Scimitar SL-2

passage, 120 miles a day for six days, average 5 knots, just the exact numbers you would expect from a sneaky little son of a bitch, right?”

“Running north of the Aleutians, eh?” said the Admiral. “How about its passage from the Yellow Sea to Attu? Does that fit a pattern?”

“Hell yes, sir. Ten days, no trouble. I should think they were moving pretty carefully. It could have been the Barracuda. Plus, I checked the boards and there’s not another bloody submarine within a thousand miles, except our own patrol in the Aleutian Trench.”

“I wonder,” said Arnold Morgan. “I really wonder. Could these little bastards really have exploded a massive volcano? You’ve got to doubt that. But with this Ray fucking Kerman, who knows? And he was checking out the most dangerous volcano in the world when I last saw him!

“Jimmy, I think we want to get in touch with a top volcano guy and find out once and for all whether it was possible to have exploded Mount St. Helens. Then we want to find out if there was anything remotely suspicious about that eruption. Maybe check out the local police and FBI. Then we want to cast a long look over any major volcano story that appeared anywhere in the past year. Anything that might show that the guys we seek are active in the field…”

“Sir, we’ll have to settle for one of the top volcanologists, rather than the top volcanologist.”

“We will? Why’s that?”

“Because the top man was found murdered in London last May. He was called Prof. Paul Landon. Washed up in the middle of the River Thames, some island halfway along the University Boat Race course according to the London Daily Telegraph…”

“Christ,” said Arnold. “That sounds bad. Must have been Chiswick Eyot, just upstream from Hammersmith Bridge — that’s really the only island around there.”

Arnold chortled, always pleased to have bamboozled the young. “I know the river pretty well. A long time ago, I pulled the bow oar for Annapolis at the Henley Regatta in the Thames Cup. And a few years later, I did a couple of stints helping coach the eight.”

“Ah, well, Landon was the main man in his field. I don’t believe the police ever did find out who or why. They seemed to write it off as mistaken identity of some kind. I wouldn’t have been so sure myself. The Professor was executed, two bullets in the back of his head. Doesn’t sound much like an accident to me.”

“Jimmy, have another look at that, will you? Talk to someone about the feasibility of blowing Mount St. Helens. And find out if anyone had any suspicion whatsoever about the eruption…meanwhile I’ve gotta go…tell George g’bye and keep him well posted.”

“Okay, sir, I’ll walk you downstairs.”

“No need, kid. I was finding my way in and out of this place while you were throwing toy tanks across the room.”

They both laughed, shook hands, and Admiral Morgan was gone. Four hours later, a copy of the letter from Hamas arrived on George Morris’s desk. It was direct from the White House, headed “FYI,” and signed by Cyrus Romney. At the bottom was a note scrawled by hand informing the Admiral that both Cyrus and the President regarded it as an obvious hoax and no action would be necessary, nor should time be wasted upon investigation.

Admiral Morris, who had been sequestered with Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe for the past two hours, just muttered, “Oh, I see, Mr. Romney. And that’s with the benefit of your entire five months’ experience of international terrorism? Asshole.”

Meanwhile, down the corridor, Ramshawe was in full cry. He tackled the London murder first, because they were five hours ahead and if he needed to call anyone today, he’d have to be quick.

He keyed into the Internet and searched diligently for anything more on the Professor. Found nothing after the report of the body being washed up, and an account in the Telegraph about the subsequent Memorial Service in London, attended by Great Britain’s heaviest academics. But he’d read that already in the Court and Society Page, a couple of months ago.

He scrolled down into a Web site that pulled up front pages of the Telegraph, the Daily Mail, the London Times, and the Financial Times. He’d found it useful before, and he went into each day from May 9, when Professor Landon was first missing.

Jimmy had checked out the Daily Mail and the Telegraph before, but that was three months ago, when no one else was interested. He was much more thorough now. Whereas last May he had only persisted for a week after the Professor’s disappearance, he now went further. And he checked those front pages assiduously.

It was the edition of the Daily Mail for May 18 that caught his eye. There was a splash front-page strapline, which read: SCOTLAND YARD BAFFLED BY THE ALBERT HALL MASSACRE.

Beneath this, in three decks of huge end-of-the-world type, set left, it demanded:

WHO KILLED THESE MEN ON THE NIGHT OF MAY 8TH?

To the right were three photographs showing Police Constables Peter Higgins and Jack Marlow, and then Professor Paul Landon. A photograph of Roger, the dead German shepherd attack dog, was set much smaller in the center of the page. “GUNNED DOWN: A CRUEL END FOR BRAVE ROGER,” was the caption.

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