Dark Justice

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)