The autopsy-establishment of cause of death-was no problem. It was massive explosive injury to spine and abdomen. The full post-mortem needed more. Dr. Macdonald had the excised matter X-rayed again, in much finer grain. There were things in there, all right, some so small they would defy tweezers. The excised flesh and bone was finally “digested” in a brew of enzymes to create a thick soup of dissolved human tissue, bone included. It was the centrifuge that yielded the last cull, a final ounce of bits of metal.
When this ounce was available for examination Dr. Macdonald selected the largest piece, the one he had spotted in the second X-ray, deeply impacted into a piece of bone and buried inside the young man’s spleen. He studied it for a while, whistled, and rang Fulham.
Barnard came on the line. “Ian, glad you called. Anything else for me?”
“Aye. There’s something here you have got to see. If I’m right, it’s something I’ve never seen before. I think I know what it is, but I can hardly believe it.”
“Use a squad car. Send it now,” said Barnard grimly.
Two hours later the men were speaking again. It was Barnard who called this time.
“If you were thinking what I believe you were thinking, you were right,” he said. Barnard had his 200 percent.
“It couldn’t come from anywhere else?” asked Macdonald.
“Nope. There’s no way one of these gets into anybody’s hands but the manufacturer’s.”
“Bloody hell,” said the pathologist quietly.
“Mum’s the word, matey,” said Barnard. “Ours but to do or die, right? I’m having my report with the Home Secretary in the morning. Can you do the same?”
Macdonald glanced at his watch. Thirty-six hours since he had been roused. Another twelve to go.
“Sleep no more. Barnard does murder sleep,” he parodied Macbeth. “All right, on his desk by breakfast.”
That evening he released the body, or both parts of it, to the coroner’s officer. In the morning the Oxford coroner would open and adjourn the inquest, enabling him to release the body to the next of kin, in this case Ambassador Fairweather in person, representing President John Cormack.
As the two British scientists wrote their reports through the night, Sam Somerville was received, at her own request, by the committee in the Situation Room beneath the West Wing. She had appealed right up to the Director of the Bureau, and after she had telephoned Vice President Odell, he had agreed to bring her along.
When she entered the room they were all already seated. Only David Weintraub was missing, away in Tokyo talking to his opposite number there. She felt intimidated; these men were the most powerful in the land, men you only saw on television or in the press. She took a deep breath, held her head up, and walked forward to the end of the table. Vice President Odell gestured to a chair.
“Sit down, young lady.”
“We understand you wanted to ask us to let Mr. Quinn go free,” said Attorney General Bill Walters. “May we ask why?”
Sam took a deep breath. “Gentlemen, I know some may suspect Mr. Quinn was in some way involved in the death of Simon Cormack. I ask you to believe me. I have been in close contact with him in that apartment for three weeks and I’m convinced he genuinely tried to secure that young man’s release safe and unharmed.”
“Then why did he run?” asked Philip Kelly. He did not appreciate having his junior agents brought to the committee to speak for themselves.
“Because there were two freak news leaks in the forty-eight hours before he went. Because he had spent three weeks trying to gain that animal’s trust and he had done it. Because he was convinced Zack was about to scuttle and run, if he couldn’t get to him alone and unarmed, without a shadow from either the British or American authorities.”
No one failed to grasp that by “American authorities” she meant Kevin Brown. Kelly scowled.
“There remains a suspicion he could have been involved in some way,” he said. “We don’t know how, but it needs to be checked out.”
“He couldn’t, sir,” said Sam. “If he had proposed himself as the negotiator, maybe. But the choice to ask him was made right here. He told me he didn’t even want to come. And from the moment Mr. Weintraub saw him in Spain he has been in someone’s company twenty-four hours a day. Every word he spoke to the kidnappers, you listened to.”
“Except those missing forty-eight hours before he showed up on a roadside,” said Morton Stannard.
“But why should he make a deal with the kidnappers during that time?” she asked. “Except for the return of Simon Cormack.”
“Because two million dollars is a lot of money to a poor man,” suggested Hubert Reed.
“But if he had wanted to disappear with the diamonds,” she persisted, “we’d still be looking for him now.”
“Well,” said Odell unexpectedly, “he did go to the kidnappers alone and unarmed-except for some goddam marzipan. If he didn’t know them already, that takes grit.”
“And yet Mr. Brown’s suspicions may not be entirely unfounded,” said Jim Donaldson. “He could have made his contact, struck a deal. They kill the boy, leave Quinn alive, take the stones. Later they meet up and split the booty.”
“Why should they?” asked Sam, bolder now, with the Vice President apparently on her side. “They had the diamonds. They could have killed him too. Even if they didn’t, why should they split with him? Would you trust them?”
None of them would trust such men an inch. There was silence as they thought it over.
“If he’s allowed to go, what has he in mind? Back to his vineyard in Spain?” asked Reed.
“No, sir. He wants to go after them. He wants to hunt them down.”
“Hey, hold on, Agent Somerville,” said Kelly indignantly. “That’s Bureau work. Gentlemen, we have no need of discretion to protect the life of Simon Cormack anymore. He’s been murdered, and that murder is indictable under our laws, just like that murder on the cruise ship, the Achille Lauro. We’re putting teams into Britain and Europe with the cooperation of all the national police authorities. We want them and we’re going to get them. Mr. Brown controls the operations out of London.”
Sam Somerville played her last card.
“But, gentlemen, if Quinn was not involved, he got closer than anyone to them, saw them, spoke to them. If he was involved, then he will know where to go. That could be our best lead.”
“You mean, let him run and tail him?” asked Walters.
“No, sir. I mean let me go with him.”
“Young lady”-Michael Odell leaned forward to see her better-“do you know what you’re saying? This man has killed before-okay, in combat. If he’s involved, you could end up very dead.”
“I know that, Mr. Vice President. That’s the point. I believe he’s innocent and I’m prepared to take the risk.”
“Mmmmm. All right. Stay in town, Miss Somerville. We’ll let you know. We need to discuss this-in private,” said Odell.
Home Secretary Marriott spent a disturbed morning reading the reports of Drs. Barnard and Macdonald. Then he took them both to Downing Street. He was back in the Home Office by lunchtime. Nigel Cramer was waiting for him.
“You’ve seen these?” asked Sir Harry.
“I’ve read copies, Home Secretary.”
“This is appalling, utterly dismaying. If this ever gets out… Do you know where Ambassador Fairweather is?”
“Yes. He’s at Oxford. The coroner released the body to him an hour ago. I believe Air Force One is standing by at Upper Heyford to fly the casket back to the States. The Ambassador will see it depart, then return to London.”