Daryl dips his index finger in the cistern then licks it.
Here is the code:
if it tastes of Um Bongo, the group's anonymity has been compromised.
Otherwise, he is to proceed to the Snoop Dogg poster
at the end of the narrow corridor outside,
pop the blu-tac at the base
and press his palm onto the copper contacts.
Somewhere deep within the building, magnetic locks uncouple
with a dry gasp; the lightbulbs flicker and dim.
He presents his iris to the concealed camera,
scratching the spider tattoo on the back of his hand,
the Spiderman tattoo across his breastbone.
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