Read London Twist: A Delilah Novella for Free Online Page B

“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