London Twist

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There were three of them when Delilah came in, arranged around a square wooden table so that when she sat they’d be facing and flanking her. She wondered why so many. A European boondoggle? A show of force? Safety in numbers? Some combination, probably. Whatever it was, it was hardly business as usual for the Director and two deputies to travel together to a safe house on the outskirts of Amsterdam.

None of them stood, despite certainly having been alerted to her arrival by the two security men in civilian clothes outside, whom she’d recognized by their demeanors and by the slight bulge of the Uzi Pros concealed beneath their jackets. No one spoke as she made her way through the living room, not even after she’d taken the remaining seat at the table. Her years in Paris had accustomed Delilah to small talk, and she had to remind herself that its absence here would be neither rude nor condescending. These men were Israelis, after all, justifiably famous for their gruffness, and beyond that, they had all spent a lifetime in the military and intelligence. She doubted they knew how to make small talk with their own mistresses, let alone with a field agent.

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