“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 peaking, and the body bag flared instantly, also 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?”