by Barry Eisler
Delilah smiled. “Don’t think you will escape me that easily.”
Fatima laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t.”
Delilah used a tripod and a long exposure to capture some dramatic shots of Mount Otemanu, silhouetted by a violet sky and set off by the moon. The magazine would be pleased. When the best of the light had faded, she went inside. Fatima was coming out of the bathroom wearing one of the hotel terrycloth robes, her hair wrapped in a towel.
“If this is how you plan to get me not to shoot you,” Delilah said, “it won’t work.”
Fatima smiled. “How was the rest of the sunset?”
“Lovely. Though not as lovely as you.”
She set the camera down on the coffee table next to the bottle of wine and Fatima’s laptop. The lights were already quite low, and Delilah lit a pair of candles the hotel had thoughtfully left on the end table next to the couch. She sat, poured two glasses of wine, picked up both, and extended one to Fatima. “Join me?”
Fatima sat. They touched glasses and drank.
Delilah set her glass down and picked up the camera. “Look straight ahead.”
Fatima regarded her with mock suspicion. “Why?”
“Trust me.”
Fatima turned her head. Delilah raised the camera and snapped a shot. Fatima looked at her and said, “You’re really not going to let me stop you, are you?”
Delilah smiled. “When we’re done, you can take the card and do anything you want with it.” She poured more wine. “Here, this will relax you.”
Fatima laughed. “Do I not seem relaxed?”
“Maybe just a little tense.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”
“No. I want you to enjoy.”
Was there some double entendre there? She wasn’t sure. She realized she was a bit more drunk than she’d intended.
But… that concern she had, that Fatima might think she was coming on to her. She realized again this was something her unconscious was trying to tell her. If Fatima had any operational suspicions, any vague sense of ulterior motives, the possibility that Delilah might be attracted to her would provide a ready explanation her conscious mind could grab onto, to soothe the suspicions away.
Or was she rationalizing? She decided it didn’t matter—the dynamic would work either way.
She looked at the image she had just shot in the camera’s viewfinder. “Hmm, nice, but a little dark. Hang on.”
She got up, grabbed her iPhone, and quickly booted Kent’s app. Then she switched over to a light-meter app, which Fatima wouldn’t know she didn’t really need, and theatrically adjusted her camera and the two candles accordingly. She set the iPhone down next to Fatima’s laptop and took a few more pictures.
“Yes, that’s better,” she said, snapping away and checking the viewfinder. “I love this light. Here, take that towel off your head, all right? Yes, good. Now, shake out your hair. Ah, oui, beautiful.”
She stood, moved the coffee table aside, and circled Fatima, getting multiple shots from various angles. “Bring the glass to your lips. Yes. You’re contemplating something. Anticipating. Waiting for your lover. Yes, exactly like that. Now drink. No, don’t move your head, only the glass. Yes. Put the glass down. Now look at me. Head down, eyes up. Oui, like that. My God, girl, you are éblouissant. Stunning.”
And she was, too. As naturally smoldering for the camera as any professional model Delilah had ever shot.
Delilah lowered the camera and looked at her for a long moment. Fatima returned the look, her expression confident, almost serene, any hint of previous reluctance gone. Whether it was the wine, the setting, the company… Delilah didn’t know. But Fatima was past reluctantly surrendering to the shoot. She now seemed almost intoxicated by it.
Delilah felt her heart kicking harder. What was she doing? She had enough already. She didn’t need to go further. Kent’s app was active. When they were done with the shoot, she would hand the camera card to Fatima, and Fatima would plug it directly into her laptop. She’d type in her password, the app would capture it, the op would be done.
Delilah said, “Move the robe down one of your shoulders.”
Fatima’s mouth opened as though to say something, but she didn’t. She shook her head, once, wordlessly, her expression suddenly confused.
“Oui, yes, I want you to. While you look into the camera. Do it slowly. Deliberately. Like you would to seduce a lover.”
Fatima’s lips were parted. Was she breathing hard? Delilah was.
Gradually, uncertainly, Fatima crossed her left arm over her body and lowered one lapel of the robe with her right, stopping when it was halfway to her elbow. The glimpse of additional honey-colored skin against the white robe was deliciously tantalizing.
“Oui, yes, like that,” Delilah said, snapping away and circling back to the couch. She kneeled on one of the cushions. “Now clutch the material close to you. Not because you don’t want me to see. Because you don’t want to let me see. Because you’re tormenting me with your beauty. Like that, yes. Yes, yes.”
She lowered the camera. She felt her heart pounding in her chest. She was so excited she was wet. What was wrong with her? She had seduced countless men. It was her job, she was good at it, she enjoyed it, it didn’t make her nervous. And yet now her hands were shaking so much she wasn’t sure she’d be able to steady the camera.
“Fatima. Lower the other shoulder of the robe for me.”
Again, Fatima said nothing. Still looking at Delilah, she reached with the opposite arm to the opposite side of the robe and lowered it as she had the first. She crossed her arms just below the curve of her breasts, the upper half of which were now beautifully revealed.
Delilah lowered the camera. “More,” she said.
She saw that Fatima was trembling. Her lips were parted, her eyes directly on Delilah’s. She lowered the robe further.
“More,” Delilah said again, her breathing hard, her voice husky.
Slowly, so slowly, Fatima moved her hands to her lap. The robe fell away entirely.
Delilah lowered her eyes to Fatima’s breasts. God, they were beautiful, rising and falling with the woman’s breathing. A tiny cry escaped Delilah’s mouth.
Delilah set the camera on the floor. Fatima watched her, saying nothing.
Delilah moved forward on the couch, leaned in, and paused a few inches from Fatima’s face. She looked in the woman’s dark eyes, moved by the nervousness and desire she saw in them. Then she leaned closer, closer, until their lips were touching. Fatima didn’t press forward, but nor did she pull away.
“I want you to kiss me back,” Delilah whispered.
“I… I don’t know,” Fatima said, her mouth still touching Delilah’s. “Delilah, are you… gay?”
The movement of her lips against Delilah’s as she spoke was amazingly sensual, and Delilah became aware of an ache between her legs. She laughed softly. “Not before I met you, no.”
“I don’t… I don’t know about this.”
“Kiss me,” Delilah whispered.
There was a pause, and then gently, tentatively, Fatima moved her lips against Delilah’s. They were so full and soft and hesitant… not at all like a man’s. Delilah could feel Fatima’s breath against her face, and realized the woman was as excited as she was, and even more frightened. The thought excited her more. She wanted to reach down and touch herself, but was afraid it would be too much.
Fatima opened her mouth and kissed her harder. Delilah felt a burst of surprise and delight. She opened her mouth, too, and their tongues met, touching, teasing, tasting. She turned her head and pressed forward and opened her mouth more, letting Fatima’s tongue all the way inside. God, it was delicious, she couldn’t remember a kiss that tasted anything like it. She heard Fatima moan… or was it her? She moved her head to the side and kissed Fatima’s neck, her collarbone. She put one knee on the floor, pulled the robe opened further, and kissed lower, lower, her hands dropping inside the robe and taking hold
of Fatima’s hips. Her mouth found a nipple and she sucked on it. Fatima gasped and her hands came to the back of Delilah’s head, pulling her closer.
Suddenly the halter and sarong felt like a diving bell. Delilah pulled back, crossed her arms, and pulled off the top. Even before it had cleared her head, Fatima was leaning forward, reaching for her, and then her hands were on Delilah’s breasts, touching, caressing, exploring. She took Delilah’s nipples between her fingers and gently squeezed, and Delilah felt the shock of the sensation all the way down to her toes. She seized Fatima’s face in her hands and this time the kiss went on and on, headlong, passionate, unrestrained. It was extraordinary, electrifying, she felt like they were making love just with their mouths.
Somehow she managed to open the sarong and get her panties off. She thought she’d never been so wet. Still with one knee on the floor and the other leg on the couch, she broke the kiss and took one of Fatima’s hands. She guided it closer, closer, looking into Fatima’s eyes, and when the woman’s fingers touched her Delilah gasped from the pleasure of it. She moved Fatima’s hand, showing her how she liked it, moaning “Oui, oui,” in rhythm with Fatima’s caress. She felt one of Fatima’s fingers slide slowly inside her, in, out, the pressure there, then gone again, then back, teasing, satisfying, teasing again. It was maddening. She couldn’t stand it anymore and she couldn’t stand that it might stop. She leaned back, pulling Fatima by the hand with her. “I want you to taste me,” she said. “Please. Please taste me.”
Fatima put her free hand on Delilah’s chest and pushed her all the way onto her back. The armrest was under Delilah’s head now, and she watched as Fatima leaned in and moved down, down, her fingers still touching, probing, and she kissed Delilah’s belly, her fingers still moving, moving, then lower, and finally, finally Delilah felt her tongue, her teeth, the pressure of her mouth. God, had she ever felt anything so simultaneously gentle and intense? She lifted her hips and put a hand on Fatima’s head and moaned “Oui, oui,” coaxing her with her hand and her voice, showing her what she liked, what she craved, what she needed. And Fatima obliged her, eagerly, her tongue flicking, her fingers probing. She reached for Delilah’s nipples, pinching them, rolling them, making her insane. Delilah felt her orgasm building and whispered, “Oui, ma chérie, oui, like that… just like that, don’t stop, make me come like that,” and Fatima’s tongue moved faster and she squeezed one of Delilah’s hands in her own. Delilah grabbed the back of her head and pulled her closer and ground against her face and then she was coming, the intensity of it hitting her like a shockwave, and as it rolled through her body and redoubled in strength she arched her back and gripped Fatima’s hand and heard herself cry out, “Oui, pour l’amour de Dieu, oui, oui!”
She came for what seemed like forever. Finally she collapsed back to the couch, her orgasm ebbing, her mind still reeling from the surprise of it, the violence with which it had taken her. Fatima crept forward, kissing Delilah’s belly, then her neck, then held her in her arms.
“My God,” Delilah breathed. “You are so sweet.
Fatima’s face was buried against Delilah’s neck. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“It was beautiful.”
“I’m glad.”
Delilah took her by the shoulders and pushed her to the side. She slid out from under and straddled Fatima’s hips. “Now it’s your turn.”
Fatima’s amber skin darkened. “No, you don’t have to—”
Delilah laughed. “Have to? I’m dying to.” She pushed Fatima’s shoulders back, leaned in, and kissed her for a long moment. Then she stretched out alongside her and while they continued to kiss she reached down and began to touch her. She felt a bikini wax, the skin soft and smooth and hot beneath her fingertips. Her fingers slipped easily inside Fatima’s wetness, and the feeling of the woman moaning into her mouth while Delilah touched her was enough to make her want to come again. She kissed her way down Fatima’s neck, her breasts, her belly, all the while touching her, deeply but slowly, slowly, teasing her, tormenting her, making her desperate for more. She used a hand to spread Fatima’s legs wider and kissed her inner thighs, her pubis, her labia, all the while her finger sliding slowly in and out. Fatima whimpered and twisted and arched, but Delilah wanted more, she wanted Fatima to ask for it, to beg for it, to be insane for it as she had been. She kept kissing and licking, her tongue dancing toward and then away from what she knew Fatima really wanted. Finally, Fatima panted, “Please, make me come, please,” and Delilah instantly flicked her tongue over her clit. Fatima shuddered and gasped and Delilah kept licking, sliding one hand up to Fatima’s breasts to squeeze her nipples and continuing to touch her with the fingers of the other hand. Fatima moaned, “Yes, oh God, oh yes,” and Delilah licked harder, faster, and as Fatima’s breathing quickened and her hips began to rock Delilah sucked her clit into her mouth and flicked her tongue rapidly all over it. Fatima gasped and cried out, “Oh, oh, ohhhhh… ” and her back arched and her hands twisted in Delilah’s hair and Delilah kept sucking and licking and touching while Fatima arched and writhed. Only when she had collapsed back to the couch and was panting, “Please, no more, no more,” did Delilah relent.
Delilah moved up and lay on her side next to her. Fatima turned her head and looked into her eyes. She saw the most delicious expression of… what? Wonder? Disbelief? Trust?
“Not so bad, no?” Delilah said, smiling.
And then a tear slipped out from the corner of one of Fatima’s eyes. Delilah was surprised, and a little worried. “Why are you crying?” she said.
“It felt so good. But I also… I don’t know. I feel ashamed.”
“Because it felt good?”
“Because of… that I did that with a woman. I’ve wondered what it would be like, sometimes, but I never really thought… have you done that before? I’m not the first, am I?”
A lie would have been safer, and more believable. But Delilah told her the truth. “You are the first.”
“I don’t think I believe you.”
“I’m sorry for that. It’s true.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t know. There’s something… something that makes me want to know everything about you. To know you in every way. Including in bed. Especially in bed. I don’t know why, but it’s true! I’ve never thought that way about a woman before—‘What would she be like in bed?’ Men, yes, all the time, and usually I’m right so it’s not even that interesting an exercise. But with you… I couldn’t tell. You’re so beautiful, and confident, and sophisticated, but also you’re Muslim, so maybe you would be… modest? Shy? Inhibited? Ashamed? I couldn’t tell. And I really… God, I really wanted to know.”
“I hope you weren’t disappointed.”
“Were you?”
Fatima shook her head emphatically. “No.”
“It was the same for me.”
“Really?”
Delilah laughed. “Could you not tell?”
Fatima smiled. “I thought so, but… ”
“If you have any doubts, you can do it again later.”
Fatima laughed, and then her expression was serious. “I want to. Do it again later, I mean. We shouldn’t have waited until our last night.”
“I know. We could have left here even better rested.” She moved her head closer and kissed Fatima softly. “God, you are lovely.”
“Thank you.”
They were running out of time. It might be now or never.
“Do you want to see the pictures I took?”
Fatima raised her eyebrows. “Now?”
“Yes, now. Don’t you want to see what enflamed me so much?”
Rather than wait for an answer and risk a demurral, Delilah sat up, grabbed the camera, and popped out the card. “Here, it’s yours. You can view the pictures on your laptop and do anything you like with them.”
Fatima smiled reluctantly, but she sat up and pulled the robe close. Even now she was modest, Delilah observed, but that wasn’t so unusu
al in her experience. She had known many men who could only make love with the lights out and were shy about their bodies even afterward.
Fatima took the card and opened her laptop. She turned it away from Delilah and typed in what sounded like a long passcode. Then she popped in the card.
Delilah glanced at her iPhone. It was on the hotel’s Wi-Fi network. So it was already uploading Fatima’s code. The op was done.
Ordinarily, at a moment like this, she would feel a flush of suppressed elation. But now… a jumble of emotions she didn’t understand. Relief, certainly, that MI6’s horrible Plan B had been rendered moot. But also a strange sadness. And guilt. It didn’t make sense. She needed to get a hold of herself.
Fatima spun around the laptop so they could both see the screen. She started scrolling through the pictures Delilah took. “I have to admit,” she said, smiling, “you make me look good.”
They spent some time going through the photos. They were great shots and Delilah pretended to enjoy them. But in fact they were making her feel worse and worse.
When the candles had burned low, they got in bed. They made love again and lay in each other’s arms for a long time after. But Delilah couldn’t sleep. For maybe the first time in her life, she felt like she’d committed a crime. The nature of the offense eluded her—what she had accomplished here would save lives, she knew that, she always knew that. And she’d likely saved Fatima from horrors she didn’t even want to think about it.
And then it hit her, so powerful and obvious she realized that until that moment she’d been willing it away. Yes, perhaps she’d saved Fatima from one set of horrors, only to inflict another. Because the most direct, the most immediate consequence of the information she had just acquired would be the violent death of Imran, Fatima’s last brother. The woman had already been brutalized by the loss of her other brothers, and now her shattered world, which she had labored in slow agony to reassemble, would be blown apart again. And her parents’ world, as well.