steel operating tables stood in a line. There was a body on the first one, covered with a white rubber sheet.
“Mrs. Sara Grant. Do you know this woman personally, Charles?”
“We all do.”
“I’ll just show you her face, then. The rest is rather unpleasant. Autopsies usually are.”
She looked surprisingly calm, even the lines on her face seemingly smoothed, at peace in a way.
“Not a mark on her,” Langley said. “Nor anywhere. There was no fight here, no blows or wounds. The only reason for death was drowning.”
Dillon said, “You’re certain of that?”
“Absolutely. I noticed in the police report that the local shopkeeper who found her regularly saw her at night walking her dog along the jetty. She liked to stand at the end and watch the boats. I’ve visited the spot myself. There’s no handrail and a thirty-foot drop into the river.”
“You’re sure there were no marks at all, Professor?” Hannah said. “No indication of any kind of a struggle?”
“Not even bruising from the fall into the water. Of course, she was wearing a trouser suit and a heavy overcoat.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“Only that she had lung cancer. Wouldn’t have lasted more than a few months, anyway. Death by drowning, Charles, that’s the best I can do.”
“Dammit,” Dillon said. “There has to be more.”
“No, Mr. Dillon, she fell from the end of the jetty and drowned. Now, as to whether she had any help – which I know is what you’re wondering about – I couldn’t possibly comment on that. All I can say is that there are no signs of bruising, which on a woman as old and frail as she was means no violence of even the mildest kind.” He turned to Ferguson. “Charles, I realize that this is probably some sort of intelligence matter and no doubt classified. I’m happy not to know any more.”
“Many thanks, George.” Ferguson shook hands.
Dillon said, “That’s it then, nothing?”
“Sorry, Mr. Dillon.” Langley walked to the door with them. “Oh, wait a minute, there was something else.”
“And what would that be?” Ferguson demanded.
“I’ve done thousands of postmortems over the years and this was a first for me. The number tattooed in her left armpit. Not on the arm, like in the concentration camps, but in the armpit. It means she served in the SS.” He smiled. “But then you would know more about that than me, Charles.”
In the back of the Daimler, Dillon pulled the glass screen across, cutting off the chauffeur.
“They did it, General, the bastards took her out.”
“But how?” Hannah said. “We never mentioned any address.”
“Oh, come on, Hannah. Once they knew she existed, how long do you think it took Rossi to trace her?”
“But-”
“That’s enough,” said Ferguson. “Squabbling won’t bring her back. Superintendent, get von Berger on the line for me.”
It was Marco who answered the phone and passed it to his father. “General,” the Baron said. “What now?”
“Fraulein Sara Hesser has turned up in the Thames. It’s time for us to talk – now.”
“Why?”
“Would you prefer me to present a warrant and make it official?”
“There’s no need for the crudities, General. I’ll tell you what – let’s make it civilized. The Piano Bar at the Dorchester. Let’s say seven?”
“All right. And bring your thug with you.”
He hung up.
The Baron handed the phone back to Rossi. “He doesn’t seem to like you much. Marco – Sara Hesser was discovered in the Thames today.”
“My God.” Rossi managed to sound horrified.
“Do you know anything about this?”
“Father, on my life, I swear to you…”
The Baron raised a hand. “Well, Ferguson obviously thinks we do. It should be an interesting evening. And just to make sure, remember this: Newton and Cook don’t exist and we’ve never heard of Brick Lane.”
Only half a dozen people were in the Piano Bar when Ferguson arrived with Dillon and Hannah. Dillon wandered over to the piano, as he often did, and began to play: “A Foggy Day in London Town.” Hannah came and leaned on the piano. “I’ve never understood this, Sean, the piano. You seem to be good at so many things.”
“You mean like killing people?” He smiled. “Don’t be deceived, Hannah, good barroom piano is all.”
“You’re angry. That always worries me.”
“Yes, good and angry. I’m a bad man, Hannah. I’ve walked over plenty of corpses, but there’s something about Sara Hesser’s death that grinds at me. She deserved better.”
The waiter was pouring champagne when Max von Berger and Rossi appeared at the top of the steps by the bar.
The Baron sat opposite Ferguson and Hannah. Rossi and Dillon stood, in a way confronting each other.
“So what is this about, General?”
“Tell him, Superintendent.”
When she was finished, the Baron sighed. “So this poor lady falls off the jetty and your Professor Langley confirms she died of drowning, with no suspicious circumstances. So what does this have to do with me?”
“The fact that she died at all is a suspicious circumstance,” Dillon said.
Marco Rossi said, “You don’t have a leg to stand on, Dillon. This meeting is not only futile, it’s offensive.”
“Enough,” Ferguson said. “We’re not talking legalities, we’re talking truth. We may not be able to arrest you, but you know and we know what happened.”
“I know no such thing,” said the Baron. “Really, Marco is right. This is most offensive.” The Baron stood.
Dillon said to Rossi, “What did you do, push her over?”
Rossi took a step toward him and Hannah grabbed Sean’s arm. “Let it go.”
The Baron’s face was grim. “I think we’ll leave now,” and he walked out, followed by his son.
In the car outside, he said quietly, “You had nothing to do with this? Swear it to me.”
“On my life. She was an old woman who had a tragic accident. That’s all.”
“But, as Ferguson puts it, most fortunate for us.”
That his son was lying naturally occurred to him, but he pushed the thought away and leaned back.
In his own car, Ferguson clicked off his phone and immediately dialed again, his direct Codex Four line to the Basement office at the White House. Johnson, at his desk, answered at once.
“Yes?”
“Ferguson.”
“Charles, how goes it?”
“Rather badly. I’ve just talked to the Prime Minister. He wants me to go to Washington immediately and speak to the President personally. I’ll bring Dillon with me.”
“Sorry, Charles, but the President’s gone to his house on Nantucket for the weekend. Can I do anything?”
“It’s a very grave matter that affects him personally.”
There was a pause. “All right, go straight to Andrews Air Force Base. They’ll take you there by helicopter and make a beach landing. I’ll arrange it.” He hesitated. “This is a bad one, Charles?”
“Very much so.”
“Then I’ll get down there myself.”
“I think that would be wise, old boy. You’ll be going to war again, I assure you.” He hung up.
Johnson sat at his desk, frowning, then picked up the phone and rang the President on his direct line.
