Hana scribbled a four-digit code on a scrap of paper and gave it to him. It changed hands twice before finding the right person to carry out the task. A slender man with curly red hair set off down to the road. Ten minutes later, Hana jumped as the intercom buzzed in the hall. “Action stations, Phil,” one of the younger men said to the installer.
He bounced into the house, wiping his feet on the doormat and pressed a button. Hana’s jaw dropped at the sight of Wally peering into the screen, his red hair back lit by passing cars. “Right, miss. This is what you do,” Phil said, tugging on Hana’s arm in his excitement. He pressed an icon with a face on it. “Ask who they are and what do they want?”
Hana leaned forward until her lips almost touched the speaker indents. Wally’s face pixelated in
