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
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
He steadied himself, cooled down his excitement. Thoughts rampaged through his mind…
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
“Sir, I meant
“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.”
