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‘Around here I make my own rules, Blake. Who’s your friend?’
‘Clancy Smith, Secret Service. He’s taken a bullet for the President in the past. Fortunately nothing like that was needed tonight.’
‘I’ve started on our friend, Mr Morgan. Just taking a break.’
‘John Doe, if you don’t mind,’ Blake said.
‘And what if I do?’
Blake turned to Clancy, who opened the briefcase he carried, took out a document and passed it across to the doctor.
‘You’ll notice that’s addressed to one George Romano and signed by President Jake Cazalet. It’s what’s called a “Presidential warrant”. It says you belong to the President, it transcends all our laws, and you can’t even say no. You also never discuss what happened tonight, because it never happened.’
For once Romano wasn’t smiling. ‘That bad?’ He shook his head. ‘I should have known when I realized you’d given me a Heinrich Himmler.’
‘What in the hell is that supposed to mean?’ Clancy demanded.
‘I’ll go back in and show you, if you can stand to watch.’
‘I was in Vietnam and Clancy was in the Gulf. I think we can stand it,’ Blake said.
‘Excuse me, I was in ’Nam, too,’ said Romano, ‘and with all due respect, the Gulf War was pussy.’
‘Yeah, well, Clancy here has got two Navy Crosses to prove otherwise,’ Blake said. ‘But let’s get on with it.’
In the post-mortem room two technicians waited while Romano scrubbed up again. He was helped into surgical gloves and moved to the naked body of Henry Morgan, who lay on the slanting steel table, his head raised high on a wooden block, the mouth gaping. Close at hand were a video recorder and an instrument cart.
Romano said, ‘Wednesday, November 3rd, resuming postmortem, Henry Morgan, address unknown.’ He turned to Blake and Clancy. ‘Come closer. Because of the unusual circumstances I decided to investigate the mouth first, and if you look closely you’ll find a molar missing at the left side.’
He pulled the mouth open with a finger and disclosed the bloodied gap.
‘And here it is, gents.’ He picked up a small stainless steel pan and rattled the crushed remains of a tooth in it that was part gold. ‘Heinrich Himmler, for the benefit of those too young to remember, was Reichsführer of the SS during the immortal days of the Third Reich. However, he was smart enough to know that all good things come to an end and didn’t fancy the hangman’s noose. So he had a false tooth fitted that contained a cyanide capsule. A number of Nazis did. Faced with capture, you crunch down as hard as you can. Death is virtually instantaneous.’
‘So our friend here had no intention of being taken alive?’
‘I’d say so. Now in spite of the fact that I suspect it will prove useless, I intend to complete my usual thorough examination. What, by the way, do you know about the guy?’
‘The only thing I can tell you is that he’s thirty years old. When can I have the body?’
‘I’d say an hour should do it.’
‘Good. I’ll arrange transportation while we’re waiting in the office, and George…’ He pulled him away and murmured softly, ‘I don’t mind the technicians having heard the Himmler bit, but nothing more. No comment. And bring the videotape when you’re finished.’
‘Yes, O Great One.’
Romano turned back to the task at hand and Blake and Clancy went out.
They sat in the Superintendent’s office and Blake made a call on his Codex mobile. It was answered almost instantly.
‘Highgrove.’
‘It’s Blake Johnson. I phoned earlier about a disposal.’
‘Of course, sir. We’re ready and waiting.’
‘You know where we are. The package will be ready in one hour.’
‘We’ll be there.’
‘And I’ll expect the disposal to be immediate.’
‘Naturally.’
Blake switched off. ‘Let’s have some coffee.’
There was a pot standing ready in the machine. Clancy went and poured two cups. ‘Not a thing on him. Swept clean. No ID, no passport, and yet he had to have one to get into the country.’
‘Probably stashed it before he came here tonight. Everything else was likely forged. Came into the country posing as a tourist. A forged green card was supplied, a room booked for him in some modest hotel.’
‘And the AK?’
‘Could have been left for him in a locker anywhere. The job at the security agency could have been arranged for him in advance. I’ll bet he didn’t even meet anyone from his organization here in New York.’
‘But some outfit sent him from London.’
‘Of course, otherwise why would he be here? They’ve probably got friends in New York who kept an anonymous eye on him, but preferred not to get involved.’
‘I wouldn’t blame them. It was a suicide mission,’ Clancy said. ‘Even if we hadn’t gotten him now, he’d have been run down like a dog if the worst had happened.’
‘Very probably. Now I must speak to the President.’
He found Cazalet at his desk in the Oval Office.
‘Mr President, we got him. The whole thing was for real. He’s dead, unfortunately.’
‘That is unfortunate. Gunshot wound?’
‘Cyanide.’
‘Dear me. Where are you now?’
‘The mortuary, waiting for the disposal team.’
‘Fine. Take care of it, Blake. This never happened. I don’t want it on the front page of the New York Times. I’ll order a plane to pick up you and Clancy. I want you back here as soon as possible so we can sort things out.’
‘Yes, Mr President.’
‘And since it was our British cousins who alerted us to the existence of Morgan, you’d better telephone General Ferguson and let him know.’
In London it was four o’clock in the morning when the security phone rang at General Charles Ferguson’s flat in Cavendish Place. He switched on the bedside light and answered.
‘At such an appalling hour, I can only assume this is of supreme importance.’
‘It always is when it concerns the Empire, Charles.’
It was the codeword used to indicate the President in danger.
Ferguson was fully alert now and sat up. ‘Blake, my good friend. What happened?’
‘Your information on Henry Morgan was dead on. He tried to hit the President tonight, but Clancy and I stopped him. Unfortunately he had a cyanide tooth, so he’s no longer with us.’
‘Is the President all right?’
‘Absolutely. As for Morgan, what’s left of him will soon be six pounds of grey ash. I’ll probably flush it down the toilet.’
‘You’re a hard man, Blake, harder than I believed possible.’
‘It’s the nature of the job, Charles, and the bastard did intend to assassinate the President. Anyway, thanks to you and the rest of the Prime Minister’s private army, it’s all come out fine. Thank them all for me: Hannah Bernstein, Sean Dillon and Major Roper.’
‘Especially Roper on this one. The man’s a genius on the computer.’
‘Got to run, Charles. I’ll be in touch.’
Blake put the phone down, and Romano entered carrying a videotape and several documents.
‘Good man,’ Blake said.
‘Not really.’ Romano lit a cigarette. ‘I’m smart enough to know my place, that’s all.’
Clancy had gone out to check the corridor and found two men in black coats pushing a gurney with a body bag on it.
One of them, a quietly cadaverous man, said, ‘Mr Johnson?’
Blake leaned out of the office door. ‘He’s all ready and waiting for you. Load him on and we’ll see you at Highgrove. Tell Mr Coffin to wait until we arrive.’
‘As you say, sir.’
They moved away. Clancy said, ‘Coffin? Is that for real?’
‘If it’s the man I know, it certainly is.’ Romano smiled bleakly. ‘Fergus Coffin. I believe it’s called life imitating art.’ At that moment the gurney returned with what was obviously Henry Morgan in the body bag. ‘On your way now, gentlemen. I think I’ve had enough for one night.’
In the mortuary at Highgrove, Blake and Clancy waited by the ovens. Fergus Coffin and an attendant pushed the gurney forward, the body still enclosed in the black body bag.
Blake said, ‘Open it.’
Coffin nodded and his associate unzipped it, exposing the head. Henry Morgan it was.
‘He looks at peace,’ Blake said.
‘He would be, Mr Johnson,’ Coffin told him. ‘Death is a serious business. I’ve devoted my life to it.’
‘No questions?’
‘None. I’ve seen the Presidential warrant, but it’s more than that. You’re a good man, Mr Johnson. Every instinct tells me that. You’ve known great sorrow.’
Blake, remembering a murdered wife, stiffened for a moment and then said, ‘How long?’
‘With the new technology, thirty minutes.’
‘Then get on with it. Put him in, but I need to see.’ He held out the documents and video. ‘And these.’
The other man opened one of the oven doors, Coffin pushed the gurney forward, Henry Morgan slid inside. Coffin pulled the gurney away, the glass door closed, a button was pressed. The oven flared at once, the gas jets peaked and the body bag flared on the instant, along with the video and documents.
Blake turned to Clancy. ‘We’ll wait,’ and led the way outside.
In the office they smoked cigarettes. Clancy said, ‘You want coffee?’
‘Not in a million years. A good stiff drink is what I need, but we’ll have to wait until we’re on the plane.’
Rain hammered against the window. Clancy said, ‘Does it ever bother you, this kind of thing?’
‘Clancy, I went to war for my country in Vietnam when I was very young and full of ideals. I never really regretted it. Someone had to do it. Now, all these years later, we’re at war with the world – a world where global terrorism is the name of the game.’ He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘And, Clancy, I’ll do anything it takes. I took an oath to my President and I take that to be an oath to my country.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Does that give you a problem?’
And Clancy Smith, once the youngest sergeant major in the Marine Corps, smiled. ‘Not in the slightest.’
At that moment the door opened and Coffin entered, holding a plastic urn. ‘Henry Morgan, six pounds of grey ash.’
‘Excellent,’ Blake said, and Clancy took the urn.
‘Many thanks,’ Blake told Coffin. ‘Believe me, you’ve never done anything more important.’
‘I accept your word for that, Mr Johnson,’ and Coffin went out.
‘Let’s go,’ Blake said, and added, ‘Bring the urn with you.’
He led the way out to the car park, where the rain poured down relentlessly. They walked to their limousine, which was parked by what, in season, would obviously be a flowerbed.
Blake said, ‘I was going to put those ashes down the toilet, but let’s be more civilized and do something for next year’s flowers.’
‘Good idea.’
Clancy unscrewed the top of the urn and poured the ashes over the flowerbed.
‘I believe it’s called strewing.’
‘I don’t care what it’s called. Washington next, so let’s catch that plane.’
WASHINGTON (#ub95bf77b-a78a-5c2a-aa24-2f5a1588f9eb)
