Scimitar SL-2

killing blow of the SAS. The London bobby was dead before he slumped back onto the edge of the sidewalk.

The men from Hamas had practiced the “defensive” operation for weeks, and there had been no mistakes. Only the presence of the big German-bred attack dog had surprised them. But not for long. From the moment they first grabbed the Professor, to their quick getaway, only seventeen seconds had passed.

And now the Range Rover made a full turnaround, its lights still dark, and headed for Exhibition Road, the backseat prisoner unaware of the carnage that quickly grew smaller in the rearview mirror.

It took a full five minutes for two or three people among the pop concert crowd to realize that something had happened. No, Roger was not taking a nap. Yes, that was actual blood. No, the policeman lying flat on his back had indeed been shot dead and the holes in his forehead were not birthmarks. And no, the other chap in the blue coat slumped facedown in the gutter was definitely a policeman. And no, he was not drunk. And yes, like Roger and his colleague, he also was dead.

Two London policemen and their guard dog slain at the bottom of the great stone stairway, south of the Albert Hall.

Finally, more than seven minutes after the Range Rover left, someone dialed London’s 999 Emergency Service on a cell phone. Within another five minutes, two patrol cars were on the scene. By that time, General Ravi and his men had changed cars and were leisurely driving through West London to a cast-iron safe house owned by a few fellow Muslims in the suburb of Hounslow.

Professor Landon’s hands were now bound together with plastic masking tape, and he was still in the bag, in every sense of the phrase. He was sitting between two of the world’s most lethal Muslim fundamentalists, and in answer to his frightened pleas to know what was going on — since his captors plainly had the wrong man — he was told softly and firmly, Keep quiet, Dr. Landon, we wish only to talk to you and then you will be set free.

The first part was accurate. Almost. The second part was a lie. Lava Landon already knew far too much.

Back at the scene of the crimes, two ambulances were transporting the bodies of the murdered officers to St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, and a Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals van was loading the carcass of Roger into a box, while the police were desperately looking for witnesses.

But no one had heard gunshots. No one had actually seen either policeman being attacked. No, it was impossible to identify the exact type of four-wheel-drive wagon that may have contained the criminals. No one had seen its license plate.

Someone thought it had driven off with no lights. Someone thought it turned right, down Exhibition Road. Someone else thought it turned left. No one could cast a single ray of light on the physical appearance of its occupants.

It was the most brutal slaying of police officers in London for nearly half a century, since the night when gangsters gunned down three policemen in Shepherd’s Bush, a couple of miles to the west of the Albert Hall.

But at that time, the police had been pretty sure who had committed the crime within about five minutes of the shooting. This time they did not have the remotest idea. They had no clues, no witnesses, and absolutely no motives to work on. And of course, they had no notion whatsoever that a celebrity kidnap victim was being held in the back of the getaway vehicle.

The interrogation of Professor Landon began at one o’clock in the morning. The black bag had been removed from his head, his wrists were unbound, and he was given coffee at a large dining room table in a white room with no windows. Flanking the door were two Middle Eastern — looking guards wearing blue jeans, black boots, and short brown leather jackets. Both were holding AK-47s.

Before him sat a broad-shouldered English army-officer type, more formally dressed, no longer wearing sunglasses. He too was Middle Eastern in appearance, but his voice and tone could have been honed nowhere else on earth but a leading English public school.

The discussion was about volcanoes.

How many genuine eruptions have occurred in the world in recent years?

Probably a hundred since 2002, maybe a few more.

Can you name some?

Certainly…Montserrat in the West Indies…Karangetang, Indonesia…San Cristobal, Nicaragua… Tangkubanparahu in Java…at least three on the Kamchatka Peninsula, Siberia…Fuego in Guatemala…Stromboli in Italy…Kavachi Seamount, Solomon Islands…Chiginagak Island, Alaska…

How many in the past twelve months?

You mean serious ones, or just rumblings?

How many explosions?

Well, Colima in Mexico…Etna in Sicily…Fuego, Guatemala…the one in the Solomon Islands, and all three of the big ones on Kamchatka…plus Killauea in Hawaii…Maman in Papua New Guinea…always the Soufriere Hill in Montserrat…with a bit of a shout from Mount St. Helens in Washington State. Also some dire rumblings in the Canary Islands — the most serious of all.

Because of the tsunami?

Absolutely.

By 7 A.M. Professor Landon was growing anxious. One hour from now, he was due in his office in the splendid white-pillared Benfield Greig building on Gower Street near Euston Square. As the senior professor in London University’s Department of Geological Sciences, his absence from his second-floor lecture room was sure to be noticed. But the questions continued, and he had little choice but to answer them.

What would it take to explode an active rumbling volcano? A big bomb? Maybe a couple of cruise missiles straight down the crater?

Well, the magma is very close to the surface in the Montserrat volcano on the western side of the island. I should think you could bring that one forward with a well-aimed hand grenade. It’s never really stopped erupting in the last five years.

How about Mount St. Helens?

More difficult. But there have been small explosions and a lot of rumblings in the past several months. And remember. When St. Helens blew in 1980, it unleashed forces equal to four Hiroshimas every second. But it’s very dangerous now and getting worse. I’d say four big cruise-missile explosions bang in the right place on the vulnerable south side would almost certainly unleash its lava again.

And Cumbre Vieja?

You mean to cause the mega-tsunami I was talking about last night? No conventional explosion would prise that huge hunk of rock off the cliffside. The volcano would have to erupt. And you’d need a sizable nuclear blast to make that happen.

You mean a full-blooded nuclear bomb?

No, no. Not that big. But you mentioned cruise missiles. And if you were thinking short-range, not ballistic, I’d say a medium-sized nuclear warhead would probably blow a big enough hole to release the magma.

And that starts the landslide into the bottom of the ocean?

No. No. Not on its own. You see, that whole line of volcanoes in southern La Palma contains a vast amount of water deep in the mountains. The release of the magma bursting up to the surface creates stupendous heat inside the rock. In turn this causes several cubic miles of water to boil rapidly, and then expand, like a pressure cooker. That’s what will blow the mountain to pieces, and will most certainly collapse the entire southwest section of La Palma into the sea. A landslide, on a scale not seen on this earth for a million years.

So, if you fired a missile at the vulnerable spot on the volcano of Cumbre Vieja, which you said tonight was the most active, you’d need it to penetrate the surface and then explode deep below the ground?

It would need to hit hard and pierce the rock strata that guards the lava, before it blew. The released magma surging up from the core of the earth would then erupt into the atmosphere, drawing zillions of tons of incinerating magma right behind it. The underground lakes would boil, and then flash off into steam. That’s when the whole mountain range would explode.

The former Maj. Ray Kerman liked Professor Landon. This was a man who expertly understood explosions, both natural and man-made, and who was consumed by his subject. And he did not dwell upon ramifications. He