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 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 code word 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 gray 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.”