AN: Taking inspiration from Pterry's book, Night Watch, and also a recent documentary by a French journalist that was quite scary to watch. I'm not very comfortable with this story, but it was the only thing I could think of with the prompt, "A good day for someone else to die" (week two, SpyFest Revival 2016). I'm very sorry if this story upsets people.
Also snuck in a quotation from Anthony Horowitz's new TV series New Blood, so consider this the disclaimer for that.
Alex looked doubtfully at the small pill held in Smither's hand. "Here goes nothing," he said, and took it. "How soon should I see the effects?"
"You'll see them in the morning when you wake up," Smithers said. "It takes some time for your melanocytes to start producing more melanin, but the way the drugs work – they target DNA transcription – means that they'll work long-term. You tan normally, I take it?"
"Shouldn't you have asked me this before I took the pill?" asked Alex wryly.
Smithers smiled. "Well, it doesn't really matter, my boy. The tanning pills you hear about on the internet stimulate melanin production; our tanning pills also stimulate melanocyte proliferation."
"Isn't that a bit risky? I could get cancer from that."
"You could, but we've tested this thoroughly, and I don't think you will. It's a bit ironic, since cancer of the melanocytes – melanoma – is the most dangerous skin cancer of all."
"That's reassuring."
The large man clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder. "Don't think like that, Alex! We've the best testing labs in Britain here. Don't worry. In the morning you'll find you feel like a whole new person," he chuckled.
"Like you, then?" said Alex.
"More than you think." Smithers sobered. "I was a youth during The Troubles, on my first job for MI6 – I was a field agent, you know – so I know what it'll be like."
"I didn't know."
"Now you do," said Smithers. "Come on, I've got a room for you to sleep here overnight. Just in case anything goes wrong." He laughed heartily and not at all sympathetically at Alex's chagrined glare.
The next day, Alex stared into dark, almost black eyes, set in a dark face. He scowled, and the face scowled too.
"Morning," came Smithers' voice from the doorway.
Alex looked up. "Do you have cameras, or something? How did you know I was awake?"
Smithers drew his eyebrows together. "Of course not! I respect your privacy completely. No cameras, just sensors to measure your breathing, and to monitor the pressure of your body in bed, and your feet on the floor. Plus, a motion detector in the mirror."
"Complete privacy," muttered Alex.
"Exactly. I'll just set your nose and curl your hair, and then you'll be all set," Smithers said.
"Did you ever wonder what it'd be like to be a beautician?"
"I did," said Smithers, "but I thought the atmosphere wouldn't flatter my style. What do you want for breakfast?"
"You're giving me breakfast?"
"You can eat while you wait for the nose and hair to dry and become semi-permanent," Smithers explained as he started mixing up a viscous paste.
"I'll have whatever's available, then."
"Coffee, black, and a croissant it is, then," said Smithers happily. "Now, sit still."
The whole process took over an hour, and Alex was feeling thoroughly sick of sitting still and not scratching by the time it was over. Eventually, however, he was told that he was finally free to move.
"Good luck," said Smithers, waving him out the door. "Your next contact will meet you in Newham, in the market. He'll be wearing a red cap. You'll know him by the code."
Alex nodded. As he passed out of the gadget master's domain, and into the halls of the bank, he felt a strange shiver of apprehension. This wasn't like his previous missions. He didn't know who this person was that he was pretending to be. He didn't know how others would treat him, how he should react. But he shouldered his battered sports bag, and ignored the curious glances that were sent his way. Maybe it was just his imagination and nervousness, but he felt like there were a lot more of them than normal. More than just the interest in seeing someone so young. This was the heaviest disguise he had ever worn, and he could feel it caked on his skin, in his too-dark fringe, shading his eyes.
When he finally got out of the bank, he breathed a sigh of relief, and then took a deep breath, because now his mission had started.
First things first, he had to find his contact.
The smell of the market was like Cairo in the cold. Cumin, coriander and other spices he couldn't name wafted over the air, with a distinct English undertone of rain earthing the musty incense. The crowd hum was overlayed with purring cars, rather than the urgent beeping of car horns. He brushed his wet hair back, and duck from the stall he was under to the next one, and tried to peer into the darkness.
"Sayyad," came a voice from behind him.
Alex jumped, and turned around. He looked the red-hatted stranger up and down and, feeling slightly foolish, spoke the passcode. "Is that a name, or a greeting?"
"As-salamu alaykum," said the man, taking off his red hat.
"Salaam alaykum," Alex replied.
The man held out a key to him. "Here's your house key," he said. "It's a student flat. The building name—" He indicated the tiny label on the key. Unite Students – Angel Lane.
"Thanks."
"Good luck."
Alex got his phone out – a new phone, from Smithers, with his new identity crafted within it – and searched the location. It wasn't too far away, and there was a park nearby, where he could conduct his business. Nearby was the university Alex was ostensibly attending.
He began walking to the tube station.
The mission was internal, this time. For the moment, Britain was relatively secure from outside threats, and the bank's normal agents were collecting enough intelligence for the time being. Somehow MI5 had learnt of Alex's position in MI6, and had asked for Alex's help working in the country. The problem they had was that they could supply agents to infiltrate cells of men aged thirty and above; the leaders, as it were. However, this was very difficult work, and more often than not, they were unable to get far enough. They had eventually determined that the weak spot would be in the new recruits of the cells. The youngest members, most of whom were only just starting university.
Hence, Alex. He was to attend university while infiltrating the community and gaining their trust. It was lucky that he had someone back at the bank doing his coursework, because he'd never graduated high school, let alone studied university-level engineering. For the in-class assessment, the teachers had been notified to let him pass, no matter what he wrote down. And for the times when he needed to leave, agents disguised as mature students and tutors would be ready to swear that he had been there.
He hoped it would work. He could imagine the uproar if this network was exposed to the public.
MI5 had organised his life very thoroughly. They signed him up to classes with potential suspects, and even set out a potential mosque where he might find sympathisers to the cause. They even found a set of facebook pages that he could use to gain access elsewhere. Over the course of a few days, they set up several facebook profiles for him, under various aliases. Apparently, this was what other sympathisers did, to avoid detection.
It was amazing the level of support that he was given. When Alex was invited to a facebook analogue, populated only by sympathisers, he already knew the name of the website, and had been expecting the invitation. When he communicated with others, he had the support of a trained hostage negotiator helping him in his interactions. It made the job much less stressful, and surprisingly, he began to enjoy going to class and making friends. All the right friends, of course.
When he dressed a certain way, acted a certain way, it was easier to make friends with some people than others. It wasn't so much a conscious decision of the people around him, but natural movement based on senses of kinship. His friends now attended mosques, chose Islamic names for themselves, and grew their beards long. Alex excused the last by saying that he couldn't grow a beard yet – they had laughed, but accepted the fact because of his high school-aged face.
Every morning, he looked in the mirror, and wondered what he was doing.
At the mosque, he had some friends from university, and some new ones, that he only knew from the mosque. He learned which ones gathered after every session to talk about how the weak older generations – the apostates, they were called – had strayed from the texts and he began to talk with these ones more. He made a good friend, who called himself Sabir. His birth name was Sam.
Sabir went to university with Alex, and upon learning this, began to attend lectures with Alex. They ate lunch together, and Alex even invited him around to his flat. When they had to talk privately, they went to the park nearby, and chatted while they watched the birds peck at the ground. Sabir liked walking outside. He had parents at home, but felt estranged, even before he discovered this new way of life.
The greatest thing he was excited about was girls. He loved watching them, loved hearing them speak, but was much too shy to go up to them, and was conflicted because of his new beliefs. His new beliefs that told him he could have all the girls he wanted, if only he did certain things relayed to him by the shadowed and revered leaders of their cause. Every so often, he'd bring up this topic, and Alex had to sit, sick to his stomach, listening to him rant on.
It was like a bad fantasy novel from the eighties, with a very literal call to action in the beginning.
Every night, Alex scrolled through messages detailing what the believers wanted to do to non-believers, and suggestions for attacks. He participated in discussions on where to find weapons that worked.
Some nights, he woke up retching.
After weeks of laying low and establishing his cover, the moment came. He hated this long mission. He wasn't cut out for subtle activity, trying forever not to slip up. It was obvious, now, that he was made for quick action; act and react, and then get out.
Well, this was his chance.
Sabir and he had joined a new cell under a man who had recently been in prison. This man had been in touch with one of the shadowy leaders of operations, and had come up with a plan.
First, Sabir was tested with a letter he picked up from a woman at the station, and then delivered. There had been details in the letter that he wasn't to divulge when reporting the contents of the letter – after burning it – to the cell's leader.
Alex himself had been told to fetch a weapon, but not tell the cell's leader where he subsequently hid it.
Both times, the cell leader had known exactly what was going on, and thus knew he could trust them when they followed their orders to the letter. The weapon turned out to be a fake.
On the night that Alex was issued his orders for the real plan, he sat up all night, debating what to do. Should he tell MI5, who would act, but likely miss all the big players of the cell – and what if the attack never actually happened? What if it was pulled off, and then the presence of MI5 would show there was a spy in the midst – or should he try to minimise the harm as much as he could? This attack seemed real. It seemed like it would go ahead, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe it was another test.
The TV coverage of the Paris attacks echoed in the background.
He didn't sleep that night. He'd bought a bag of fertiliser. It hadn't seemed like much.
Next morning, Alex contacted Sabir, who asked to meet him in the park.
The cell was going on a cleansing spiritual trip to the Brecon Beacons, where it was told that the Territorial Army would be going for training. Everyone was to shave their beards as part of taqiya – concealment of their religion in the face of persecution – and to dress in shorts and t-shirts.
Alex was to create a distraction.
Sabir was to create an explosion.
He didn't seem to mind. Alex knew that Sabir didn't have a happy home life, had felt persecution at his high school. He hadn't realised that Sabir's hatred for life had run so deep. It was like – it was as though Sabir viewed his current life like a trial, and that his proper life, the good life, would come next, if he just did the right thing – if he just followed the instructions of those shadowy leaders.
It was a way to explain the disproportionately large amount of bad things in Sabir's life that he endlessly complained about. Alex couldn't help but think that moving past the bad things and perceiving the normal things as good would make one feel disproportionately lucky, and thus much happier. But it was difficult when life had swamped you with unhappiness since birth.
Sabir was excited for what came next. Alex, who had seen death before, witnessed the loss of life, hated to watch him enthuse about something so hollow.
Eventually, he had to say something. "Sabir, don't you find it strange that you were asked to do the deed? Not someone more deserving of eternal happiness?" Harsh words, but Sabir was used to them.
"The emir, you mean?" Sabir asked. "He's needed to organise other things. He says it'll be a good day to die."
"Then why doesn't he volunteer?" said Alex. "Surely we can achieve our goals without any of us dying. He doesn't mean it's a good day to die in general. He means it's a good day for us – for you – to die."
Sabir frowned. "Why are you talking like this, man? I thought you agreed with me!"
"I do," Alex said quietly. "But you're my friend and I don't want you to go. What am I supposed to do without you? I don't really know anyone else in the group, and I'm worried they'll kick me out because I look too young."
"They wouldn't do that," said Sabir. "We need all the believers that we can get."
"I think they will, though," said Alex. "They only accepted me because you were with me."
"Just wait until you're older, then."
"But after the attack, they'll disband, and I might not find another group."
"You will," said Sabir, and then he didn't want to talk any more.
Alex didn't get to talk to Sabir again before the day of the attack. He didn't get to talk to Sabir after the attack, either. He'd talked to MI5 instead, and they'd managed to get the soldiers – just the soldiers – to safety.
"It was a good day to die," offered the emir that night on Sabir's now memorialised wall. Alex studied the man's empty profile.
You mean, a good day for someone else to die.