Opal did not need to know, and Benny could only presume, but there would be an American drone up there somewhere; a Predator, or Global Hawk, or perhaps the new Sentinel, turning slowly, hour after hour, looking down, seeing everything. But in the tangle of Kismayo’s streets, the watchers could still lose one vehicle among hundreds unless that vehicle was precisely described to the last detail.
With another hug, they parted. The inflatable, manned by four armed commandos, slipped away to the sea. Opal refueled his motorcycle and headed south to his cabin to bury his transceiver and the battery, energized by the sun via a photovoltaic cell.
Benny was lifted back off the sea by a rope ladder dangled from the helicopter. When he was gone, the commandos settled for another day of hard exercises, swimming and fishing to stave off the boredom. They might not be needed again, but in case they were, they had to stay.
Benny was dropped at Nairobi airport and took flight for Europe and thence Israel. Opal scoured the streets around the warehouse and found a room to rent. From a crack in its warped shutters, he could survey the single, double-gated entrance.
He would have to continue with his job as a tally clerk or arouse suspicion. And he had to eat and sleep. Between these, he would stake out the warehouse as best he could. He hoped something would happen.
Far away in London, the Tracker was doing his best to make something happen.
• • •
The installers of the security system at the house in Pelham Crescent were sufficiently confident of their skill and renown that they announced who they were. Pinned to the outside wall underneath the eaves was a tasteful plaque announcing “This property is protected by Daedalus Security Systems.” It was discreetly photographed from the leafy park at the center of the crescent of houses.
Daedalus, mused the Tracker when he saw the picture, was the Greek engineer who designed a not very secure pair of wings for his son, who fell into the sea and died when the wax melted. But he also constructed a maze of fiendish ingenuity for King Minos of Crete. No doubt the modern Daedalus was trying to evoke the skill of the builder of a puzzle system that no one could break.
He turned out to be Steve Bamping, who had founded and still ran his own company, which was very upmarket and serviced a wealthy client list with antiburglar protection. With the permission of the director of G Branch of MI5, Firth and the Tracker went to see him. His first reaction to what they wished was of flat refusal.
Firth did the talking until the Tracker produced a sheaf of photos and laid them on Mr. Bamping’s desk in two rows. There were eleven of them. The head of Daedalus Security stared at them uncomprehending. Each was of a dead man, on a morgue slab, eyes closed.
“Who are these?” he asked.
“Dead men,” said the Tracker. “Seven Americans and four British. All harmless citizens doing their best for their countries. All murdered in cold blood by Jihadist assassins inspired and impelled by a preacher on the Internet.”
“Mr. Dardari? Surely not.”
“No. The Preacher launches his hate campaign out of the Middle East. We have pretty much proof his London-based helper is your client. That is what has brought me across the Atlantic.”
Steve Bamping continued to stare at the eleven dead faces.
“Good God,” he muttered. “So what do you want?”
Firth told him.
“Is this authorized?”
“At the cabinet level,” said Firth. “And, no, I do not have the Home Secretary’s signature on a piece of paper to say so. But if you wish to talk with the director general of MI5, I can give you his direct-line number.”
Bamping shook his head. He had already seen Firth’s personal identification as an officer of 5’s anti-terrorist division.
“Not one word of this gets out,” he said.
“Not from either of us,” said Firth. “Under any circumstances whatsoever.”
The system installed at Pelham Crescent was from the Gold Menu. Every door and every window was fitted with invisible-ray-based alarms linked to the central computer. But the owner himself would enter only by the front door when the system was activated.
The front door appeared normal, with a Bramah lock operable with a key. When the door opened with the alarm system on, a bleeper would begin to sound. It would not alert anyone for thirty seconds. Then it would shut off but trigger a silent alarm at the Daedalus emergency center. They would alert the police and send their own van.
But to confuse any prospective burglar who might wish to chance his luck, the bleeper would sound from a cupboard in one direction, while the computer was in a completely different direction. The householder would have thirty seconds to go to the right cupboard, reveal the computer and punch a six-digit code into the illuminated panel. That gave millions of computations. Only someone knowing the right one could stop the bleeper in less than thirty seconds and prevent activation.
If he made a mistake and the thirty seconds elapsed, there was a phone, and a four-figure call would put him through to the center. He would then have to recite his personal, memorized pin number to cancel the alarm. One wrong number would tell the center he was under duress, and despite the courtesy of the response, the “Armed intruder on premises” procedure would be followed.
There were two further precautions. Invisible rays across reception rooms and stairwells would trigger silent alarms if broken, but their turn-off switch was very small and tucked away behind the computer. Even with a pistol pointed at his head, the threatened householder did not need to deactivate the ray beams.
Finally, a hidden camera behind a pin-sized hole covered the entire hall and was never switched off. From any point in the world, Mr. Dardari could dial a phone number that would stream his own hallway onto his iPhone.
But, as Mr. Bamping later explained to his client with extreme apologies, even high-technology systems occasionally malfunction. When a false alarm was registered while Mr. Dardari was in London but not at home, he had to be summoned and was not pleased. The Daedalus team was apologetic, the Metropolitan Police very courteous. He was mollified, and agreed a technician should put the minor fault right.