"Well, there's the obvious," Olson said to me. "About a third of England's electricity is generated by nuclear power. We're worried about a similar terrorist strike, and don't know, in fact, if one hasn't already been planned by these same people."
"But the New Zionists are rooted in Virginia," I said.
"Are you saying they have international connections?"
"They aren't the driving force in this," he said. "They aren't the ones who want plutonium."
"Who specifically, then?" I said.
"Libya."
"I think the world has known that for a while," I replied.
"Well, now it's happening," Wesley said. "It's happening at Old Point."
"As you no doubt know," Olson went on, "Qaddafi has wanted nuclear weapons for a very long time and has been thwarted in his every attempt. It appears he finally found a way. He found the New Zionists in Virginia, and certainly, there are extremist groups he could use over here. We also have many Arabs."
"How do you know it's Libya?" I asked.
It was Wesley who replied, "For one thing, we've been going through Joel Hand's telephone records and they include numerous calls-mainly to Tripoli and Benghsli made over the past two years."
"But you don't know that Qaddafi is trying anything here in London," I said.
"What we fear is how vulnerable we would be. London is the stepping-off point to Europe, the U.S. and the Middle East. It is a tremendous financial center. Just because Libya steals fire from the U.S. doesn't mean the U.S. is the ultimate target."
"Fire?" I asked.
"As in the myth about Prometheus. Fire is our code for plutonium."
"I understand," I said. "What you're saying makes chilling sense. Tell me what I can do."
"Well, we need to explore the mind-set of this thing, both for purposes of what's happening now and what might happen later," Olson said. "We need to get a better handle on how these terrorists think, and that, obviously, is Wesley's department. Yours is to get information. I understand you have a colleague here who might prove useful."
"We can only hope," I said. "But I intend to speak to him."
"What about security?" Wesley asked him. "Do we need to put someone with her?"
Olson looked at me oddly as if assessing my strength, as if I were not myself but an object or fighter about to step into the ring.
"No," he said. "I think she's absolutely safe here, unless you know otherwise."
"I'm not sure," Wesley said as he looked at me, too.
"Maybe we should send someone with her."
"Absolutely not. No one knows I'm in London," I said.
"And Dr. Mant already is reluctant, if not scared to death, so he's certainly not going to open up to me if someone else is along. Then the point of this trip is defeated."
"All right," Wesley reluctantly said. "Just so long as we know where you are, and we need to meet back here no later than four if we're going to catch our plane."
"I'll call you if I get hung up," I said. "You'll be here?"
"If we're not, my secretary will know where to find us," Olson said.
I went down to the lobby where water splashed loudly in a fountain and a bronze Lincoln was enthroned within walls lined with portraits of former U.S. representatives.
Guards were severe as they studied passports and visitors.
They let me pass with cool stares, and I felt their eyes follow me out the door. On the street in the cold, damp morning, I hailed a cab and gave the driver an address not very far away in Belgravia off Eaton Square.
The elderly Mrs. Mant had lived in Ebury Mews in a three-story town house that had been divided into flats. Her building was stucco with red chimney pots piled high on a variegated shingle roof, and window boxes were filled with daffodils, crocuses and ivy. I climbed stairs to the second floor and knocked on her door, but when it was answered, it was not by my deputy chief. The matronly woman peering out at me looked as confused as I did.
"Excuse me," I said to her. "I guess this has already been sold."
"No, I'm sorry. It's not for sale at all," she firmly said.
"I'm looking for Philip Mant," I went on. "Clearly I must have the wrong…"
"Oh," she said. "Philip's my brother." She smiled pleasantly. "He just left for work. You just missed him."
"Work?" I said.
"Oh yes, he always leaves right about this time. To avoid traffic, you know. Although I don't think that's really possible." She hesitated, suddenly aware of the stranger before her. "Might I tell him who dropped by?"
"Dr. Kay Scarpetta," I said. "And I really must find him."
"Why of course." She seemed as pleased as she was surprised. "I've heard him speak of you. He's enormously fond of you and will be absolutely delighted to hear you came by. What brings you to London?"
"I never miss an opportunity to visit here. Might you tell me where I could find him?" I asked again.
"Of course. The Westminster Public Mortuary on Horseferry Road." She hesitated, uncertain. "I should have thought he would have told you."
"Yes." I smiled. "And I'm very pleased for him."
I wasn't certain what I was talking about, but she seemed very pleased, too.
"Don't tell him I'm coming," I went on. "I intend to surprise him."
"Oh, that's brilliant. He will be absolutely thrilled."
I caught another taxi as I thought about what I believed she had just said. No matter Mant's reason for what he had done, I could not help but feel slightly furious.
"You going to the Coroner's Court, ma'am?" the driver asked me. "It's right there." He pointed out the open window at a handsome brick building.
"No, I'm going to the actual mortuary," I said.
"All right. Well that's right here. Better to walk in than be carried," he said with a hoarse laugh.
I got out money as he parked in front of a building small by London standards. Brick with granite trim and a strange parapet along the roof, it was surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence painted the color of rust. According to the date on a plaque at the entrance, the mortuary was more than a hundred years old, and I thought about how grim it would have been to practice forensic medicine in those days. There would have been few witnesses to tell the story except for the human kind, and I wondered if people had lied less in earlier times.
The mortuary's reception area was small but pleasantly furnished like a typical lobby for a normal business.
Through an open door was a corridor, and since I did not see anyone, I headed that way just as a woman emerged from a room, her arms loaded with oversized books.
"Sorry," she said, startled. "But you can't come back here."
"I'm looking for Dr. Mant," I said.
She wore a loose-fitting long dress and sweater, and spoke with a Scottish accent. "And who may I tell him is here to see him?" she politely said.
I showed her my credentials.
"Oh very good, I see. Then he's expecting you."
"I shouldn't think so," I said.
"I sec." She shifted the books to another arm and was very confused.
"He used to work with me in the States," I said. "I'd like to surprise him, so I prefer to find him if you'll just tell me where."
"Dear me, that would be the Foul Room just now. If you go through this door here." She nodded at it. "And you'll see locker rooms to the left of the main mortuary.
Everything you need is there, then turn left again through another set of doors, and right beyond that. Is that clear?"
She smiled.
"Thank you," I said.
In the locker room I put on booties, gloves and mask, and loosely tied a gown around me to keep the odor out of my clothes. I passed through a tiled room where six stainless-steel tables and a wall of white refrigerators gleamed.