The Infiltrator

GCHQ needed someone to go undercover to find out what they were planning, and they picked the wrong person for the job.

“I don’t do this kind of thing. I’m just a translator.”

Trevor stared disbelievingly at Simon, who sat behind his large mahogany desk peering over the top of the spectacles that he wore on a chain.

“We’re very impressed with you, Trevor. It’s not just your skills with Arabic and Russian that we like. You’re patient, persistent, and very good with people. You’ve been with GCHQ two years now, I think?”

“Must be about that. But don’t you have people who are specially trained in infiltration?”

“We happen to have a couple of people who could probably do the job, were it not for certain, shall we say, characteristics that unfortunately render them unsuitable for this particular task. I want you to give it serious thought. Of course the job would come with a significant pay increase, but more than that, you’d be helping to make Britain safe. We believe the group in question poses a significant threat to our national security. To put it bluntly, you’d be saving lives.”

Trevor stared blankly into the distance.

“So who are they? Far left? Far right? Islamists? Anarchists?”

“None of those.” said Simon.

Trevor raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“It’s best if we get Janet to explain the whole thing to you. She’s taken responsibility for tracking the group over the past five years. If you’re interested, I can set up a meeting.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued, I admit.” said Trevor. “I assume you need my language skills? That’s why you’re asking me.”

“Not at all. They all speak English.”

Trevor shook his head, baffled.

“Very mysterious. OK then. I’m not promising but I’ll consider it.”

“Wonderful!” said Simon, smiling.

The conference room on the third floor at GCHQ was a sterile place of plastic and glass, with a large LCD screen at the front. Trevor sat with Janet Flemming, Simon Fentiman and a man he hadn’t met before by the name of Rob Spades, who was built like a boxer.

Trevor felt he wouldn’t like to meet Spades in an alleyway on a dark night.

“What I’m about to tell you is highly classified.” said Janet. “It’s very important the group doesn’t know we’re watching them. They’re extremely paranoid and so far we’ve been unable to get any of our people into their inner circle, but we believe we’ve found a route by which it could be done.”

Janet always dressed extremely formally and exuded an air of not brooking any nonsense, and Trevor always felt nervous around her. Her red hair was tied behind her head in a short ponytail.

“We believe they are working on some kind of project.” she continued. “We don’t know what it is, but it’s something big. It could be a bomb, or some sort of mass poisoning. Something that could take a lot of lives.”

She pressed a button and a picture appeared on the screen of some people sitting around a table in a cafe.

“They look like a vegan dance group.” said Trevor.

“Looks can be deceptive.” said Janet.

“These people are psychopaths of the worst type.” grunted Rob. “They’d skin their own grandmothers alive if it’d further their cause. Don’t underestimate them.”

Several of the men in the picture wore manbuns and the two of the women had purple hair.

“Who are they?” said Trevor.

“They call themselves the Crimsonisti.” said Janet. “They are a radical hate group.”

“Who do they hate?” asked Trevor.

“Redheads.” said Janet.

“What?” said Trevor.

“Gingers. Ginger people. People whose hair colouration is red.” said Rob.

Trevor exploded in laughter. Then, seeing that no-one else was laughing, he stopped.

“You’re not serious?” he said.

“We’re entirely serious.” said Simon. “They believe redheads are the source of all evil.”

“That’s absolutely bonkers.” said Trevor.

“Obviously,” said Janet, “but this group is growing rapidly and they are extremely well-organised, highly-motivated, and dangerous. They’re planning something, and we need to know what.”

“How can they possibly be growing at all?” said Trevor. “I mean, the idea’s completely absurd. Why would they hate people for the sake of their hair colour?”

“These extreme groups make no sense in general.” said Simon. “That’s part of the reason why they are so dangerous. They attract people who are unhinged. If they didn’t, we wouldn’t need to worry about them.”

Janet pressed a button on a remote control and a picture of a warehouse somewhere on an industrial estate appeared.

“This is one of many warehouses they’re using to stockpile supplies for the attack they’re planning.” she said. “We haven’t been able to prove that anything dangerous has been shipped to any of them, but it’s clear from communications we’ve intercepted that they are planning something very dangerous.”

She pressed another button and another picture of the group appeared, this time standing around in a gym hall in odd poses.

“They look harmless,” she said, “but they not. You took classes in interpretive dance a few years ago. You’re the perfect person to infiltrate them.”

“I only did that for a bet.” said Trevor. “My friend James bet me fifty quid I wouldn’t be able to stick ten interpretive dance classes.”

“But you did it.” said Rob. “I tried to get in with them but I’m rubbish at interpretive dance.”

“Sarah Robson tried too.” said Janet. “The problem is she’s a redhead like me. They got suspicious about the amount of makeup she had to wear to cover her freckles.”

“I can’t do it.” said Trevor. “When I grow a beard, it comes out slightly ginger.”

“You’ll be clean-shaven at all times.” said Janet. “Trevor, you’re the only person we’ve got who has a chance at penetrating their very core. One of their best-known agitators attends meetings regularly in Nottingham. His names Booth; Roger Booth. You’ve got the right accent; you could pass for a local.”

She pressed the button again and another picture of the Crimsonisti appeared. This time they were sitting outside on a blanket on a river bank.

“Look at the man holding the piece of pitta bread.” said Janet. “That’s Tarquin Withurst. We think he’s their leader. He’s sociopathic, and he’s very, very smart. If you can get close to Booth, maybe you can get close to him, and maybe you can find out what their plans are before they kill anyone.”

Tarquin had long wavy blond hair down to his shoulders and perfectly white teeth. He was wearing a sleeveless vest, exposing a tattoo on his arm of three triangles meeting at a point.

“What we need to know from you is,” said Simon, “will you do it? We’ll create a new identity for you and you’ll have to live undercover for six months. Maybe longer.”

Trevor laughed again.

“OK, I can give it a go.” he said.

“That’s what we want to hear.” said Janet. “You’ll need to read this.” She slid a book towards him across the table. “It’s not comprehensive, but it’s a starting point.”

Trevor looked at the book. It was called, “The Ginger Menace”.

He laughed again, then he looked up and realised no-one else was laughing. The faces of Janet, Simon and Rob bore not the slightest traces of levity. There was an awkward lull in the conversation.

“You will be known as Trevor Smith.” said Simon eventually. He slid a passport to Trevor on the table. “It’s a common enough name that they’d have trouble identifying you. Keeping the same given name will make it easier to slip into the role. We’ve created fake social media profiles. You’re a freelance language tutor who ekes out a living giving language lessons. You advertise in local newspapers.”

He passed Trevor a slim black folder.

“This contains details of your new identity.” he continued. “Familiarise yourself with it inside out. Whatever they ask you, you must be able to reply without hesitation. But you must also hesitate when hesitation might be expected. It’s important not to seem rehearsed.”

“I’ll be responsible for your training.” said Rob. “We’ll do extensive role play before you go anywhere near the Crimsonisti. We need you to be absolutely convincing in your new role. We’ll get you some yoga lessons. They love yoga. But they won’t expect a lot from a neophyte.”

Joining public meetings of the Crimsonisti was easy. They left flyers in libraries and shops, couched in deliberately vague language designed to intrigue, but not to shock. Trevor turned up to the Nottingham meeting with a crumpled flyer in his pocket, one warm August evening, joining more than a dozen others, all sitting on beanbags.

A man stood at the front of the room and began to speak. He was short, rather fat, and had a shock of curly brown hair. His voice, when he spoke, was rather nasal.

“I see some new faces here today, and some old faces.” he said. “My name is Roger Booth and I’d like to introduce those of you who are unfamiliar with our movement to a new way of looking at history. Some of you may be outraged, but I want you to ask yourselves only one question: is what I am saying true. Truth is the only thing that really matters. Unless we know the truth, we can only make bad decisions. To make good decisions, you have to know the truth.

“In 793, England was attacked by marauding thugs. The monastery at Lindisfarne was completely sacked and many of the monks killed or enslaved. It was the first of hundreds of years of brutal raids on England, culminating in a large part of northern and eastern England falling completely under Viking domination for over a century, lasting until after the Norman invasion in 1066.

The Vikings were a race of red-headed Scandinavians, known for their violence and depravity. Of course, the fact that they all had red hair has been suppressed by mainstream historians. Today Vikings are often depicted as blond. Not so.

In 1066 the Normans invaded England, killing our king. Needless to say, William the Conqueror was a ginger. He proceeded to lay waste to entire villages. In Yorkshire, he murdered or starved perhaps a hundred and fifty thousand people. And who were the Normans? The Normans were simply Vikings who had interbred with Franks.

In the 9^th century, the Vikings conquered Slavic states in the East, founding what became modern Russia, eventually leading to the vast evil empire of the USSR. Lenin, of course, was a ginger.

What you have to understand is, red hair is not simply a hair colour. It is an outward sign of our people having interbred with a race of dangerous degenerates.”

At this, three people rose to their feet and left.

“The truth is hard to handle!” Booth shouted at them.

The day after the meeting of the Crimsonisti, Trevor met Janet in her office.

“What are your impressions?” she asked.

“They’re completely crazy.” said Trevor. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to get on with these people. They think redheads are a separate race of people, or something, responsible for all the world’s evils.”

“Have you finished reading The Ginger Menace?” Janet asked.

“I’m halfway through it. I just don’t know how to deal with this level of madness. I’m never going to be able to keep a straight face.”

“Find a way. You need to remember, human lives are at stake here. We have to find out what they’re planning. They will immediately spot any inauthenticity. Try to suspend your disbelief. Imagine you’re paranoid. Try to take everything at face value. Bury your scepticism.”

“It sounds like you’re asking me to actually become one of them.”

“In a way, that’s exactly what we’re asking. The part of your brain that’s rational and sceptical, that part needs to be locked away when you’re at their meetings. It needs to be submerged deeply enough that they can’t detect any trace of it.”

“I’d have to be more than paranoid to believe this nonsense. I’d have to be stupid.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. The majority of the Crimsonisti aren’t the sharpest cookies in the tin, I’ll grant you that, but they do also have people who are highly educated. Smart, eloquent people. You don’t need to be stupid to believe what they believe; you simply need to be paranoid. Try to imagine you’re desperate to blame all of society’s ills on one enemy; someone you can actually fight. Boil all complex issues down to a single enemy within. If someone does something bad and he’s not red-haired, then he must be under the control of the redheads. That’s how you have to think. Look for patterns where there aren’t any patterns.”

Trevor nodded silently.

“The more time you spend around them, the better.” said Janet. “They’ll expect you to be sceptical at first, but listen carefully to everything they say, and try to avoid rationalising too much. You must make it appear to them as though you’re being steadily convinced.”

“Did you know Winston Churchill was a redhead?” said Trevor.

“I didn’t know that.” said Janet.

“I don’t think they like Churchill. Neither Van Gogh. They say Van Gogh painted degenerate art and cut off his ear because he was infected with gingerism.”

He laughed, but Janet remained stony-faced.

For months Trevor religiously attended the Nottingham meetings of the Crimsonisti, gradually making friends among the lower-ranking members. Roger Booth always made a point of turning up to meetings late and leaving early, perhaps to maintain his mystique, and Trevor was never able to exchange more than a few words with him.

After the meetings, the Crimsonisti would often hold yoga sessions, or interpretive dance sessions in which members were encouraged to express their rage against the redheads, but Booth never stayed for them.

Trevor’s colleagues at GCHQ began to grow restless. Again they met for a meeting in the conference room.

“You’re going to have to do something to impress them.” said Simon. “Something that catches their attention.”

Trevor found himself wondering idly what colour Simon’s hair had been before it had turned grey.

“What could he do?” said Rob. “We can’t have him proposing criminal activity himself. The lawyers will say it’s entrapment.”

“Am I right in thinking regular attendees sometimes volunteer to give speeches at these events?” Janet asked.

“Yes, sometimes.” said Trevor. “Local historians or whatever. Usually not very good speeches.”

“I see where you’re going with this, Jan.” said Simon. “We could put together a really good speech for him.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” said Janet. “A really powerful speech. Lots of nonsense all piled together.”

“I could maybe come up with something myself.” said Trevor. “I’m starting to understand what kind of thing they want to hear.”

“Better if we work it out between us.” said Simon. “It needs to be really impressive.”

“Let him do it.” said Rob. “Authentic passion will convince them better than only words. It needs to be written in his own voice. By him.”

“How’s he going to have passion for something he doesn’t believe?” said Janet.

“Obviously the whole thing is completely absurd but they do make some interesting points.” said Trevor. “Did you know 76% of converts to Islam in the UK are ginger?”

The others stopped and stared at him.

“What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?” said Simon.

“No, nothing.” said Trevor. “It’s just kind of striking. I mean, it shows there’s something different about gingers.”

“I’m not comfortable with the term ‘ginger’.” said Janet.

“OK, people with red hair, then.” said Trevor.

“Let him write the speech.” said Rob. “He’ll do a better job than we can.”

At home in the flat GCHQ had temporarily rented for him while he was undercover, Trevor set to work on his speech and found it harder than he expected. He decided to ask his colleagues to help him write it after all, but then at the next meeting of the Crimsonisti, an unexpected opportunity presented itself.

After Booth had finished his speech, he asked for questions from the assembled audience as usual, and somehow a lively debate broke out over the genetic basis of red hair.

Trevor found himself suddenly springing to his feet.

“The latest research shows that gingers have two copies of alleles of the MC1R gene associated with red hair, but not everyone with those alleles is a full-blown ginger.” he said, raising his voice to cut through the racket. “The ginger race was present in the British Isles even 2000 years ago. The Roman historian Tacitus said that Celts had red hair even then. These genes have deeper origins than we have acknowledged.”

His words caused a furore, with Booth unexpectedly taking Trevor’s side.

“He may be right, he may be right.” said Booth, attempting to calm everyone down. “The Vikings may have simply imported further ginger-bearing genes into the population.”

Instead of sitting down, Trevor felt himself inspired by an unholy energy to continue speaking.

“Research shows redheads produce more adrenalin than others. It’s obvious they came here to dominate and subjugate the existing population. They have higher pain tolerance than normal people on average. They are clearly a warrior race!”

The room grew quieter, people watching him expectantly.

“Thomas Jefferson was a redhead.” he said, more quietly. “He was the main person behind the Declaration of Independence that severed our wealthiest colony from its motherland. The ginger is always driven to create division and to seek power.”

This drew hearty cries of agreement from the crowd.

“We must oppose them with all our strength!” he said. “We must never underestimate the strength of our opponent!”

He continued for ten entire minutes, gradually warming to his theme until, by the end, he was shouting to ardent cries of approval from the audience, by which time Booth was sitting, periodically rising to his feet only to cheer or shout assent.

Near the end of the meeting, instead of leaving early as usual, Booth sidled up to Trevor and took him quietly aside.

“You have enormous talent.” he said. “There are some people I’d like you to meet. We’re always looking for talented speakers. I think you could really go far.”

“Thank you.” said Trevor. “I’m passionate about the cause. To me, all politics is pointless when gingers are destroying our society and no-one’s doing anything about it.”

“Absolutely.” said Booth. “How about Tuesday evening?”

“Tuesday evening would be fine.” said Trevor.

On Tuesday Trevor arrived at the house of none other than Dr. Tarquin Withurst, the leader of the movement. Withurst, Booth and several others he didn’t recognise were assembled in Withurst’s large living room.

Withurst himself wore small round spectacles and his greying hair was gathered on top of his head in a tight bun. A sleeveless top revealed toned brown arms, bearing the insignia of the Crimsonisti. His voice was oddly high-pitched.

“Great to finally meet you.” he said, firmly shaking Trevor’s hand. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

“You have?” said Trevor.

“Oh yes. Tell me, what kind of music do you like?”

“Anything as long as it’s not ginger music.” said Trevor.

“Do you like Wagner?” said Withurst.

“I love the Tanhauser Overture, and Lohengrin of course.”

“You have good taste.” said Withurst. “And you’re right to avoid ginger music. Ginger degeneracy shoots through their music like maggots eating through an apple. Personally, I have nothing against them as individuals, as long as they stay away from children and don’t try to promote the ginger lifestyle. But collectively, theirs is a profoundly dangerous and destructive influence.”

“I used to be an ignorant normie like most people.” said Trevor. “Since I discovered the Crimsonisti, I’ve come to understand that gingers are to blame for everything that’s gone wrong with Britain in the past two thousand years. I’m completely committed to the overthrow of ginger power.”

“Perhaps you’d like to read a preprint of my latest book?”

“Oh, that would be an enormous honour, Dr. Withurst.”

“Please, call me Tarquin.” said Withurst.

Withurst handed him a book. The title, written in lurid red letters, was “The Gingers and their Lies”. Beneath the title was a photograph of an extremely ugly man with red hair, his face fixed into a hideous leer.

Later in the evening, after Withurst had introduced him to an odd and diverse assortment of other men and one or two women, Trevor said to Withurst, “Sometimes I feel like all we do is talk. I wish there was some way we could strike a real blow against the gingers.”

“There are ways we can do that.” said Withurst. “Be patient. These things take time, and planning. Remember, winners never quit, and quitters never win. Meanwhile concentrate on learning your yoga poses. You need to be in the best possible condition for the coming civil war.”

Over the following months, Trevor made a point of giving a speech at every event he attended. At first he simply jumped to his feet during questions at the ends of speeches by other, greater luminaries in the movement, and began ranting, but as his reputation grew the Crimsonisti began to allot time for his speeches, and even to feature him on their promotional material.

He began to enjoy the attention they gave him in return, and the praise.

He received intriguing hints that the Crimsonisti were indeed planning something big; some big action that they thought would truly swing the world in their favour or subdue their enemies somehow, but people spoke of it only in hushed tones and with vague allusions.

At GCHQ, Janet and Simon were concerned.

“He’s going too far.” said Janet, as they sat together in the canteen. “He’s actually attracting people to the movement.”

“We need him to establish a strong reputation.” said Simon. “It’s the only way they’ll let him in on their plans.”

“There are signs the movement’s going mainstream, and Trevor’s part of the reason why. I don’t like this, Simon. I don’t like it at all.”

“Have I ever told you, my mother was a redhead?” said Simon.

“Really?”

“So you see, I may not be a redhead myself, but I have every reason to want to see this movement smashed. We were working on infiltrating them even years before you joined us here at GCHQ. We could never properly get anyone in there. Oh, we’ve had operatives attend their meetings, but we could never find anyone with Trevor’s ability to really blend in with them.”

“I’m worried he’s blending in a bit too much.” said Janet. “The other day he told me Margaret Thatcher was a ginger, as though that was somehow significant. I’m worried he’s going native.”

“It’s normal that he’d become a little bit unhinged after hanging around with these people for over a year and reading all their books. Patience, Jan. We’re getting close to uncovering their big plot. I can feel it. Once we know what they’re up to, we’ll send in MO19 and pull him out of there.”

Later that week, Janet met Trevor for a walk along the bank of the Thames. The leaves were beginning to fall from the trees and there was a distinct chill in the air.

“I’m concerned about you.” said Janet.

“Me?” said Trevor. “Why?”

“You’ve been undercover a long time. This kind of work affects people psychologically.”

“I’m enjoying it. You don’t have to be concerned. Actually, I get on pretty well with some of them. They’re not bad people. They’ve just paranoid. Some of them were bullied by someone who happened to be a redhead. Others just think things are going in a bad direction and they want someone to blame. I actually feel sorry for them.”

“I’m worried you’ve become a little too good at playing on people’s paranoia. You’ve become a driving force in their movement, Trevor.”

“That’s the only way they’re ever going to trust me enough to reveal their plans.”

“About that. Are you any closer to finding out what they’re planning?”

“I know it’s going to happen soon. Probably this year. I’m getting close to Tarquin Withurst. I just need a bit more time.”

Janet bit her lip.

“Did you know redheads are forming support groups? They’re scared. I attended a meeting of redheads in Islington to find out what it was about. They’re afraid the Crimsonisti are becoming too powerful and they’re soon going to face real persecution. There are rumours some of our senior MPs are being influenced by the movement. And we’ve seen an increase in bullying of redheads at schools around the country. These people are dangerous, Trevor, it’s imperative you don’t forget that.”

“I don’t know if they’re really dangerous. There are just a handful of radicals. The rest are people who have genuine concerns.”

“Genuine concerns? What are you talking about?”

“You just said yourself, gingers are organising. Some of the Crimsonisti feel persecuted. Some of them have lost jobs because ginger activists wrote to their employers accusing them of being part of a hate group.”

“They are part of a hate group.” said Janet. “These people deserve to lose their jobs.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re one of them.”

Janet stopped, astonished. Trevor carried on walking.

“The time has come to strike back.” said Withurst.

Trevor and Withurst sat at a table laden with food, together with Withurst’s Finnish wife, Sofia, and Trevor Booth.

“The most powerful ginger lobby group at the moment is an organisation named Artemis.” said Booth. “We intend to strike at the very heart of the beast; at Artemis themselves.”

“We’ve been planning this for years.” said Withurst. “Originally we were intending to strike at the banking system, which is full of gingers, but by organising openly our mortal enemy has given us a ready-made target.”

“What we need to know is,” said Booth, “do you you want to be a part of the action?”

“Of course I do.” said Trevor.

“It’s not without risk.” said Withurst. “We’ve made good plans for escape, but it’s possible that some of us may be arrested, or even killed.”

“A necessary sacrifice.”

“We were hoping you’d say that.”

“The action will take place three weeks from today, on Saturday morning.” said Booth.

“But what is the action?” Trevor asked.

“That will be revealed at the time.” said Withurst. “You must come prepared for all possibilities.”

“I can’t prepare without knowing what it is.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to.” said Booth.

Simon and Janet discussed the Crimsonisti’s impending action while walking along by the river. They liked the river walk, because it was easy to see if anyone who might overhear them was nearby.

“We’ll have him followed.” said Simon. “MO19 will be standing by. The instant we know where they’re going, they’ll bust in and take control of the situation.”

“We still have no idea what they’re planning.” said Janet. “All we know is, they probably intend to attack an Artemis meeting.”

“Doesn’t matter. Could be a dirty bomb, or conventional explosives, or some kind of bioweapon. Whatever it is, they won’t have a chance to set it off.”

They walked slowly along, Simon glaring suspiciously at people further down the river, Janet gazing morosely at the orange fallen leaves littering the path. There was a faint drizzle in the air.

“Carmichael’s resigned.” said Janet after a while.

“I know.” said Simon.

“He’ll be replaced by Ridgeley. There are rumours he’s sympathetic to the Crimsonisti.”

“There are those who claim he’s one of them.”

“If that’s true, he might just take Britain in a very disturbing direction.”

“Or it might all be hot air.”

“I don’t like this, Simon. I don’t like the way things are going. My cousin’s talking about leaving Britain.”

“Your cousin’s also a ginger?”

Janet shot him an irritated glance.

“I prefer the term ‘redhead’.” she said.

“Yes, of course. Sorry.”

“Yes, my cousin has red hair.”

They passed by a big old oak tree. Stapled to it was a poster with the symbol of the Crimsonisti: three triangles meeting at a central point. The poster said, “Gingers out!” in gothic lettering.

“They’re everywhere now.” said Janet. “It’s possible even GCHQ has been infiltrated.”

“We’d know about it.” said Simon.

“Would we? I’m not so sure.”

A flock of pigeons scattered and flew into the air in front of them. In the distance, Big Ben chimed ten.

“Have you considered dying your hair?” said Simon. “You’re exposing yourself to unnecessary danger.”

“You’re suggesting I hide who I am?”

“No,” said Simon, a patronising inflection creeping into his voice, “I’m suggesting you change your hair colour.”

“So it’s come to this? We can’t even walk around safely anymore? Do you think we can even save ourselves by hiding? They have genetic tests, Simon. If the Crimsonisti succeed in convincing powerful people that we’re some kind of threat to society, there’ll be no way for us to hide. And why do they hate us? What have we ever done to them? Did you know Galileo was a redhead? Mark Twain was a redhead. Chuck Norris, for pity’s sake. They look only at the negative things redheads have done. Never the positive things.”

“What about Lenin?” said Simon.

“So? What about Mary, Queen of Scots. Was she evil?”

“William the Conquerer.”

“We’re probably descended from him.”

“I suppose.”

“There’s good and bad in every group of people.” said Janet.

“There’s no need to get heated. I’m not your enemy.”

“I’m not getting heated. Are you implying I’m fiery because I’m a redhead?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Are you ready?” said Withurst.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” said Trevor with a little laugh.

They stood outside a black van, into which tough-looking members of the Crimonisti were steadily filing. The evening was cool and a stiff breeze blew from the east.

Withurst clapped him on the shoulders with both hands.

“Good man.” said Withurst.

“Weather’s not ideal for it.” said Booth.

“On the contrary.” said Withurst. “It’s perfect. Destiny smiles upon us.”

They drove for half an hour through the thick London traffic, eventually pulling up outside a warehouse somewhere in Islington.

“Is this it?” Trevor asked Booth.

“This is it.” said Booth.

“After today,” said Withurst, “the era of the Great Reckoning will begin.”

They descended from the van and filed into the warehouse, which was almost empty except for a large quantity of mysterious parcels wrapped in brown paper.

“There’s a huge Artemis meeting just a five-minute drive from here.” said Booth. “That’s where we attack.”

The Crimsonisti began to unwrap the parcels.

At that moment there was a loud bang and a skylight broke into pieces and fell to the ground. A smoke grenade landed on the floor, and the large loading door of the warehouse was smashed in at one side, armed police streaming through the gap.

“On the floor!” shouted a voice, and Trevor found himself thrown roughly to the floor.

“It’s me!” he protested.

On the floor next to him, Withurst’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Traitor!” he hissed, and then he smiled.

The following morning, Simon, Janet and Trevor sat in the meeting room at GCHQ.

In front of them was a collection of newspapers bearing stark headlines.

“Over a thousand businesses run by redheads attacked.” said Janet. “We missed it completely. We sent armed police into a warehouse to intercept nothing but a bunch of leaflets and we missed the bigger picture.”

“The movement has unstoppable force now.” said Trevor. “Ridgeley was working with the Crimsonisti all along.”

“You know what I’m wondering, Trevor?” said Janet, fixing him with a cold stare. “I’m wondering if we can trust you. I’m wondering if you deliberately misled us. I’m wondering if you’ve gone native.”

“The entirety of Britain is in the grip of an irresistible tide of anti-ginger sentiment.” said Simon.

The door burst open and Rob appeared. He proceeded to drag Janet to her feet.

“What is this?” she shouted.

“You see, Janet,” said Simon, “we’ve all gone native. The ginger reign of terror is at an end.”

“You can’t do this!” she screamed.

“Yes, I can.” said Rob. “Gingers have just been declared a terrorist organisation. Your kind aren’t wanted here anymore.”

“I tried to warn you.” said Simon. “You wouldn’t listen.”

“Your mother was a redhead!” she shouted.

“I lied.” said Simon. “She was blonde.”

Two years later, they brought Simon to the visitor’s room.

“I’ve been expecting you.” he said, when he saw Janet waiting for him.

“How are they treating you?” she asked.

“Well enough.” he said.

“Was it worth it, Simon?” she asked. “All you had to do was having a little backbone, and you couldn’t even manage that.”

“You’re very lucky. Things could easily have gone the other way.”

“Not lucky, Simon. Persistent. As soon as I discovered Ridgeley’s grandmother was a redhead, I knew that would strike a mortal blow to the movement. That made him a quarter ginger, by their own rules.”

“And you sat on that information until just the right moment. Impressive.”

“Not the right moment. I would have liked to have waited until even more power had been centralised in Ridgeley, but if I’d waited any longer they would have sent me to a prison camp in Scotland.”

Simon laughed bitterly.

“And what of young Trevor?” he said.

“Fled to South America.” she said. “But he was too involved for us to just let him go. We’ll get him eventually. He thought he could rely on support from the remnants of the group, but that dried up when I told them his beard’s ginger.”

“You know, my role was always to serve the British State. If the British State decided it hated redheads, well, I simply had to do my duty.”

“Just following orders. I see.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Janet sighed.

“We’ll be dealing with the aftermath of this for years. There are people out there who will never change.”

“People think in herds and go mad in a herd. They recover their sense slowly, one by one. Charles Mackay.”

“That’s your excuse? That you went mad in a herd?”

She stared at him coldly, and he looked down at the floor, embarrassed.

Suddenly she got up to leave.

“Goodbye, Simon.” she said. “Good luck with the trial.”