Alias (14 page)

The next morning I ate my muesli deep in thought.

Sending quadcopters was one way of making my point – guaranteed, I’d get more coverage of the drone wars by using toy versions. But how much more dramatic would it be if I decorated each quadcopter with the story of an innocent victim? A glued-on photo, a name scrawled in permanent ink and a date would point the journalists in whatever direction I chose to send them.

Quadcopters, or similar, were also the answer to the battery issue. All I had to do was scan SendEx’s list of business accounts to find one that regularly sent items with batteries and slide my parcels, and the appropriate paperwork, in among theirs. It felt right.

Polly walked into the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear. It was unusual to see her up before I left …

Damn!

I ran to the bus stop, twenty minutes later than usual, and arrived at work at ten past nine to find Elisa back at her desk. Good on two counts. Nice company for me, and less work to do – which meant more time to concentrate on my other job.

‘Are you better?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said a deep, gritty voice.

‘You don’t sound it,’ I said, half-laughing.

‘It doesn’t hurt,’ she growled.

‘The receptionist said you were hungover.’

‘I wish.’

I raced through my admin and was about to get the coffees when the team leader came over with a wad of papers.

‘Saffron, these are the documents we need to attach to the business account you opened yesterday to make it active. Do you want to do it?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Elisa, have you got time to show her?’

‘Only if you promise not to give her my job,’ replied Elisa, before looking across at me and saying, ‘Teacher’s pet,’ still in a gravelly voice, utterly at odds with her pretty face.

More laughing.

Elisa showed me the ropes, and as she had a few more new customers waiting to be processed she gave me those too.

‘I’ll get the coffees, you do the work, keener,’ she said.

‘Yes, boss,’ I said, in what I hoped was a Southern drawl. Banter was good.

Like all the other jobs at SendEx, it was simply a case of working through the screens, putting the right information in the right place. I activated the theatrical
make-up man’s account, drank my coffee and had the obligatory ten-minute chat with Elisa, and then did the three others that she’d given me. One of them was shipping hazardous materials that needed special labels, like my parcels would – handy to know how to prepare the documentation for that.

To check I’d done it all correctly, I went to the list of business accounts. The new ones hadn’t shown up, so I refreshed the page.

‘Elisa, I’ve done what you said, but the accounts still aren’t live.’

‘They need to be signed off by a senior manager,’ she said, getting up and coming round to my desk.

She logged me out and logged in as Liam, typing in his password as quickly as she did her own. I memorised the pattern her fingers made – easier than trying to get the actual password in one go. The new accounts had red boxes by them that turned green when she clicked them.

‘All done.’

‘Don’t you get in trouble for doing that?’ I asked.

‘Liam takes too long to get round to things. He knows I do it.’

‘So should I ask him or you?’

‘Depends if you want it done today or in a week.’ Raised eyebrows, plucked to form a perfect arch.

She went back to her desk. I practised mimicking the way she’d typed Liam’s password and then tried it out for real. Worked a treat.

Back on my login, I called up the list of business accounts. Halfway down I’d seen a name I recognised. I accessed their account.

Gadget Man had been a customer since 2010, had forty-five stores as well as a website and was in our top twenty in terms of volume. They were invoiced on the first of each month. Last month’s showed that we’d shipped 132 parcels for them, of varying weights and dimensions – over half contained restricted items. My six would never be noticed. It was perfect.

Liam, looking particularly nice in a black-and-grey stripy shirt, came over when I got back from lunch.

‘Thanks for covering for Elisa yesterday.’

‘It’s fine, I like being busy,’ I said.

‘Still all right for tonight?’ he asked in a slightly quieter voice.

I nodded. Despite the voice in my head telling me to be careful, I was looking forward to dinner. Everything was going so well, I deserved some R&R.

Back at Brudenell Road, Freddie was in the kitchen, singing.

‘Hey, Saff! I’m making an omelette, want some?’

I peered at the frying pan.

‘Going out for something a bit more swanky, sorry.’

‘With the guy from work?’

‘Maybe …’

‘Shouldn’t mix business with pleasure,’ he said.

‘You really should, Freddie. It makes the day go so much faster.’

‘You’re trouble, Saff Anderson!’

‘Not so much,’ I said.

‘Nearly forgot,’ he said, ‘you are in trouble. A policeman came round yesterday – about this time. Something about you running away after a “set-to” with the local drunk.’

‘It was nothing,’ I said. ‘And I didn’t run away, I just didn’t stick around.’

I planted my bum on the edge of the kitchen table. It was easier to look calm sitting down. Inside I was jelly.

‘How did he know where I lived?’

‘Didn’t ask. But he seemed to know you used to work in the pub. Maybe you served him …’

I knew I hadn’t. Mack’s mum must have told him.

‘Anyway, I told him you were at work and he left a card,’ said Freddie. He unclipped it from the fridge and read the name: ‘Sergeant Collins.’

‘Bit of an overeager copper,’ I said.

‘He had an overeager moustache,’ said Freddie, flipping his omelette.

As I got dressed in skinny black jeans and a silky red top, I cursed my bad luck. It was like someone was testing me, showing me how much easier it would be to give up, marry Liam and have cute kids with green-flecked eyes. But that wasn’t an option. After all, Lamyah would never get to have kids.

It was the open day on Saturday. I needed to finalise the composition of the explosive, based on what I found in the labs, then it was time to pin down exactly where my parcels were going. Six journalists would open a box and get a surprise.

The seventh …

Liam asked me to go back to his flat, but I wasn’t ready.

‘Dinner was great,’ I said, ‘but you know … work tomorrow.’

He didn’t put any pressure on – not his style. I got off at the corner of Hyde Park, leaving him on the bus.

Walking back to the house, a full-blown argument was going on in my head. The two opposing positions were:

As long as it doesn’t get in the way, why not enjoy yourself?

versus

Why jeopardise what really matters by getting close to someone?

I fell asleep in a stand-off with myself.

And woke on Friday to find a note from Freddie.

Polly had, as usual, gone to Birmingham for the weekend. I went into Freddie’s room for a nosy, hoping
that ‘yomping’ didn’t require technology. The room was a pit – duvet half on the carpet, mould floating on what was once coffee, boxers …

But there on the desk was his laptop.

Thank you, Freddie.

It was too good an opportunity to miss. I called work and left a message, saying I had a sore throat and wouldn’t be in. Texted Liam saying the same. It was good timing, because I was off to the uni open day in the morning – being ill was the perfect excuse for keeping Liam at arm’s length for a couple of days.

A text pinged back:

Armed with a small, strong coffee, I settled down in front of Freddie’s computer, which he hadn’t bothered to password-protect.

First job was to choose a target for the bomb itself. I downloaded a Tor browser to scramble the source IP address and got Googling.

Typing ‘military UAV manufacturers’ into the search box was immediately fruitful. It wasn’t as niche a market as I’d expected – there were quite a few, but one stood out. A company well known for flying holidaymakers across the Atlantic – that had obviously diversified. I used an SQL injection exploit to get inside
the firewall and rummage, looking for the home address of the chief executive – I didn’t want the bomb exploding in a deserted post room. I found it, and then checked the rest of his HR records. He had a family, a week’s holiday booked for August and a medical overdue. There was a photo – a man with grey hair and a tanned face, wearing a crisp navy-and-white checked shirt.

Don’t think about the individual, think about society.

I replaced the image with the Frederick Douglass quote that had stayed with me:

…
they want the ocean without the awful roar, they want rain without thunder and lightning
…

I moved on to the journalists.

The six largest cities in the US, according to Wikipedia, were New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Philadelphia, Phoenix. I jotted down the names of journalists working in each of them, and then scanned examples of their work. I whittled the list down, based on the size of publication they worked for and what I could deduce about their politics. The last step was to hack into their Facebook accounts and LinkedIn profiles to really get to know them.

I made a second coffee, reviewed the information and made my choices. I copied the names and addresses onto the sheet of A4 below the chief exec’s details.

The last job was to pick five innocent victims of drone strikes to focus the journalists’ attention. I chose carefully, looking for the most heart-rending cases. The
sixth victim was, of course, my Lamyah. I didn’t think Jaddah would like having her photo stuck on a drone, given that she’d never left the village, but her story was intertwined with Lamyah’s.

Their faces came shooting out of Freddie’s printer, but I didn’t look at them.

By three in the afternoon, I was finished – browsing history erased, Tor uninstalled, laptop back where I found it.

I’d been sitting for too long, so I went to find food and fresh air.

But instead found Mack.

Mack was sitting on a bench. I was so convinced he’d died of strep A, it took me a moment to speak.

‘Where have you been, Mack?’

‘With a foster carer.’

That explained the clean jeans and T-shirt.

‘You look good,’ I said.

‘Can we get something to eat?’

‘Sure can. I think we deserve a cake.’

We went to Chichini’s and were served by the black-hair-with-a-white-stripe-down-the-middle waitress as usual.

‘Was it nice at the foster place?’ I asked.

‘They had toilet wipes,’ he said.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say about it?’

Mack took a bite of chocolate brownie.

‘And made me do Play-Doh.’

‘That sounds nice.’

‘Play-Doh’s for kids,’ he said.

‘And you are?’

‘Mack,’ he said, as though I was stupid.

‘So you’re back with your mum, now?’

‘Can I take one home for her?’

‘A brownie?’

He nodded. Things had obviously improved.

While Mack finished his coffee I bought two takeaway brownies, more than happy to invest in his relationship with his mum.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the paper bag. ‘I missed you, Saff.’

I’d missed him too, but wasn’t about to say so.

‘Do you remember when we first met?’ I asked.

‘At the station.’

‘I said “when”, not “where”.’

‘Christmas, wasn’t it?’ He clearly didn’t have a clue, which was good, because it meant I didn’t need to worry about him landing me in it.

The Saturday of the open day was rainy, so I wore a silly spotted Cath Kidston cagoule. I’d got quite good at buying things that Saffron liked, but Samiya wouldn’t have been seen dead in. Saffron had what
Grazia
would call ‘a capsule wardrobe’ for work, a lot of red and pink for play and an over-flowing make-up bag. I despised the articles in the magazines – obsessed with celebrity – but Saffron Anderson quite liked them. She bought it every week – part of the disguise, she told herself. A fashion-conscious, sociable twenty-something, as opposed to a jeans-and-Converse loner with an agenda bigger and more dangerous than most people’s imaginations.

As I crossed Clarendon Road to cut through campus, I mentally rehearsed my story. I was meant to be an eager sixth-former deciding what institution to spend all my parents’ hard-earned money on. Even though I was only interested in the chemistry department, for appearances’ sake I’d booked the finance talk, the accommodation tour, the societies and clubs talk and the campus tour. My schedule for the day started at nine-thirty and ended at three-thirty – lecture in the
chemistry department by Professor Molecule or whoever.

I clutched my A4 notebook and tried to get into character, which wasn’t difficult. All I had to do was turn back time.

I got talking to a sweet boy from Manchester and a girl from Glasgow. I told them I was from Coventry – a random choice based on it not being either of their hometowns. We’d all booked the same morning talks so stayed as a three, eating lunch in the union building. After the finance session, we said our goodbyes and I headed to the chemistry department, keen to be early for the lecture.

‘I’m here for chemistry,’ I said to the student at the door.

‘Take a seat.’ He gestured towards the empty lecture theatre.

‘I’m always too early.’ I shrugged. ‘Are you a chemistry student?’

‘Yes,’ he said. Not overly chatty.

‘Can you tell me a bit about it?’

He blathered on, a bit flustered and incoherent. A few more people started to arrive.

‘I’d better man the doors,’ he said, desperate to get rid of me.

‘Yes, sorry, of course.’ I paused. ‘Do you think you could show me around the labs … maybe afterwards?’

A long pause. He didn’t want to. Stupid four-eyed boffin. I’d made a bad choice. Thought he’d be flattered. Should have waited for a more confident-looking target.

‘Are there any loos near here?’ I asked.

He gave me directions.

The lecture theatre had doors both sides. I went the long way round and tried again.

‘It’s a huge room, isn’t it?’

This time the geek on the door at least met my eyes.

‘Chemistry’s popular. A hundred and fifty students in most lectures.’

‘Bit of a step up from school,’ I said. Saffron seemed to have decided to be in awe.

‘It doesn’t feel big, not once you get to know your course.’ He smiled.

We carried on the chitchat for a few minutes. I was aware of several other inquisitive types queuing to ask my guy an almost certainly pointless question.

‘I’d really like to see the labs. I don’t suppose you could show me?’

‘I’m afraid the lecture’s about to —’

‘I meant afterwards.’

He didn’t stop for breath. ‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Great,’ I said, giving him a winning smile. ‘I’m Saffron. See you later …’

The room was filling up. I left him to deal with the others and took a seat.

It was so dull, it was almost funny. Grey man. Grey suit. Powerpoint slides circa the millennium.

I feigned interest, just in case my doorman was watching me.

Forty-five minutes later the Prof handed over to one of his puppets for question time. Hands popped up all over. Mostly keeners trying to show off their knowledge:

‘I’m particularly interested in supramolecular chemistry and was wondering if there is any research …?’

‘Does the university contribute to the debate on global warming, and particularly the controversy surrounding …?’

(I was self-aware enough to know that my disdain was, in fact, envy. I’d never get the chance to be the know-all in the auditorium.)

When it was finally over, it took another age for me to edge along my row, because the lot coming down the aisle from the seats further back weren’t letting people in.

‘Samiya!’

The use of my super-dangerous forever-discarded name made my heart rate rocket. I looked down, suddenly interested in my pad of paper. It had to be a coincidence – there was obviously another girl of Arabic extraction somewhere close by. I tried to keep hold of the sound of the voice to work out if I recognised it, but my brain had shut down. Fight or flight – that was all I was capable of.

We shuffled forward agonisingly slowly. I was two people away from the aisle. Two people away from escaping. The temptation to look was overwhelming, but I resisted. If, by some incredibly bad bit of luck, it was someone who knew me, the last thing I should do was face them.

I pushed my way into the bottleneck by the entrance.

‘Samiya!’ It was louder this time. And definitely male.

Run. Run. Run.

Like a bull, I charged through the three-deep crowd. In the corridor there was more room to move. I dodged and weaved, walking fast. At the corner, my caution deserted me. I
had
to know.

I turned and scanned the would-be chemists.

In my panic, they all looked familiar.

I put the hood up on my cagoule and headed for home, terrified that someone from school had been in the audience.

As I turned into Brudenell Road, I forced my runaway thoughts into some sort of order. If whoever shouted my name was certain it was me, surely he wouldn’t have let me slide away so easily? Everyone from Buckingham knew I was Dronejacker, a wanted criminal, so wouldn’t he have called for security? Chances were he was unsure. Unsure I could deal with. In a few hours, he’d be back where he came from.

My heart rate dropped back down to seventy beats a minute, from about a zillion.