London Twist: A Delilah Novella by Barry Eisler Page A

times, when they were back in the room between meals, activities, and visits to the beach and the pool, Fatima used her laptop. But she had a way of waiting for Delilah to get settled, at which point she would pick up the computer and use it somewhere else—whichever room was unoccupied in the suite, or on the deck—and Delilah wasn’t able to deploy Kent’s app to pick up her keystrokes. The good news was, Fatima clearly treated the laptop as something private. That suggested there was something on it worth accessing. The bad news was, they only had four nights and they were running out of time.
    On the fourth and final evening, they had an early dinner, then strolled to the open-air bar over the lagoon for a drink. They were wearing sarongs, halter tops, and sandals, all purchased from one of the resort’s shops, perfect attire for an evening in paradise. Delilah was aware the clock was ticking, aware of what her failure would mean for Fatima, but she pushed the feeling away. She would come up with something. She felt it was already there, in fact, an idea, a stratagem, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. She just had to relax and let it come.
    They sat on one of the couches with a view of the sunset and Delilah ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. Fatima was quieter than she had been. Delilah, pleasantly buzzed from the wine they’d drunk with dinner and enchanted by the yellows and pinks of the sky, didn’t notice at first. But as the sun sank below the horizon, she wondered whether something was on Fatima’s mind, and what it might be. She gave her a little shoulder check and said, “What is it?”
    Fatima looked at her. In the glow of the fading sunlight, her expression was mysteriously solemn. Delilah wished she had brought her camera to the bar.
    “Sorry,” Fatima said. “I get sad at incongruous moments. It’s a bad habit and I’m hoping to shake it.”
    Delilah was intrigued. “No, no need to apologize. And I don’t think it’s a habit, at least not that I’ve noticed. Why do you say that?”
    A long moment went by, then Fatima said, “Since what was done to my family, I can be a moody bitch. Sad. Depressed. Guilty. Angry. Sometimes, when I feel really good, like I do right now, I’ll suddenly be acutely aware of what happened to them. Of what was taken from them.”
    “Yes. I had that for a long time after my brother died. And my parents… for my parents, it never went away.” As with all the best lies, though the facts were rearranged, the emotional essence was the truth.
    “How long did you have it?”
    “The first year was the worst. Then for another four years or so after that. Now, only infrequently. And I don’t really mind when it happens. It makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know. Still connected to him. He’s like a special memory I keep in a safe place, but that on certain occasions I get to unwrap and treasure, even if the treasuring involves sadness.”
    For a moment, Fatima’s expression was so unguarded that Delilah was moved by it. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted… even her pupils were dilated. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly like that.”
    “I don’t know. It may be different for you. The loss is still recent.” She sensed a possible opening, and decided to exploit it. “What about your other brother? Are you close?”
    “We… used to be. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
    “But are you not even in touch?”
    “Sometimes.”
    The answers felt guarded. She wondered whether this was itself a form of honesty. If Fatima really wanted to protect her brother, she would have slipped into an anodyne cover story that would have raised no flags. It wasn’t an easy call on whether to push or not, but Delilah decided not to. The main opportunity here was the laptop. If she made Fatima suspicious by inquiring too much about her brother—inquiries that were likely to prove fruitless regardless—she might lose a chance at the primary objective.
    She realized the laptop was