Fatima answered quickly, opening the door wide and stepping aside so Delilah could walk right in. Delilah glanced quickly left and right and saw no one else in the tiny flat. Fatima immediately bolted the door behind her. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t have many visitors, but when I do, the neighbors have been nosy.”
That, Delilah thought. Or you’ve developed the uncomfortable — and correct — sense that you’re under a bit more scrutiny than you might really care to acknowledge.
Fatima was barefoot, in faded jeans and a black cotton turtleneck. Her hair was down and she wore no makeup, not even any foundation over the dark circles. Fatima was presenting herself the way she lived at home, without any of the glamorous trappings or makeup or persona with which she mediated the world. Delilah liked that she would let Delilah see her this way. And she liked that Fatima seemed as jumpy as she felt.
“It’s all right,” Delilah said. She looked around the flat again. It was a corner studio, quite plain, with a single Bokhara rug at the center, a desk and chair, a couch under one window, a small bed and nightstand under the window opposite. There was an iPod plugged into a small stereo system on the desk, Sigur Rós’s Samskeyti, a song Delilah loved, issuing from the speakers. The laptop was on the desk, too. Strange, to see the object of so much previous attention, now irrelevant to her. Everything was visible from where she stood, even the bathroom and a single closet, its door open. Nowhere for anyone to hide. And the bug detector lay silent in her purse.
“I like your place,” Delilah said. “It’s cozy.”
Fatima smiled. “You mean small.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Delilah thought, The hell with it. She stepped forward and kissed Fatima gently on the lips. “Hey,” she said.
Fatima smiled. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would want to, when I asked.”
“I wanted to.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not so much. I slept all afternoon and ate when I got up.”
“Jet lag. I did the same.”
“But… I brought some wine. If you’d like.”
They drank the wine and talked comfortably enough, about life in Covent Garden, about when Delilah might be able to come back to London, about whether Fatima might come to Paris. Delilah had never felt this confused, not even in the early stages of her relationship with John, when they’d been circling the same target and her pretense of attraction, intended to get John to stand down, had become increasingly real. What was she doing here? She liked this woman, really liked her. Admired her. Empathized with her. And was so improbably attracted to her. But even setting aside everything else, could they have a real relationship? Delilah had never considered such a thing with a woman. And of course, the notion of everything else being set aside was insane. In all likelihood, very soon Fatima would be devastated by news about her brother. What then? Would Delilah comfort her? Use her as an asset? The thought made her feel sick and with a great effort she managed to suppress it.
They talked about Bora Bora. It was delicious to hear Fatima’s take on what had happened, her expectations leading up to it. Yes, she had wondered whether Delilah might make a pass at her. Yes, she had found herself hoping she would, a hope she found equal parts confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying. Talking about it all, remembering the ambiguity, the nervousness, was a huge turn-on. They wound up making love on Fatima’s small bed, more slowly then before, taking their time, exploring each other’s bodies, talking, touching, laughing. Well after midnight, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
At some point, Delilah was awakened. She didn’t know by what — not a sound, exactly; more an absence of sound. The music, she realized. The iPod stereo on the desk — it had been playing the entire time they’d been awake, set to some sort of playlist loop. And now it had stopped.
She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. She couldn’t see it. But she’d been aware of the soft glow from its readout earlier.
She glanced around. There was no other light on in the flat — nothing from the microwave display in the kitchen, nothing from the stereo on the desk.
There was some illumination from the streetlight outside the window. Meaning the electricity was out in the flat, but not in the area generally.
Instantly she was fully awake, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her torso. She glanced at Fatima, naked beside her. The woman was breathing deeply and seemed to be asleep.
She pulled herself up and looked down at the street. No daylight, but what time was it? Sometime after three, she sensed, but her body was still a bit scrambled from travel and she wasn’t sure. There were two men in dark clothes and baseball caps emerging from a parked car. She saw no dome light in the car, even though the door was open.
Her heart began to hammer. Who were they? Fatima’s people, or MI6?
It didn’t matter. Keeping her eyes on the approaching men, she reached for Fatima’s shoulder and shook her. “Fatima,” she whispered. “Wake up.”
Fatima moaned softly, the sound thick with wine and lovemaking and sleep.
“Fatima,” Delilah said again, more sharply this time. “Wake up. Now.”
Fatima moaned again, then said, “What is it?”
She scanned the street, then went back to the two men. “Something’s wrong. There’s trouble.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Another dark figure stepped out from the shadows behind a parked car. The figure fell in behind the two men. From the gait, posture, and pace of the third man, she instantly understood he wasn’t with the first two. No, not with them — he was stalking them. One of first two must have heard the sound of the third man’s approach. He began to turn. The third man raised his arm, a pistol with a long suppressor at the end of it. The pistol jumped, a hint of muzzle flash escaping from the bore of the suppressor. From the flat, she heard no sound. The man collapsed to the street. The other man began to turn, too. The pistol jumped and flashed again. The second man went down. The newcomer took a step closer and put a finishing shot into each man’s head. Then he calmly checked his flanks. Delilah saw his face.
Kent.
Seeing what he’d just done didn’t make her trust him. Quite the opposite. “We have to go,” she said to Fatima. “Right now.”
“What?”
She jumped out of bed and grabbed Fatima’s arm. “Someone’s coming for you. I can’t explain. Come on!”
“I don’t even have clothes—”
She pulled so hard Fatima fell out of bed. “Forget it! Now!”
Fatima pulled her arm free and stared at Delilah from the floor. “What are you talking about?”
There was no time to explain. Fatima wasn’t moving fast enough. She had to think of something.
Only one chance — get to the side of the door. The first thing to come through would be that long suppressor. She dashed to where she’d left her pants and pulled free the Hideaway knife. “Fatima!” she hissed. “Get away from the bed, it’s the first place they’ll key on!”