Landon went on to describe how the monstrous tidal surge would wipe out large hunks of coastal southern England, Spain, and West Africa. And then, within nine hours from the moment of the rock’s impact on the surface of the Atlantic off southwestern La Palma, the massive wall of water would travel across the Atlantic and obliterate the entire East Coast of the United States.
“If Cumbre Vieja blows, this will happen,” he confirmed. “A rare and terrible mega-tsunami. Scientific research has estimated a number of intense waves, still perhaps 150 feet high, crashing into the restricted seaways off lower Manhattan, and then flattening the Wall Street area of New York with its very first sweep.
“The opening tidal wave would suck the debris out of the streets and flatten the ground before the next one of the wave series hit, demolishing buildings up to possibly fifteen blocks from the waterfront. And these giant waves — each one more than 100 feet high — would keep coming, progressively, until all of New York City was levelled.
“The biggest tsunami in recorded history. And all because of a single volcano.”
Professor Paul Landon was one of the world’s preeminent volcanologists, the Benfield Greig Professor of Geophysical Hazards at University College, London, and Director of the University’s Hazard Center.
He had worked on the slopes of literally dozens of the world’s most dangerous volcanoes, often successfully forecasting powerful eruptions. His nickname was well earned. And his skill in assessing the temperature and intent of the molten magma was matched only by his brilliance behind the lectern.
A bearded man of medium height, with pale blue eyes and the inevitable tweed sports jacket, checkered shirt, and college tie, he was forty-four years old and at the height of his game, his lectures in demand all over the world.
Lava Landon lived outside London in the commuter belt of Buckinghamshire with his wife, a City lawyer named Valerie. Their two sons, age fourteen and fifteen, collectively considered their father to be more or less insane, hearing almost every day of their short lifetimes that the world would probably end next week. Their skepticism didn’t faze Professor Landon in the least; like many of his fellow academics he was quite astonishingly self-absorbed and fireproof to criticism.
As he stood now in the hoofprints of the mighty Scott, Shackleton, Hillary, and Hunt, he reflected on an evening’s work well done. He knew he had mesmerized the entire audience. But he wasn’t aware of one particular listener. Seated among the sea of spellbound faces, at the back of the auditorium, a twenty-three-year-old Palestinian freedom fighter, Ahmed Sabah, was taking notes, intent on every word, every graphic.
After the speech, Sabah slipped out quickly and was now waiting quietly in the dark southern precincts of Albert Hall, London’s spectacular rounded concert hall, situated next door to the Royal Geographical Society.
As Lava Landon walked along Kensington Gore, turning into the courtyard of the great hall of music, named for Queen Victoria’s consort Prince Albert, several thousand fans began to flood through the doors, following a live concert celebrating popular bands of the eighties.
It actually took Paul Landon four more minutes to reach the top of the long, wide flight of steps that led down from the hall to the notoriously dark rear-side road. There were hundreds of fans headed the same way and they almost engulfed the great geophysicist on the steps.
Directly below him he could see a black Range Rover, illegally parked, close to the sidewalk, no lights, facing the wrong way, with no one in the driver’s seat.
Ahmed Sabah and his two colleagues chose that moment to strike from behind. They expertly rammed a black canvas bag over Paul Landon’s head, holding him in an iron grip, and bundled him down the last two steps and into the back of the waiting vehicle.
There was no time to cry out, no time to fight back. An accented voice kept hissing into his ear, urging him to remain quiet unless he wanted to die, and against his left kidney he could feel the unmistakable push of a large knife.
It’s curious how the swarm of preoccupied people could have missed entirely what was happening in their midst. It must have been their single-minded determination to get home — searching for cabs, or late buses, hoping to make the London underground station at South Kensington in time for one of the infrequent late-night trains.
No one paid attention to the incident, certainly not the two London policemen on patrol with a large German shepherd named Roger, who were swept along the throng spilling out of the concert hall at the top of the steps, 30 feet above the scene of the kidnapping.
True to the modern ethos of the London police, they missed the crime, but homed in instantly on the illegal parking, fighting their way down the steps to apprehend the Range Rover’s driver, their hands already fumbling, urgently, for their trusty Breathalyzers.
By the time they arrived, the driver’s seat was occupied. Seated behind the wheel, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, was the former SAS Major, Ray Kerman, currently known as Gen. Ravi Rashood, Commander in Chief of the Revolutionary forces of Hamas and, quite possibly, the most dangerous and wanted terrorist in the world.
Right now he was revving the engine impatiently, causing the policemen to unleash the huge dog, who flew at the car in two forward bounds, teeth bared, going for the driver’s right arm through the open window.
Big mistake, Roger. From the backseat of the Range Rover, Ahmed Sabah almost blew the dog’s head off with a burst from a silenced AK-47. The policeman running in front could not believe what he had seen with his own eyes, and he stopped some three yards from the vehicle, the late attack dog Roger in a heap at his feet.
Ahmed’s light machine gun spoke quietly again — three dull muffled thumps — and a short line of bullets through the forehead flung the constable backwards to the ground, dead.
The second policeman, seeing the dog, but not yet his fallen colleague, ran instinctively toward the driver. But he was late. The General was out on the sidewalk, and seized the astonished cop’s raised right arm, flinging him down in one fluid motion, his head almost on the seat.
He grabbed him by the throat and rammed his head against the door’s recess. One split second later, Ahmed slammed the door shut with stupendous force, cracking the policeman’s skull from the bridge of his nose to the hairline. At that moment, that Range Rover became the most expensive nutcracker since Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky worked his magic one hundred years before.
Ravi spun the police officer around and, with the butt of his gloved right hand, thundered a terrible upward punch into his already bleeding nose. The force rammed the bone clean into the brain, the classic unarmed-combat 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.