Fatima was still speaking to the TV reporter, who seemed to be doing not much more than asking Fatima to repeat what she had already said into the bullhorn. Delilah paused to the side, within the ambit of Fatima’s peripheral vision, and was pleased when her presence drew Fatima’s gaze for a moment. When the reporter and cameraman moved off, Delilah had only to step forward. Fatima was already turning her way.
“Thank you for your speech,” Delilah said, extending her hand. “It was beautiful and moving. I hope the defense secretary heard.”
Fatima shook Delilah’s outstretched hand, the grip firm and confident. In another life, Delilah thought, this woman could have been a model. Or movie star. Of course, she knew people thought the same of her. Beauty was an unfair advantage — without it, Fatima might have ignored her just now, or might have failed to notice her at all.
“He might have heard,” Fatima said. “But they will never listen.”
Delilah saw her opening. “Maybe I can help with that. In my small way.”
Fatima cocked her head. “Help…?”
Delilah already had a card at the ready, and she handed it to Fatima now. She introduced herself, quickly explaining the story she’d learned from Kent’s thumb drive — the fashion magazine that had sent her from Paris to photograph Fatima, how it would be a fairly extensive spread, how she would try to ensure the story got the cover of the issue it appeared in. Most people would have jumped for the kind of exposure Delilah had just offered, and she expected Fatima to bite. So she was surprised when Fatima instead said, “I’m flattered, and I won’t deny that I love fashion — it’s a weakness I can’t seem to do anything about. But to be associated with it too much is dangerous for me — my enemies like to use that sort of thing to paint me as frivolous.”
Improvising, Delilah said, “Then let’s forget about fashion. Help me get your message out. I’m sympathetic and would welcome the opportunity to make more people aware of your work, and of the injustice of what America is doing in Pakistan with its drones.”
Fatima frowned for a moment as though at a loss. “Your… editors would be okay with that?”
Delilah smiled into Fatima’s eyes as though contemplating a conspiracy. “No. They’ll hate it. But for me, they’ll do it. An in-depth interview and the right kind of photo shoot. It would be perfect.”
Fatima smiled back, perhaps wondering what powers Delilah might have over her editors and how she had acquired them, but hesitating to ask. “What would you need from me?”
“An afternoon. Or a day. Or however much time you have to spare. You tell me what you want to convey, and I’ll capture it. I’m sick of catwalks anyway. I want to do something… important.”
Fatima glanced at the card. “This is how I can get in touch with you?”
“Yes. And here.” Delilah popped open the camera, removed the SD card, and handed it Fatima. It never hurt to give a small gift — doing so made most people feel they ought to reciprocate. “There are some good shots of you. You look serious, and passionate, with a huge crowd assembled before you. Not that you don’t also look fabulous in Camilla Olson, but I think you’ll see, that’s incidental.”
If Fatima was having any doubts about Delilah’s fashion photographer credentials, naming the designer of her dress should have laid them to rest.
Fatima laughed. “When do we do this?”
“Now. Tomorrow. Anytime that works for you. I have some other reasons to stick around, and if I have to stay in London a little longer at the magazine’s expense, it’s hardly a tragedy.”
“Where are you staying?”
“A rented flat. Notting Hill.”
“They treat you well, your magazine.”
“They don’t treat me badly. But this time, a flat is just cheaper than a London hotel. A good London hotel, anyway. Where can we meet?”
Fatima paused and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “There’s a coffee place I like — Notes, on St. Martin’s Lane, right next to the Coliseum Theatre. Do you know it?”
“No, but I can find it easily enough.”
“I go there to write. We can talk, enjoy a coffee, and you can photograph me at work. How would that be?”
“A good start, at least.”
“Okay. I’ll be there from ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Only after they had shaken hands again and Delilah had walked away did she permit herself a discreet moment of triumph. True, a meeting wasn’t much, and the chances of this op producing anything worthwhile were now only slightly less slim than they had been at the outset. But it was always satisfying to have the quarry nibble the bait. It brought things that much closer to the hook.
She considered contacting Kent — protocol would be to brief him after making initial contact with the subject. But she decided against it. She couldn’t see any value in a meeting at this point, and Kent, doubtless already realizing she was no slave to diplomatic courtesy, might wonder why she would have bothered. He might conclude her interest was personal, and might then decide to test that theory. She didn’t think she wanted that. At least not yet.
Delilah arrived at Notes at a little past ten the next morning, comfortable in jeans and a vintage navy cashmere V-neck sweater, her camera bag slung over her shoulder. She’d spent the previous ninety minutes doing a surveillance detection run, finishing her route at Charing Cross Station, and was confident she hadn’t been followed. In the course of her career, she’d rarely had the luxury of being able to flush out potential surveillance with ostentatious techniques. Instead, her countermeasures had to be disguised as ordinary civilian behavior, lest a team conclude simply by watching her that she was trained in more than just catwalk photography. And she had to be more circumspect now even than she was upon arrival. She’d made contact, of course, but beyond that, if things went well, she would be spending a lot of time with Fatima. The more time she spent, the more interested Fatima’s associates would likely become, and the more closely they would want to examine Fatima’s new acquaintance.
She approached St. Martin’s Lane from the south. If anyone wanted to watch her, of course they might have decided the expedient thing would be to keep the eye on Fatima until Delilah walked right into it. If that were the case, she would know soon enough.
St. Martin’s was a quiet, narrow street, apparently notable mostly for its antique dealers and secondhand booksellers and, as Fatima had said, the ornate Coliseum Theatre. Notes, a modest storefront announcing itself with stenciled letters on the front glass, was just a little ways up the road on the right. She headed in, and found herself in a long, rectangular room with a high ceiling, wood floors, and lots of natural light from a large skylight. There was a pleasant mix of conversation, laughter, and jazz playing through an unseen speaker system, the background hum punctuated by the mechanical buzz of burr coffee grinders, the ka-thwack! of hand-pulled espresso baskets being dumped, the hiss and bubbling of steam being shot into milk. The air was redolent with the delicious smell of fresh coffee.
She scanned the room and detected no obvious problems, just a collection of men and women of various ages, types, and ethnicities. She kept moving ahead, past a giant poster of Miles Davis. Tables lined the wall to her right; to her left, extending half the length of the shop, was a long wooden counter, manned by three baristas and dominated by a massive, gleaming Strada espresso machine. The rear of the space was more open, with two large communal tables, a bench, and walls lined with tall shelves of DVDs and music CDs