Alias (18 page)

I was at the storage unit by six in the morning on Tuesday, which gave me at least two hours before Alan was due to arrive. Didn’t want to risk him jamming his steel toecaps in the door to offer me
another
discount.

The only way I could even begin to make the explosive was by imagining it was a cake. I added each ingredient to the bucket I’d bought from Wilko and stirred, slowly and carefully, using the stainless-steel spatula. When the mixture looked uniform, I packed it tightly into one of the second-hand pressure cookers – chosen at random from the three. Attaching the phone was a bit fiddly, so I ended up taping it onto the handle. With the cooker bubble-wrapped as though it were Swarovski crystal, I turned the phone on and sealed the box. Knowing that all I had to do was ring or text the number and it would explode was both terrifying and unbelievable. I had to resist the urge to try it out, like people with vertigo who lean over balconies.

I attached the labels and the paperwork to each of the seven parcels. There for all to see were the details of the sender, Gadget Man, and the recipient, a description of the contents and the warning about the lithium
battery. In the see-through docket were the customs documents and the invoice.

I left the pile of boxes in the centre and locked up.

On the way into work, I rang the same taxi driver that I’d used before and arranged for him to pick me up round the corner from SendEx at twelve-thirty-five.

If I’d thought the day before was bad, Tuesday was a thousand times worse. I struggled to act normally. The coffee in my cup slopped over the edge. My fingers couldn’t type. And unless I hooked my feet round the legs of my chair, my whole lower body fidgeted.

‘Are you ill?’ asked Elisa. ‘Or on drugs?’

‘Neither,’ I said, and then thought better of it. ‘I might have a temperature.’

‘Don’t come near me, then.’

I kept my head down, pretending to work. A hand on my shoulder made me flinch.

‘Steady,’ said Liam, ‘or HR’ll accuse me of harassment.’

‘I was thinking,’ I said.

He sat on the edge of my desk, relaxed and happy. I was the opposite.

‘About me?’ he asked.

I nodded. Normally I’d have made some sort of quip. But my wit and humour were off sick.

‘You all right?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘But I’d better get on.’ It was an entirely fake conversation.

Bang on twelve-thirty, I left the office.

‘Can you take me to the storage unit on Kirkstall Road to get some boxes and then drop me and them off in town?’

‘Got any money today?’ asked the driver.

‘Of course.’

‘It’ll be my pleasure, then.’

There wasn’t much traffic, so minutes later we were there.

I jumped out of the taxi and was about to put in the entry code when the door opened. It was Alan, with a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter at the ready.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘If it isn’t Picasso,’ he said, before looking over at the taxi. ‘That yours?’

‘I’m just picking up some … pieces I’ve made that are going to be exhibited. They’re boxed up.’

‘Need a hand?’ he said.

‘No, I’m fine. Thank you.’

I went to my unit, unlocked the door and slid in. Took a few breaths. Dropped my shoulders. Wiped my damp armpits on some kitchen roll. The meter was ticking. I only had an hour for lunch. I needed to get going.

I picked up three of the boxes going to journalists and carried them out. I wanted to lock my door, but it would have been far too suspicious.

Alan was chatting to the driver, who’d turned the engine off and got out of the taxi.

‘Let me,’ said the driver, taking the pile out of my arms. He put them in the boot. I went to get the next batch. Alan, shamed into helping, stubbed out his cigarette and followed me inside.

‘How many more have you got?’ he asked.

I had no answer. My mind was desperately trying to think of a way to stop him stealing another glance at my bomb-maker’s den. Pressure cookers, empty cold-pack wrappers, packing materials …

‘I’m not sure …’

The phone rang in his pocket.

‘Go ahead and get it,’ I said. ‘I can manage.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He carried on past my unit towards his office.

I took the other three out to the taxi and ran back to get the heavy one – the bomb – locking the door as I left.

I jumped in the back, super-relieved to be seeing the back of Alan.

‘Where to?’

I gave the driver the address of the shop where SendEx would, as per my paperwork, be expecting to pick up the parcels. He parked on double yellows, right outside, with his hazard lights flashing.

Between us we carried the boxes into the drop-off shop and stacked them by the till.

‘Thank you,’ I said as he left with his fare and a small tip.

I handed over the parcels to the shop assistant, one
at a time. The guy was very slow. Checking everything. He was so intent on the task he didn’t seem to notice me. Good. I studied him. Six foot, slopey-shouldered, a name tattooed on the inside of his wrist.

The fourth parcel, addressed to the chief exec of the drone manufacturer, was the loaded one. An X-ray would reveal exactly what it was, but there wasn’t time to screen every single parcel. Fate was in charge of that aspect, but having Gadget Man down as its sender gave it its best chance.

‘Next?’

He processed the last three and gave me the receipts.

It was surreal – as easy as returning an unwanted kettle to Tesco Direct. Yet in a day’s time six journalists were going to be dropping everything to cover the story. Maybe one of them would make it their life’s work to stop the drone wars – there was a constant stream of new material.

Eighteen male labourers, including a boy, were killed when missiles struck a tent they’d gathered in for their evening meal.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ asked the man on the till.

‘No, thank you.’

I had twenty minutes before I was due back at work. Food was out of the question – I’d choke for sure. Instead, I went into Harvey Nicks and looked at all the cashmere jumpers, pretending to choose one for
Liam. It was frivolous but kept me occupied. The alternative was to dwell on what I’d just done, and that was out of the question. In between comparing shades of baby blue and turquoise, I tried to remember all the stuff Sayge had quoted about how nothing changes without a struggle. But already something like a conscience was bothering me. The bomb wouldn’t explode on its own. If I didn’t ring the number, it would just be a full-up pressure cooker …

And I’d have ruined my whole life for nothing, said the part of me I was more used to hearing. And kids and grandparents and mums and dads would carry on dying in the most despicable way …

I remembered Lamyah taking my hand that first day in Yemen, when the strangeness was overwhelming … Her hand was nothing more than fertiliser now.

I had to force myself to walk back into the building. Until I could see on the SendEx tracking system that the parcels had cleared American customs, I needed to keep Saffron Anderson doing what she did. But it wasn’t easy. I was as pale as a ghost. And struggling to hold it all together. It was nothing like the exhilaration I’d felt when the drone was in my control.

I stared at my screen without seeing. Looked across at Elisa but couldn’t find anything to say. A wave of nausea came over me.

I went to the loo and sat on the seat.

If I didn’t get a grip, people would notice.

I washed my hands. In the mirror above the sink I could see my old self starting to come through. The blonde highlights had grown out and darkened, and my fringe had become so long I’d had to change it to a side parting and tuck it behind my ear. Memories hovered in my peripheral vision, but I didn’t let them come into focus.

‘Seeing Freddie tonight?’ I asked Elisa as I sat back down at my desk. Steady voice.

‘Yes, but not till you’ve finished with him.’

It took me a sec.

‘Oh … I’m glad he’s taking our house meals seriously.’

‘It suits me too – I’m having my hair cut.’

I needed to get mine cut too. When Dronejacker was hurtled back onto the front page, the press would have a field day. This time I’d be the subject of an Interpol Red Notice – only used for the most deadly criminals. At that point, I needed to look as unlike Samiya and Saffron as possible. Red hair, blue contact lenses, maybe I’d get a tattoo on my neck and ear stretchers, and wear vintage leather and Dr Martens.

‘I’ll make sure tea’s early,’ I said.

The small talk helped the afternoon pass. Liam was in a meeting, which was a blessing. I didn’t want him interrogating me about my strange mood. There was only tomorrow to get through, and then I’d never see him again. It was like being a suicide bomber, except, instead of heaven for the faithful, I had the prospect of a life where no one would ever truly know me.

Before I left the office, I input the tracking numbers from my receipts to see where the parcels were. Safely on their way to the freight terminal at the airport, as expected. I didn’t feel pleased. I felt numb.

The meeting-room door was shut, but I glanced through the window as I passed by. Liam was standing up, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbow. He finished what he was saying and smiled at the audience. I looked away.

As I walked home I ran through the timetable.

If it all went according to plan, the journalists would receive their parcels between noon and five, local UK time, tomorrow. The bomb was scheduled to arrive before nine in the evening on Thursday. I’d added a command to the SendEx tracking system so that when the chief exec, or his wife, signed for the package a notification SMS would automatically be sent to my phone. All I had to do was make the call to the detonator and wait for the connection.

Bang!

As soon as I knew the bomb was on an American truck, I needed to get well away from Leeds. I tried to imagine myself on the train to Edinburgh, flushed with success. But couldn’t get rid of a sense of doom. Was it leaving Liam? Or the memory of taping the last label on the heaviest of the boxes? Knowing what that meant.

Distract yourself, Saffron.

Food.

I cycled through recipes in my head.

In Sainsbury’s I bought all the ingredients for Thai green chicken curry. Making the paste would take a while without a food mixer. Suited me.

Freddie came home to find me crushing coriander seeds in a mortar and pestle.

‘You’ve got a good technique going there, Saff.’

‘Plenty of practice,’ I said.

He watched me peel, grate and chop.

‘Sorry about Friday,’ he said as I was zesting a lime.

‘No need to apologise.’

The paste was starting to smell good, much better than any bought version.

‘Elisa told me off,’ he said.

‘What for?’

It was very unlike Freddie to be so serious. Our relationship was based on banter.

‘She said if you have secrets, it’s no one else’s business.’

‘She’s right,’ I said.

‘I should have known better. After all, I’m really a Russky spy.’

That was more like it.

Dinner was ready by a quarter to seven. Polly was much more talkative than normal because her boyfriend had agreed to move to Leeds.

‘He’s going to start looking right away,’ she said.

‘Don’t forget to give me notice if you’re moving out,’ said Freddie.

It was
my
last night, but he didn’t know it. I did a mental inventory of my room. No more than ten minutes and I’d be ready to go.

‘Great curry, Saffron,’ said Polly.

‘Thanks.’

I managed to eat my whole bowl, partly because it didn’t need much chewing or swallowing, and partly
because sitting with the two of them gave me a false sense of normality. If I could keep hold of that, maybe I’d survive the next forty-eight hours. The most important forty-eight hours of my life.

Polly cleared up as per the agreement. Freddie went to change before his ‘date’ with Elisa. I went to my room. The proof of my next alias was where it had been ever since I came to Leeds, hidden under the rigid bottom of my rucksack. I put my cash there too. I wasn’t taking much else. A few summer clothes to keep me going. My purse with the precious photo tucked out of sight. My all-important phone with the number of the other phone – the one taped to the pressure cooker – stored under B (for Bomb).

I ran through the shape of the next day, getting it straight in my head.

Act like it’s a normal day at the office, check the status of the parcels periodically.

As soon as the parcels have cleared the airport, leave work saying there’s a family crisis and you might be away for a few days. Knowing your situation, no one will dare question what that means.

Empty Saffron’s bank account on the way home.

(Home – where would home be next?)

Pick up the rucksack and some clothes.

Leave a note for Freddie with the same excuse.

Get to Leeds train station tout de suite.

Quadcopters and warnings delivered to journalists Wednesday afternoon UK time.

Chaos.

Wait for text confirming parcel signed for Thursday evening UK time.

Call the number.

The last step didn’t need itemising. I’d been building up to it for nearly two years. I knew what it was.

I heard the door slam shut and Freddie whistle his way into the distance. Ran a bath and dunked my whole body in it. I tried to enjoy the feeling of the hot water, but relaxing was out of the question. I gave up, put on my checked pyjama bottoms and a maroon vest and sat on my bed.

I had a whole evening to spend torturing myself by over-thinking the bomb, the fallout, my life, drone pilots, victims …

I went downstairs, hoping for some mind-numbing telly. Polly was playing music – couldn’t tell what. I shut it out with the living-room door.

The controls were scattered among the furniture as usual. I turned on the set, the amp and the cable box.

The picture sprang to life. I pressed Guide and up came the TV schedule. I scanned the titles. The amp continued to play the soundtrack of whatever channel Freddie was last tuned to.

‘So, Dan, how did you feel when the extradition order was withdrawn?’

I can’t have heard right. Nerves getting the better of me. But I pressed Back just the same.

There was Dan Langley – tall, skinny, dark hair, dark T-shirt – sitting on a sofa, being interviewed by a woman with neat blonde hair and clever glasses. I sat cross-legged on the floor, bang in front of them.

‘It felt incredible,’ he said. ‘I was sitting with my mum and then my lawyer turned up and said it was all over. I would’ve cried … but my girlfriend was there.’

I pressed the button for programme information, desperate to understand what I was watching.

It was a documentary called
Faces of Extradition
, following the cases of four Britons who were wanted in other countries. I didn’t know whether to stay or run. My pulse was so fast it was more of a flutter than a beat.

Think, Saffron.

‘Did you really believe you were about to be extradited to the United States and tried?’ asked the interviewer.

‘I did. It’s been all over the news, so there’s no point denying anything – I
was
guilty of hacking the drone.’

‘To be clear, Dan, it was a military drone.’

He grimaced.

I decided I needed to watch. At least then I’d know what they were saying about me, if anything. No one knew anything about the bomb. It was coincidence that the programme was on tonight of all nights –
nothing more sinister. Weird, though. Dan on telly one day, Dronejacker all over it the next.

Dan gave a short explanation of how he met ‘Angel’, and his surprise when I turned out to be a girl.

‘It’s hard to explain how you can end up close to people you’ve never met in real life, but we did. Finding out Angel was a girl was like … what the hell?’

I’d only ever seen photos of him where he looked like a bit of a dork – but he was actually quite cute.

The interviewer was keen to know how he felt about Angel now.

‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘I know she tried to fire a missile at London and I should hate her, but if someone massacred my family, I don’t know how I’d feel. I know I’m meant to condemn her but … we got on.’

Despite the fact that I was in shock at hearing myself discussed on telly, his comments trickled through to the memory of all the fun we’d had together. Of how much I’d liked him, until …

The interviewer turned to face me.

‘Angel, whose real name is Samiya …’

I listened to her summarise my story, from growing up in Buckingham to the collateral murders to the foiled drone strike, which I was ‘alleged’ to have masterminded. I relaxed ever so slightly. ‘Alleged’ was good. No new information.

‘Dan, it was your actions that led to the discovery of Angel’s base in a house in Norfolk. Your bravery.’

Dan described, in a deadpan fashion, how he’d
located my mobile phone – but it still sounded stratospherically clever. She didn’t comment, presumably because she didn’t understand, instead moving on to the fact that I was still ‘at large’.

Her final question to Dan was, ‘Angel has disappeared – she’s presumed to be in the Middle East. Do you think she might be out there planning another revenge attack?’

Stupid question. What did he know!

‘I hope not. Can I just say that I only agreed to be interviewed to have a chance to say sorry to my family, to Ruby and to the people of London who were scared that day. I —’

The camera cut back to the interviewer.

‘Thank you, Dan.’

She was getting ready to move on to the next extradition story, after the ad break.

I thought I might make a cup of tea, but then another face filled the screen and I had to smother the urge to scream.