Scimitar SL-2

by Patrick Robinson

  Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe almost had a seizure. The Daily Mail had skipped over one highly significant fact: that the Special Branch had been called in to investigate one of the police murders. Jimmy knew there must have been some suspicion of terrorism.

  The Daily Mail knew something really important, however, of which James Ramshawe had been utterly unaware so far. All three murders may have been committed within a few yards of each other at precisely the same time.

  Jimmy sat back and regained his composure. He poured himself a cup of cold coffee and settled down to read every word of the newspaper account.

  And slowly, as he read the story, the indisputable facts became clear. On the night of May 8, Professor Landon had delivered his speech at London’s Royal Geographical Society, and then headed southwest, towards his car. The vehicle was later found nearby, parked in the precincts of Imperial College off Queens Gate. The Professor had been seen by a member of his audience hurrying through to the wide steps at the rear of the Albert Hall.

  That was the last time Lava Landon was seen alive. He never returned home that night, and his body was found in the river six days later on the afternoon of May 14. The police pathologist said he was uncertain of the time or even the day of death, because the body had been in the river for some time.

  That same night of the lecture, the two policemen were murdered in the area directly behind the Albert Hall, on the precise route of Professor Landon’s walk to his car, at the precise time Professor Landon was there on the wide steps. The Daily Mail had shrewdly connected the two and, taking a leaf out of Roger’s book, bounded eagerly into the fray, announcing THE ALBERT HALL MASSACRE. There were, after all, three dead bodies. Plus Roger.

  Of course, an Intelligence officer would instantly ask the crucial question: Who said the Professor was murdered, like the policemen, on the back steps of the Albert Hall? Plainly the Professor could have been kidnapped and taken anywhere, and in the end, been shot anywhere. There was not one lick of evidence to suggest he too had died on the steps of the Albert Hall.

  Indeed, if he had, the killers would probably have left his body there, together with the policemen.

  In Jimmy’s opinion, the Daily Mail was essentially on the right track. The devastating coincidence of the place and time of the crimes was simply too great. There must have been a connection of some kind, and the big London newspaper had made it, even though Scotland Yard had not been able to come up with a motive.

  But, Jimmy thought, chances were that the Professor had been taken alive, and the two cops had been killed for interfering. The question now was: What the hell were the Special Branch doing, involved in a civilian crime?

  “Well, it wasn’t a bloody kidnap as such, was it,” mused Jimmy. “Otherwise there’d have been a ransom demand. Whoever grabbed Landon wanted him for something else. They took him away alive, then killed him later. I’d be bloody certain of that.”

  He pondered the problem, called someone, and inquired what precisely one had to do to get a hot cup of coffee around here? And was there anyone in residence who cared one way or another whether he carried on trying to save the world, or instead died of thirst. The resident eighth-floor manager of the twenty-four-hour-a-day executive kitchen had a very soft spot for the affable Aussie Lt. Commander, although he secretly believed that Jimmy was becoming more and more like the terrifying Admiral Arnold Morgan every day.

  “Be right over, sir…Want some cookies or anything?”

  “Those are the words of a bloody Christian,” replied Jimmy, in his best Aussie accent. “Ship ’em in.”

  And he put the phone down slowly, still wondering what exactly the New Scotland Yard’s Special Branch was doing in the investigation into the London murders.

  Not for the first time, he decided to call an old Navy buddy, Rob Hackett, over in the CIA at Langley, just to check if they had anything on the murders. The answer was sharp. Nothing. It was a purely British domestic crime and the CIA had made no inquiries.

  Jimmy’s pal couldn’t help with the question of the Special Branch, but he immediately agreed to make a few calls. Within forty-five minutes, Rob was back.

  “Ve-e-e-e-ry eeeenteresting,” said the CIA man slowly, impersonating Hercule Poirot, or some other European gumshoe. “The Special Branch were in there because of the manner of death inflicted on one of the policemen…Not the one who was shot, like the woofer. The other one whose skull was split.”

  “Yeah?” said Jimmy. “I didn’t even know his skull was split.”

  “And how,” said Rob. “Straight down the middle of his forehead, like he’d been hit with a fucking ax. And then we have the e-e-e-e-nteresting part. What killed him was a terrific punch under his nose, which drove the bone directly into his brain. It was a blow, according to my guy in London, that could only have been delivered by a trained Special Forces expert in unarmed combat. That’s why the Special Branch was in there. Plus four antiterrorist guys. Scotland Yard never announced one word of this.”

  Jimmy Ramshawe froze in his chair. “Have we been here before, Rob?”

  “We surely have. Last year. That Member of Parliament, Rupert someone, was killed in exactly the same way. Though with less of a long fracture of the forehead.”

  “No wonder the antiterrorist guys were in there,” said Jimmy. “Hey, Rob, thanks a million…”

  “Okay, Jim,” chuckled the CIA man. “Now don’t go rushing in there and adding up two and two to make six.”

  “Not me, old mate. I’m about to add things up to at least four hundred, maybe more.” He slowly replaced the receiver, blew out his cheeks, and expelled the air noisily—the universal sound of utter amazement.

  “Holy shit,” he said to the otherwise empty room. “That fucking Lava Landon was grabbed by Major Ray Kerman. I think. Told him how to blow up a volcano. And he’s just bloody done it. And what’s more, he’s just TOLD us he’s bloody done it. H-O-L-Y SHI-I-I-T!!…”

  He steadied himself, cooled down his excitement. Thoughts rampaged through his mind…What do I do first? Call George? Call Admiral Morgan? Write a report? Stand on my fucking head? Have another cup of coffee? How urgent is this? Hold it, Jim…get into control…

  He’d been given three tasks by Admiral Morgan, and he’d done two of them—checked out the volcano stories and checked out the Special Branch involvement. Scored a bull’s-eye both times.

  Conclusion: Professor Paul Landon, the world’s leading volcanologist, was snatched in London by Major Kerman and his men. In the course of this operation, they had to kill two interfering policemen and one attack dog. Kerman then grilled and subsequently executed the Professor. Three months later, on behalf of Hamas, the ex–SAS Major calmly informed the U.S. he had blown up Mount St. Helens.

  The third, and only, outstanding task Jimmy had left was to check with the Washington State police whether there was anything to suggest a missile had been fired into the bloody crater near the top of the mountain.

  With the West Coast three hours back, he picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect him to someone in the State Police HQ who had firsthand knowledge of the Mount St. Helens dossier. It took a while to make the call, because the highly trained Fort Meade operator went from person to person until he found a trooper likely to satisfy a high-level investigator from the National Security Agency. Then they had to call back to verify the validity of the call from the NSA.

  When Jimmy picked up the phone, a voice said, “Sir, this is Officer Ray Suplee speaking. How can I help?”

  “Officer, this is Lt. Comdr. Jimmy Ramshawe, assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. May I assume you were involved in the immediate report on the Mount St. Helens disaster?”

  “Yes, sir. I was on patrol along Route 12 heading south towards the mountain when it erupted. It happened pretty quick, and I could see it from a high point in the road. I heard it too. Huge blast, followed by wind, and the sky seemed full of ashes, blocked the sun
right out.”

  “Did you get in close?”

  “No, sir. No one could. It was too hot. We realized real soon that anyone caught close to the mountain could not have survived the blast, and the heat, and, 10 minutes later, the molten lava. Our task became one of containment…leading in the fire trucks to douse the forest…getting people to evacuate their homes where we thought the forest fire was spreading. Almost no one who was anywhere near the actual eruption could possibly have lived to talk about it.”

  “I understand, Officer. I guess there was more time to get clear in 1980?”

  “Oh, definitely. They were working on an evacuation program for several days before it finally erupted. This time there wasn’t a New York minute. Damn thing just blew. Without warning…”

  “Officer, you said almost no one who was in close lived. Did you mean that? Or did you mean absolutely no one?”

  “Sir, I meant almost. Because there was a wagonload of outdoor sportsmen who somehow did get clear. Four of them, three of them local. But I never heard tell of anyone else.”

  “Did you interview them?”

  “No, sir. I heard it on the radio, ’bout four hours after the blast. One of them was a well-known broadcaster, Don McKeag, ‘Voice of the Northwest.’ Everyone listens to him, but not usually on Sundays. He’s a weekday guy, you know, the eight-in-the-morning slot to eleven, regular news and politics.”

  “Did he have much to say?”

  “Plenty. Described in big detail how they got away, racing through the burning forest, trying to stay ahead of the fires…It was like listening to a thriller.”

  “Did these guys actually hear the first eruption?”

  “Oh sure. They were camped in the foothills of the summit. They said about a mile and quarter from the peak.”

  “Did Don mention how they made such a fast break for safety?”

  “He did. One of the four was a pretty well known Washington State finance guy. Mr. Tilton, President of the Seattle National Bank. Tony Tilton. Apparently he’d been on a yacht in the Caribbean when that volcano blew up and damn nearly destroyed the entire island, maybe ten, twelve, years ago?”

  “Montserrat?”

  “That’s it, sir. Mr. Tilton was watching that from a few miles offshore. Boat got covered in ash, he was washing it down with a hose. Anyway, he knew better than anyone how darned quick you have to be to get away from an erupting volcano.”

  “Sounds like a big scoop for Don.”

  “Hell, yes. But there was one thing I heard Mr. Tilton mention on the program that I thought was a little offbeat. He said he heard the mountain erupt three times, way up there in the crater. But before the first one, he heard a strange gust of wind, above the lake, kinda through the mist.

  “I don’t know. Didn’t seem to connect to me. A high wind doesn’t set off a volcano, does it? And he wouldn’t have made anything like that up, not Mr. Tilton. He’s a very well-respected guy in Washington. Some folks say he might run for governor.”

  “Officer, could you arrange for me to speak to Mr. Tilton?”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll get on to the bank right away and get back to you with a time.”

  “Thanks for that,” said Jimmy. “You’ve been a real help.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll be right back on the line.”

  Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe replaced the telephone thoughtfully. Had Tony Tilton actually heard a couple of low-flying cruise missiles heading for the fractured crater of Mount St. Helens?

  It did not take long to find out. Five minutes later, State Trooper Ray Suplee was back. “Twenty minutes, sir. Mr. Tilton will be waiting on this line—”

  Jimmy jotted down the number and decided to wait until he had completed his three-part investigation before he told Admiral Morris what he suspected. He took his watch off and propped it up in front of him—a habit he’d copied from his father—then carefully wrote up his notes.

  At precisely 6:10 P.M., he punched in the number and was instantly connected to an ivory-colored telephone 2,800 miles away, in a spacious air-conditioned office tower in downtown Seattle, where it was only 3:10 in the afternoon.

  “Tilton,” said a voice, at the end of a private line.

  “G’day, Mr. Tilton. This is Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe. I’m assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. I believe you were expecting my call…”

  “I was. Heard from the State Police about twenty minutes ago. What can I tell you?—It has to be about the volcano; there’s never been so many people wanting to chat to me, all on the same subject.”

  Then the Lieutenant Commander got down to the heart of the matter. “The state trooper told me you’d given a radio interview and you mentioned a high wind just before the blast?”

  “Almost. What I heard, in sequence, was this strange, sudden whoosh of air, right above the lake, in the mist. It was the kind of sound you get in an old house in the middle of a rainstorm…You know, when a strong wind suddenly rises and makes that kinda creepy wailing noise. Except there was hardly a breath of wind on the lake that morning. Just that sudden rush of air.”

  “Anyone else hear it?”

  “No. I was the only one who heard it. I actually looked up, out over the water, it was such an unusual noise.”

  “Then what?”

  “Seconds later, I’m talking maybe ten seconds, there was this dull, muffled thumping sound from way up the mountain. That really got my attention, and Donnie’s. As you know, I’m jumpy about volcanoes, after Montserrat, and we got the other two out of the tents. Then I heard it again, ’bout a minute later…that wind. Followed by another more obvious explosion. Way high up.”

  “Did you hear a fourth explosion?”

  “No. But we sure felt it. The whole area kinda shuddered. And then the sky became overcast…and all this burning stuff was falling into the trees. The first fire we saw, out on the right, was way up ahead, maybe a half mile. That’s how far the debris was being blasted. We were on the road by then…I’d say a good six miles away from the mountain…”

  “Mr. Tilton,” Jimmy said, “I can’t thank you enough. You’ve been a real help.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant Commander,” replied the bank President. “But tell me, why is the National Security Agency interested in a plain act of God?”

  “Oh, just a routine checkup. We always take a look at these things. You know, earthquakes, major fires, tidal waves…Thanks for your help, Mr. Tilton.”

  1130, Tuesday, August 18

  The White House.

  President McBride, a slim, lanky man, with receding curly gray-brown hair, was irritated. A few moments earlier, he had been looking forward to his salad, and now this. A detailed three-page memorandum direct from Jurassic Park—copy to Cyrus Romney—outlining the possibility that a person or persons unknown had blown up Mount St. Helens from a submarine apparently parked several hundred miles away, on the bottom of the goddamned Pacific Ocean.

  Absurd, and precisely the kind of harebrained, quasimilitary scare-mongering the President had vowed to eradicate. Years and years wasted on lunatic military adventures, billions of dollars of taxpayers’ money, chasing shadows, witch-hunting spies, Reagan and Bush, threatening people, bombing people…and for what?

  President McBride’s views were well known. He considered the prospect of war, any war, unthinkable. He’d been known to say, “If we’ve got to fight in order to retain our place in the modern world, we ought to opt out and become isolationist.”

  The President held up the memorandum he had just skimmed through, shook his head, and resisted the temptation to toss it in the bin. Cyrus had even told Fort Meade to waste no time on it. Of course they’d done the exact opposite, and now this. He hit the button requesting his National Security Adviser to come in and the discuss the matter. He always felt better when he was chatting with Cyrus. Old friends, they had marched shoulder to shoulder in Washington protesting Middle Eastern wars. They were both “e
nlightened,” not stuck in the gloomy, antagonistic past.

  Cyrus tapped lightly on the door, and entered. “Hi, Mr. President,” he said, cheerfully. “And what awful turmoil has this uncaring world visited upon you today?” Cyrus wrote poetry in his spare time.

  “This, old buddy,” replied the man in the Big Chair. “This deranged bullshit from Jurassic Park. They think there’s some kind of monster from Waterworld groping about on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, pushing buttons and letting off our American volcanoes. Can you believe this crap?”

  “To be honest, I’ve only just got to my mail. I assume they copied me?”

  “Yes. They have. It’s based on that hoax letter about Mount St. Helens. Admiral Morris seems to think that there might be someone out there firing cruise missiles at Washington State.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Cyrus. “Those guys! They should’ve been novelists.”

  “All I know is there are two gigantic U.S. Navy bases in Washington State, and now these clowns at Fort Meade are telling me that despite several trillion dollars of surveillance equipment sweeping Puget Sound and all points west—on the water, above the water, and under the water—there’s a damn great nuclear submarine prowling around underneath our ships, firing stuff at volcanoes. Now, am I missing something, or is this a load of horseshit on an almost unprecedented scale?”

  “Well, I haven’t read it yet, Charlie. But it does sound kind of far-fetched.”

  “The gist of the thing is that some terrorist organization snatched a volcanologist in the street in London last May, and then murdered him. They think he told Hamas how to erupt dormant volcanoes, and they may have done it a couple of weeks ago, right here in the U.S.A.”

  “Did they catch the murderers? Any charges? Evidence?”

  “Hell, no. The Brits never caught anyone. But Fort Meade seems to think that there was some Middle East connection.”

  “Well, what do they want us to do about it?”