She didn’t answer.
“You really came to… care about her, didn’t you?”
“Your powers of perception will never cease to astound me, Kent.”
She thought he would have some riposte for that, some knowing comment about what he’d seen at Fatima’s flat. Instead, he said, “You know, I was afraid something like that might happen between us. And by afraid, I mean hoping. I still am, if you really want to know.”
“Just help her, Kent, all right? She’s useful to you now. Useful alive.”
“I understand that. Or at least I’ll try to make it so, all right?”
“Thank you.”
“And… what about us?”
God, she thought, doesn’t he ever get tired?
“‘Us’?”
“Am I going to see you again?”
“I don’t know, Kent. I really have a lot to think about right now.”
“I understand that. I’m sorry this one turned out to have… a strong aftertaste. That happens sometimes. I’m just commiserating, not talking down to you, all right?”
She smiled. It was funny the way he was getting to know her.
“Yes. Thank you for that.”
“Call me if you like. I really would enjoy seeing you again. There are a lot of other good bars in London, you know. Hotels, too.”
“I don’t think I ever want to come to London again.”
“Well, I may know a place or two in Paris, as well. It would be a pleasure.”
“Goodbye, Kent. I have to go.” She clicked off.
In Rouen, it was just her handler. No Director and his cronies again. Not enough of a red-light district in Rouen, she supposed. But they all sent their warm regards and their effusive gratitude for her latest stunning success.
She returned to Paris feeling listless, aimless. She wanted to call Fatima. Or Kent, just to know what was happening. But she didn’t.
Three days after she’d returned, she picked up a local paper and went for coffee and a croissant at Le Loir Dans La Théière, not far from her Marais apartment, a charming little place she had enjoyed many times with John. Now it felt haunted by his memory. She didn’t know whether she went there in spite of that, or because of it.
She was in luck — a window seat was open. She sat and opened the paper. On the front page was a story about an American drone strike in Pakistan. Seven militants killed. She thought of what Kent had said about the Americans’ kill metrics, and wondered how many of the dead had been civilians. Maybe all of them. No way to know. And she doubted anyone much cared, beyond the bereaved families.
She read the lede. The Americans were claiming one of the militants was the number-three man in al Qaeda. She smiled. Had there ever been an organization with more number-three men than AQ?
And then she saw a name. Imran Zaheer. Fatima’s brother.
She sighed and lowered her head. Ordinarily, at a moment like this she would feel exultant. The fruits of her labors, a dead terrorist and innumerable lives saved.
But not this time. This time she felt nothing but emptiness, and horror, and regret.
She turned the paper over. Just below the fold was a headline: Pakistani Activist Found Dead in London.
Delilah’s hand flew to her mouth and tears filled her eyes. Alongside the headline was a photograph of Fatima — one of the ones Delilah had used in her article. The magazine must sold rights to the newspaper. It was Delilah’s favorite of the bunch, showing Fatima’s face in three-quarters profile, lit up in that characteristic smile that had always carried with it some secret sadness. A sadness that now felt like prophecy.
She read further, fighting rising nausea and vertigo. It had happened in the Covent Garden flat. Raped, then strangled. She fought down the urge to vomit.
How, she thought, shaking her head and silently crying. How could someone do something like this?
She thought of the way Fatima had called them “my people.” My God, had there ever been a more horrible appellation than that?
And then an even more horrifying thought occurred to her. How did she know it had been Fatima’s people? How did she know it wasn’t MI6 and the Director, cleaning up loose ends, but doing so in such a way that for her it would look like something else?
Could her people do something so monstrous, so wholly evil? Could Kent?
She didn’t want to believe it. But she didn’t really know.
A waiter came by to take her order. She wiped her face and waved him off. She took a deep breath, composing herself, then got up and left.
She wandered unsteadily down to Rue de Rivoli. It was warm and sunny. Cars and bicyclists and delivery trucks went by. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians, talking, laughing, enjoying the day.
She walked and thought, her rage growing, incandescing.
She didn’t have to just accept this. There were people who could help her, everything off the books. Kent’s tradecraft wasn’t nearly enough to protect him. And even if it was, one phone call from her and he would come running, fixing himself in time and place.
And then she would find out what really happened. And she would do something about it.
She thought, Don’t become what you hate.
She stopped, suddenly crying again. What could she do to avenge Fatima? If that’s what she really wanted, it was her own life she should take. Had she never gone to London, had she gotten out of this horrible business long ago, as John was continually telling her she should, Fatima would still be alive, unhurt, her sad smile intact and radiant.
She had never so badly needed to talk to John. But she couldn’t. He had left.
She sank to her knees next to a taxi stand and sobbed.
She reminded herself of the attack she had averted, of the lives she had saved. It didn’t help. Those lives were an abstraction, a probability equation, an uncertainty. What was real was Fatima, and that Delilah had killed her.
She would never be able to remedy any of it. There was no rectification, no redemption. Only regret.
She went on crying for a long time. A few people asked if everything was all right. Mostly she was ignored.
Eventually, her tears were exhausted. She straightened and wandered unsteadily through Paris. After many hours, she made her way back to her apartment. She went to bed early. She didn’t sleep at all.
Delilah went out early the next morning. She had no reason, nowhere special to go, she just needed to get out of her apartment, out of her head.
As she opened the heavy wooden exterior door, she looked out on the street, instinct honed by experience. A lone man, silhouetted by the slanting light of the morning sun, was walking toward her. It took her a moment to place him — she had never seen him in jeans and shirtsleeves. It was Kent.
He was already keying on the entrance to her apartment and noticed her immediately. He waved, keeping both hands in plain view.
She glanced left and right. She didn’t think she was in danger. If anyone was in danger, it was he. But the reflex asserted itself anyway.
She waited in the entrance until he had stopped several feet away. “Hello,” he said. “Apologies for the surprise.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
He offered a small smile. “The truth is, my tradecraft’s not really as bad as all that. When I care about something, anyway.”
“What do you want?”
“To tell you I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Delilah, it wasn’t us.”
“No? Why didn’t you protect her, then?”
“No one was interested. But I did call her myself regardless. I told her I was a friend of yours, and that we both wanted to protect her. She hung up on me.”