by Barry Eisler
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?”
Again, that… discomfort, with her circumstances in London. And needed by whom? So many hints, threads, possibilities to examine. But later.
“Just a few days, probably, but I’ll try to stretch it out. It’s a long trip from London, maybe twenty-four hours, door to door, so I think we should stay as long as possible, no?”
Fatima smiled. “You’re very persuasive.”
“And you’re too kind. A few days or a week in paradise isn’t something that should require much talent for persuasion.”
“Okay, now you’ve gotten me excited. When will you know?”
“I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow and see what I can find out. And I’ll use all my persuasive talents.”
Fatima laughed. “They don’t have a chance.”
• • •
She met Kent the next day at The Fumoir at Claridge’s Hotel, just a few blocks from the Connaught. It was the second entry on Kent’s list, and when she’d called him that morning from a public booth, she decided it made as much sense as any of the other places he’d proposed on the thumb drive.
In fact, the bar was spectacular—dark, mysterious, hidden behind a gorgeous Art Deco door. Proper London ladies and well-heeled tourists were enjoying afternoon tea in the lobby; the main bar was similarly replete with the champagne-only set; and here was this 1930s speakeasy, all aubergine velvet and etched glass and hushed conversation. There was room for maybe a dozen people, and she was glad they were there in the afternoon. In the evening, she doubted they could have counted on seats.
Kent was waiting when she arrived, as she knew he would be, ensconced in the corner on a plush bench. She wondered whether the early arrivals were tactical for him, or if the behavior was driven more by the pleasure of feeling at home in such a gem while waiting for the woman he was designated to meet. Probably both. Once again he was playing the stylish financier: a navy windowpane three-button, a purple striped shirt, an even darker purple tie. There were a few other men in suits, apparently powerful enough, or irresponsible enough, to disappear from the office for a cocktail in the middle of the day. But none of them wore his clothes as well as Kent. He got up when he saw Delilah and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Well, hello there,” he said. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
She sat across from him. “Really? Why are your eyes sore?”
He chuckled. “You know, if you stay this prickly with me, I’ll only conclude it’s because you’ve taken a fancy. And the more you deny it, the more I’ll be certain I’m right.”
She liked his arrogance, even if she had no intention of succumbing to it. “You can think anything you like. I wouldn’t want reality to intrude on your reveries.”
“Oh, you have no idea. Would you like a drink?”
She looked around. “I suppose it would be a shame not to.”
“Yes, it is gorgeous isn’t it? Say what you like about the decline of the Empire, but my God, we know how to do a bar.” He signaled the bartender. “Two, please, Niall. Thank you.”
“Why am I not surprised you know the bartender?”
“Darling, I know the bartender at every London establishment worth a damn. When you have what Niall’s going to make you, you’ll be glad I do. And I know, I know, I was supposed to defer to you by letting you order for yourself. But don’t let’s argue, all right? I know the venue and I think I know you. If I’m wrong, you can throw it in my face. If I’m right, all I’ll need for thanks is the pleasure of watching you enjoy it. Fair enough?”
She shook her head. The man really was incorrigible. She might have told him as much, but was pretty sure it would only turn him on. Better to just let him have his fun.
While they waited for the drinks, they made small talk about London like any two normal people meeting in a bar and getting to know each other. After a few minutes, a waiter brought over two dewy cocktail glasses, each filled with a semitransparent golden mixture. When the man had departed, Kent raised his glass. “To your success.”
They touched glasses and drank. Kent was looking at her expectantly. “Well? Are you going to throw it in my face?”
“No, it’s actually quite delicious. What is it?”
“It’s called an Afterglow. Gin, absinthe, Amaro, ginger, lemon, orange, and nutmeg. All the major food groups. Had one at the Flatiron Lounge in New York and told Niall all about it. I like his interpretation better—less sweet, and served up, too. Packs a punch, though.
Be careful.”
Afterglow. Well, at least he had the class, and the sense, not to order Sex on the Beach or something like that. And it was good.
She briefed him on her progress with Fatima. He was as curious about what had happened in front of Momtaz as she was.
“They felt like bodyguards,” Delilah said, “not Samaritans. And it didn’t feel like just a job, either. They hit those two guys like guard dogs off the leash, like they were enraged someone was threatening their master. What’s throwing me is, the way Fatima played it—as though she didn’t know they were there.”
“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe they don’t shadow her that closely. Or maybe they were shadowing you.”
She tamped down her irritation. “I guarantee you, Kent, no one was shadowing me. Not last night, not now. They were on her. Whether she knew it or not.”
“So she has people on her, but she’s not aware of it. Or not fully aware, anyway.”
“And how do you interpret that?”
He blew out a long breath. “She’s… more important to someone than that someone wants her to know?”
“Or someone doesn’t trust her the way she might want.”
“You think they’re monitoring her rather than protecting her?”
“I don’t know. She certainly seemed… I don’t know. Surprised, certainly, when the second set of guys showed up. But also discomfited as much as relieved. I think she suspected they were watching her, but wasn’t really sure. Maybe she’s aware of a security detail, or whatever it is, but also in denial?”
Kent nodded. “I’ll buy that.”
“Do you have access to police reports? I think it’s likely one will be filed—one of those guys, I don’t think he walked away.”
“I can certainly do some checking.”
“And let me know what you find.”
“That was my implication. In the meantime, now you know Fatima’s being watched. I told you, you need to be careful.”
She looked at him.
“Of course,” he added, “you already know that. Anyway, what’s your next move?”
“We talked about getting out of London together.”
“A getaway? You have made fast progress.”
She didn’t respond. She just looked at him evenly, wondering whether it was worth pointing out how ridiculous it was that he even thought he was in a position to evaluate the success or failure of her op.
He must have picked up on what she was thinking, because he said, “I’m impressed, that’s all. Remember, this is someone who immediately saw through the two previous operatives we sent against her.”
She realized he meant nothing by it, and knew she should try to be more forgiving. But she was so damned sick of men judging her. Whether the judgment involved a compliment or a complaint wasn’t the point. The point was their belief in their right to judge in the first place.
“Anyway. She mentioned if she left town, she’d have to take her laptop. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Of course it is. But look, I didn’t want to mention it earlier because I’m trying to respect all the need-to-know nonsense, but hypothetically, don’t you think we already would have black-bagged her flat? Her laptop is Firevault encrypted. It was useless.”
“Then maybe I can access it when she’s already logged in. Or find a way to record her inputting a password. A hotel would obviously create opportunities I’m not going to have if we just keep meeting for coffee and drinks.”
He nodded, looking at her. After a moment, he said, “You’re right, of course. I should have thought of that myself. Tell me what you have in mind.”
She outlined what she’d pitched Fatima—an all-expenses-paid trip for two to French Polynesia.
“Are you mad? MI6 is never going to pay for this. And I doubt your bean counters would go for it, either. I doubt even the Americans would, and they’ve got more money than God. Not to mention, how the hell are we going to get this backstopped on such short notice?”
She liked that he was raising practical objections. Practical objections meant the other side had already agreed in principle. Now it was just a question of negotiating a price.
“You mean to tell me that between MI6 and the CIA, you can’t find even one more malleable editor at the right magazine?”
“I have no idea what might be found. I only know it’s going to be a mad scramble, assuming it happens at all.”
“Well,” she said, enjoying the feeling of holding a winning hand, “it’s what I told her. It will look strange if I come back to her now and say, ‘Sorry, the Polynesia assignment didn’t work out, but I did manage to get something at a budget hotel in Bristol.’”
“You’re damned right it would look strange, and you knew that from the start.”
“What if I did? It’s the right move, Kent, and you’re smart enough to know it. Take her someplace different, someplace far away, someplace where she’ll relax and get swept away and forget about what occupies her mind when she’s in London. Someplace with a lot of activities—yoga, water sports, whatever gets her to forget to close her laptop before getting in the shower or diving into the lagoon or going for a spa treatment.”
“Spa treatments? That’s also part of the package?”
“Look, if your people’s priorities are so fucked up they’d rather risk a sarin attack than the possibility a foreign agent might enjoy certain elements of an op, you’ve already lost this war, and I’m wasting my time trying to help you.”
Kent sipped his drink, watching her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She also didn’t care. She knew she was right.
“That’s actually a pretty good line,” he said, after a moment. “The ‘risking a sarin attack’ part, I mean. I’ll use that with the zealots in finance. It might even work.”
She didn’t permit any of the satisfaction she felt to rise to the surface. “Whatever hotel reservation you make, remember, it’s just for me. The magazine shouldn’t know I’m bringing a friend—it’s not the kind of thing I’d tell them myself.”
“Yes, if they knew, they’d probably cut your per diem. And we wouldn’t want that.”
She didn’t respond. What mattered was that she’d won. She wouldn’t engage him beyond that.
He drummed his fingers on the table, looking away, obviously considering something, weighing it. Then he said, “Oh, what the hell. I’ll probably get fired for this, but if I do, at least we won’t be colleagues anymore and I’ll be able to ask you out on a proper date.”
She smiled. She didn’t want to like him, but it was hard not to. “All right, it’s good to know you win either way.”
“Here’s the thing. Our tech people have developed an application. It can run from a computer, a tablet, even a smart phone. It’s very sensitive to certain sounds. Particularly the sounds of keystrokes. I’d be surprised if your lab geniuses weren’t working on something similar.”
She waited, intrigued.
“Essentially, it’s a key logger program. Every key on a computer keyboard has an individual sound signature. The differences are far too subtle for the human ear to detect, but the program can make them out clearly enough. If there’s sufficient proximity, if the person isn’t taking care to type very quietly, if there’s not too much background noise, if the acoustics are right overall, if the person is using a mechanical keyboard and not a virtual one—”
“A lot of ifs.”
“Yes. But if I could get you access to the app, you could download it to your laptop or your phone. With just a little bit of luck, you could have it running close to Fatima when she accesses her laptop. If you manage it, you could eavesdrop on her passwords, the websites she visits, the messages she types… everything. If you’re on a Wi-Fi network, the app automatically uploads to a secure site. Or you can do it yourself manually. At a minimum, you’d get her Firevault password and our black bag specialists could do the rest when she’s back in London.”
“You haven’t tried this already?”
“It won’t work in a public place—well, a library, probably, but certainly not the type of coffee shops Fatima favors when she’s out. But a hotel room would be about as good an opportunity as anyone’s ever likely to get.”
“If it works, how will you explain my success to your people?”
“If you succeed, I promise no one will even ask.”
Delilah considered. She had nothing sensitive on her phone. Even if MI6 sent along any key loggers of their own in the downloaded app, they’d get nothing of value. And she’d just toss the phone when the op was done.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
He nodded, his expression oddly grave. “There’s something else I shouldn’t tell you.”
She wondered how much of what he “shouldn’t tell” her was real, and how much artifice, intended to get her to trust him, maybe even to sleep with him. It wasn’t easy to know. She raised her eyebrows.
“According to the Americans,” he went on, “there’s been a lot of chatter just lately. You know, in all the networks their NSA monitors. And we’ve been picking up some quite worrying signals ourselves. The consensus is, some sort of mass-casualty attack is getting uncomfortably close to its launch date. And that Fatima’s brother Imran is at the heart of it. I’m afraid my people are close to implementing… a kind of Plan B.”
Her throat and stomach felt suddenly tight. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, if we can’t find some other way into that laptop, a team is going to acquire Fatima and get all the information they need—her password, everything—by other means. Quite unpleasant means, in fact.”
He was watching her closely. She didn’t know what to show him. Certainly not the distress the thought of Fatima tortured was causing her.
“Why do we become what we hate, Kent?”
There was a long pause. “I don’t know.”
“Do you ever ask?”
“I try not to.”
“Maybe that’s not such a healthy habit.”
“You and I don’t make the decisions, Delilah—”