rattle of the bolt sounded.
Smith said, “Forgot to mention. I emptied it when you went down to the vault. And by the way – I never accept coffee from strangers.”
Morgan dropped the AK to the floor with a look of despair on his face. Johnson almost felt sorry for him.
“Hell, man, we got Saddam Hussein. Did you really think
“Yes,” Morgan said. “Beware the Wrath of Allah.”
He seemed to bite hard, his jaw tightening, then he staggered back, tripped and fell to the floor, moaning terribly, his face contorted. There was a strange, pungent smell as Smith dropped to one knee and peered closely at him. He glanced up, “I don’t know what in the hell that smell is, but this guy is dead.”
By special arrangement, Blake had the body removed by army paramedics and conveyed to an exclusive private hospital used mainly for rehab patients. It did, however, offer state-of-the-art morgue facilities and he’d called in one of New York ’s finest chief medical examiners, Dr. George Romano, to do the necessary.
He and Clancy had stopped off at their hotel so that Clancy could change from the security uniform, and arrived at their destination a good hour after the corpse and found Romano in the Superintendent’s office already garbed for action. He and Blake were old friends. Romano had done a lot of work for the Basement, the White House security organization that Johnson ran. Romano was drinking coffee and smoking.
“I thought that was against the law these days, especially for doctors.”
“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 postmortem 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 third, 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 Reichsfuhrer 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
“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.”
