London Twist: A Delilah Novella

school? In many ways, the politicians presented people like Delilah with a never-ending series of faits accomplis. Maybe she was enabling them. Maybe if she and people like her told them all to fuck off, went on strike, refused to continue to put out the fires the politicians were continually feeding, it would shock them out of their idiocy. But in the meantime, more people, many more, would certainly die.
    She sighed. If only Rain could understand that, maybe he could understand why she couldn’t get out of the life. Not yet, anyway. Because how could she live with carnage and catastrophe, no matter what its ultimate cause, knowing she might have stopped it, and instead stood aside?
    Fatima spoke for twenty minutes, focusing her appeal both on America’s values and on its self-interest, her remarks frequently interrupted by applause. Delilah watched through the lens, periodically getting a picture. She liked the distance the camera created for her. Sometimes she needed it.
    Fatima concluded by saying, “One of your own greatest Americans, Martin Luther King, understood this well. King said, ‘Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hatred cannot drive out hatred: only love can do that.’ Please, Mister Secretary. Learn this lesson. Turn away from darkness. Turn away from hate. Before they consume us all.”
    She stepped down from the crate, surrounded by thunderous cheering and applause. The TV reporter hurried over, microphone in hand, followed by her cameraman. Delilah was struck that not once had Fatima mentioned her dead brothers. The crowd knew already, certainly, so perhaps she surmised that her real audience, the hard men, the ones who hated not passionately but coldly, patiently, would respect her reticence, and feel in it a bond based on shared but unspoken pain, a bond that would draw them to her, and from there to her brother, the means by which their hatred could at last find ecstatic expression. For was it not true that when the student is ready, the teacher appears?
    Delilah began slipping through the crowd. She was aware of Fatima as the enemy, yes. But that awareness was walled off from her overall consciousness, buried deep in her mind along with the details of her true identity and affiliations, a deep code with no current attachment or relevance to the running of the external program. She was a photographer, here on assignment. Fatima was an intriguing subject for a story. She hoped things would go well—the magazine would be happy.
    Fatima was still speaking to the TV reporter, who seemed to be doing not much more than asking Fatima to repeat what she had already said into the bullhorn. Delilah paused to the side, within the ambit of Fatima’s peripheral vision, and was pleased when her presence drew Fatima’s gaze for a moment. When the reporter and cameraman moved off, Delilah had only to step forward. Fatima was already turning her way.
    “Thank you for your speech,” Delilah said, extending her hand. “It was beautiful and moving. I hope the defense secretary heard.”
    Fatima shook Delilah’s outstretched hand, the grip firm and confident. In another life, Delilah thought, this woman could have been a model. Or movie star. Of course, she knew people thought the same of her. Beauty was an unfair advantage—without it, Fatima might have ignored her just now, or might have failed to notice her at all.
    “He might have heard,” Fatima said. “But they will never listen.”
    Delilah saw her opening. “Maybe I can help with that. In my small way.”
    Fatima cocked her head. “Help… ?”
    Delilah already had a card at the ready, and she handed it to Fatima now. She introduced herself, quickly explaining the story she’d learned from Kent’s thumb drive—the fashion magazine that had sent her from Paris to photograph Fatima, how it would be a fairly extensive spread, how she would try to ensure the story got the cover of the issue it appeared in. Most people would have jumped for the kind of exposure Delilah had just offered, and she expected Fatima to bite. So she was surprised when Fatima instead said, “I’m flattered, and I won’t deny that I love fashion—it’s a weakness I can’t seem to do anything about. But to be associated with it too much is dangerous for me—my enemies like to use that sort of thing to paint me as frivolous.”
    Improvising, Delilah said, “Then let’s forget about fashion. Help me get your message out. I’m