Chapter EightTen hours later, two men stood in the cold, grey mortuary staring down at the recently deceased body of Max Dobos. One was a criminal investigation officer with the Austrian police; the other was a senior British diplomat from Her Majesty's Embassy. “Whoever did it to him knew exactly what they were doing,” said the Austrian police officer. Cecil Rowlands nodded his aging, shaggy head in agreement. Even to someone as untutored in forensics as he was, he could see the range of defensive wounds on the forearms of the corpse. Not to mention the butchering of the poor wretched devil's throat. Nasty. Vienna was a village, a big village certainly, but a village nonetheless, and everybody knew someone who knew someone. As the SIS Head of Station in Vienna, it was good old Cecil's