Behind and above her, the cannons of the Half Moon Battery kept watch over Old Town. She used the high-powered lens of her camera to look down the Royal Mile as she walked, stopping now and then to actually take a picture. Summer crowds of tourists strolled Lawnmarket Street with their shopping bags, or stood in groups around kilted bagpipers. Men were assembling a bandstand just below the castle walls; banners fluttered on every lamppost from the castle to Hollyrood Palace, a mile down the ridge. Behind that, the extinct volcano Arthur’s Seat echoed the castle in ridges of exposed rock and green grass and brambles of heather. Julissa wore a blonde wig, black jeans, a tight-fitting sweater and leather boots with good soles. Other than the camera, she carried a small black backpack. She expected she might be running today. She looked at the hands of her watch. It was ten seconds to one o’clock. She counted down the last five seconds. When she reached zero, an artillery piece mounted high in the castle fired with a sharp crack.
