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

they’d be smart enough also to have agreed to use it only once. After that, the government, monitoring their phones, either in cooperation with the phone companies or via direct infiltration, would know it, too.
    Delilah followed the protesters and watched them reestablish themselves in Parliament Square. Her earlier estimate was low, she saw, and she revised it to about three hundred overall. Still, not much of a turnout, especially given the weather. The Pakistanis and Arabs were generally middle-aged and conservatively dressed; the whites were younger and favored bandanas, facial hair, and piercings. The Pakistanis held up placards declaring DRONES CAN’T CARE and STOP KILLING CHILDREN and ARREST THE WAR CRIMINALS. The white kids seemed more to favor performance art, lying down on the street while their comrades chalked crime-scene outlines of their bodies. A reporter and cameraman moved among them all, interviewing anyone inclined to talk. The police gave them plenty of space, as though such a motley bunch was barely worth taking seriously. The whole thing felt pointless. Would the British prime minister and the American defense secretary even notice something like this, much less give a damn? It was a wonder these people even tried, and that more of them didn’t become terrorists themselves.
    She took a few pictures—routine behavior for any self-respecting professional photographer. For a while, there was chanting—“This Is What Democracy Looks Like” and “Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect”; some earnest speeches; attempts to engage the few reporters who had bothered to show. The size of the crowd gradually increased, and by the end of an hour Delilah estimated well over a thousand people. The atmosphere was different now, too—tenser, more expectant, somehow determined.
    And then she saw why. A woman, her full black hair cascading to her shoulders and contrasting perfectly with a stunning aquamarine Camilla Olson calf-length dress, was moving to the front of the crowd. It was Fatima, of course, and she had arrived, whether by accident or design, at just the right moment for the crowd to be maximally receptive to her presence.
    She walked confidently and unhurriedly, exchanging a few words here, a pair of cheek kisses there, and a kind of electricity seemed to ripple through the crowd in the wake of her passage. Someone handed her a bullhorn and a crate was placed upside down on the ground. She stood on the crate and faced the crowd, which began cheering and applauding. She waited, offering a smile that was both dazzling and yet somehow also incongruously sad, and the applause and cheering doubled in intensity. In addition to her beauty, which was unmistakable even from a distance, she obviously knew how to work a crowd, reflecting its passions and, in so doing, enhancing them.
    Delilah raised the Nikon, extended the lens, and focused. In close-up, Fatima was even more striking, with full, sensual lips; perfect, amber-hued skin; and eyes so dark they matched her hair. A strong jaw not only failed to detract from her overall femininity, but even enhanced it. Physically, she looked younger than the thirty claimed in her file, but an abundance of poise and style, which Delilah tended to associate with a bit more life experience, balanced her otherwise youthful appearance. The only flaw was a pair of dark circles under her eyes. Overall, she wore her makeup expertly, and if the circles were visible despite the presence of a quality under-eye concealer, they must have been fairly significant. Evidence of a coffee habit? Insomnia? A troubled conscience?
    Delilah had to admit, the woman didn’t look like a terrorist. But she also understood that “what a terrorist should look like” was a silly and dangerous concept. Remember, she’d been told in the classes on terrorist psychology, they’re not monsters. They’re people. You can’t be fooled by their outward appearance anymore than you can be by the