupied in the suite, or on the deck — and Delilah wasn’t able to deploy Kent’s app to pick up her keystrokes. The good news was, Fatima clearly treated the laptop as something private. That suggested there was something on it worth accessing. The bad news was, they only had four nights and they were running out of time.

On the fourth and final evening, they had an early dinner, then strolled to the open-air bar over the lagoon for a drink. They were wearing sarongs, halter tops, and sandals, all purchased from one of the resort’s shops, perfect attire for an evening in paradise. Delilah was aware the clock was ticking, aware of what her failure would mean for Fatima, but she pushed the feeling away. She would come up with something. She felt it was already there, in fact, an idea, a stratagem, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. She just had to relax and let it come.

They sat on one of the couches with a view of the sunset and Delilah ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. Fatima was quieter than she had been. Delilah, pleasantly buzzed from the wine they’d drunk with dinner and enchanted by the yellows and pinks of the sky, didn’t notice at first. But as the sun sank below the horizon, she wondered whether something was on Fatima’s mind, and what it might be. She gave her a little shoulder check and said, “What is it?”

Fatima looked at her. In the glow of the fading sunlight, her expression was mysteriously solemn. Delilah wished she had brought her camera to the bar.

“Sorry,” Fatima said. “I get sad at incongruous moments. It’s a bad habit and I’m hoping to shake it.”

Delilah was intrigued. “No, no need to apologize. And I don’t think it’s a habit, at least not that I’ve noticed. Why do you say that?”

A long moment went by, then Fatima said, “Since what was done to my family, I can be a moody bitch. Sad. Depressed. Guilty. Angry. Sometimes, when I feel really good, like I do right now, I’ll suddenly be acutely aware of what happened to them. Of what was taken from them.”

“Yes. I had that for a long time after my brother died. And my parents… for my parents, it never went away.” As with all the best lies, though the facts were rearranged, the emotional essence was the truth.

“How long did you have it?”

“The first year was the worst. Then for another four years or so after that. Now, only infrequently. And I don’t really mind when it happens. It makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know. Still connected to him. He’s like a special memory I keep in a safe place, but that on certain occasions I get to unwrap and treasure, even if the treasuring involves sadness.”

For a moment, Fatima’s expression was so unguarded that Delilah was moved by it. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted… even her pupils were dilated. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly like that.”

“I don’t know. It may be different for you. The loss is still recent.” She sensed a possible opening, and decided to exploit it. “What about your other brother? Are you close?”

“We… used to be. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“But are you not even in touch?”

“Sometimes.”

The answers felt guarded. She wondered whether this was itself a form of honesty. If Fatima really wanted to protect her brother, she would have slipped into an anodyne cover story that would have raised no flags. It wasn’t an easy call on whether to push or not, but Delilah decided not to. The main opportunity here was the laptop. If she made Fatima suspicious by inquiring too much about her brother — inquiries that were likely to prove fruitless regardless — she might lose a chance at the primary objective.