Athabasca

by Alistair MacLean

  “Why now?” Jim Brady said. “Although I know as well as you do.”

  “They have tremendous leverage at the moment, and the last thing they’d ever want to do is to abdicate this position of almost dictatorial power. Decisions are being made now in both countries. Should North America become anywhere near self-sufficient in oil, our blackmailing friends would lose their power-base. They’d be forced to abandon their pretensions to playing an authoritative role in world affairs, and, perhaps worst of all for them, their profits would be reduced to such a trickle that they’d have to forgo their grandiose schemes for industrial and technological expansion, for hauling their countries into the middle of the late twentieth century, without any of the intermediate struggle or leasing and developmental process. When it comes to national survival, desperate men are prepared to go to desperate lengths.”

  Brady paced for some time, then said: “Do you really think the O.P.E.C. countries would take concerted action against us?”

  “Hell, no. Half of them are barely on speaking terms with the other half, and you can’t imagine relatively moderate countries like Saudi Arabia participating in any such combined operation. But you know as well as I do that among the O.P.E.C. rulers there are some certifiable loonies who would stop at nothing to achieve their own ends. And you won’t have forgotten that some of those countries play host to the most ruthless terrorist trainers in the business.”

  Brady said: “What would you say to that, George?”

  “It’s a theory, and a perfectly tenable one. On the other hand, since coming here I haven’t seen a single person who looks remotely like an Arabian or Middle Eastern terrorist.”

  “So what would your guess be?”

  “As a wild guess, I would suspect our troubles are caused by good old-fashioned capitalistic free enterprise. And if that’s the case, the potential sources of our troubles are legion. I’m afraid we won’t solve this by looking at it from the outside: we’ll have to look out from the inside.”

  “And the motive?”

  “Blackmail, obviously.”

  “Cash?”

  “Well, the only other bargaining counter is hostages. Nobody’s holding any hostages. So what’s left? They’re now in the process of softening us up by proving they can carry out their threats when and as they wish.”

  “They won’t be asking for pennies.”

  “I shouldn’t think so. To start with, the pipeline and Sanmobil have a combined investment of ten billion. For every day that delivery is held up they’ll be losing millions more. Most important of all, our two countries are desperate for oil. Whoever those people are, they have us not over but in a barrel. Naked. The ransom will be high. I should imagine it would be paid.”

  “Who’d pay it?” Mackenzie said.

  “The oil companies. The governments. They’ve all got a stake in this.”

  Brady said: “And once the blackmailers have been paid, what’s to prevent them repeating the process all over again?”

  “Nothing that I can see.”

  “God, you’re a Job’s comforter.”

  “Let me comfort you some more, shall I? There could be a link-up between Don’s theory and mine. If this is blackmail, and if the killers do collect, what’s to prevent some of the O.P.E.C. countries approaching them and offering to double or triple their money if they destroy the supply lines for keeps—and get out? You’ve a big responsibility on your shoulders, Mr Brady.”

  “You, George are a rock of strength and compassion in times of trouble and stress.” Brady sounded plaintive. “Well, if there are no constructive suggestions forthcoming, I suggest we all retire. There is thinking to be done and I must take counsel with myself. On such nights, the best company.”

  Dermott still felt unaccountably tired when the alarm clock dragged him up from the depths of a troubled sleep. It was just on eight in the morning. He rose reluctantly, showered, shaved, made his way to Finlayson’s room, and was about to knock when the door was opened by Dr Blake. At that time of the morning the doctor’s beaked nose, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes lent him a more cadaverous look than ever—not the kind of physician’s face, Dermott thought, to inspire hope and confidence.

  “Ah, come in, Mr Dermott. I’ve finished with Finlayson. Was just about to send for his casket. He and the two engineers from Pump Station Four are being flown out at nine-thirty. I understand you’re going with them.”

  “Yes. You have caskets?”

  “Macabre, you think? Well, we do keep a few tucked away. Apart from natural illnesses, this is an accident-prone profession, and we have to be prepared. You can’t very well whistle up an undertaker from Fairbanks or Anchorage at a moment’s notice.”

  “I suppose not.” Dermott nodded at the dead man. “Any luck in establishing the cause of death?”

  “Well, normally it requires a full autopsy to discover whether a victim has been suffering from cerebrovascular disease or cardiac arrest. Fortunately—or unfortunately—it wasn’t necessary in this case.” Blake sounded grim. “What was before only a suspicion is now a certainty. What would be natural causes elsewhere are unnatural here. John Finlayson was murdered.”

  “How? Other than by exposure?”

  “None of your usual methods. He was rendered unconscious and left to die in the cold. Clad as he was in those abnormally low temperatures, I’d say his heart must have stopped in under a minute.”

  “How was he knocked out?”

  “Sand-bagged. In the classic spot, at the base of the neck. An expert. You can see the slight contusion and roughness there. A contusion can only be caused by blood still circulating, so he was clearly alive after the blow. The cold killed him.”

  “Where could the attacker have got sand in this God-forsaken frozen hole?”

  Dr Blake smiled. Dermott wished he hadn’t: the long narrow teeth only accentuated the death’s-head effect. “If you aren’t too squeamish, you can smell what they used.”

  Dermott bent and rose almost immediately. “Salt.”

  Blake nodded. “Probably slightly dampened. Makes an even more effective cosh than sand.”

  “They teach you this in medical school?”

  “I was on the forensic side once. If I make out and sign the death certificate, will you be kind enough to hand it in at Anchorage?”

  “Of course.”

  Big, burly, high-coloured and irrepressibly cheerful, John Ffoulkes looked more like a prosperous farmer than a tough, competent senior police officer. He produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses and smiled at Dermott.

  “In view of those ridiculous prohibition laws they have up at Prudhoe Bay, maybe we can make up here in Anchorage…”

  “My chief would like your style. We don’t do so badly there. Mr Brady claims to have the biggest portable bar north of the Arctic Circle. He has, too.”

  “Well, then, to help erase the memory of your flight. I gather you didn’t enjoy it much?”

  “Extreme turbulence, an absence of pretty stewardesses, and the knowledge that you’re carrying three murdered men in the cargo hold doesn’t make for a very relaxed flight.”

  Ffoulkes stopped smiling. “Ah, yes, the dead men. Not only a tragic affair but an extremely unpleasant one. I’ve had reports from my own State troopers and the F.B.I. I wonder if you could have anything to add to what they said?”

  “I doubt it. Mr Morrison of the F.B.I. struck me as a highly competent officer.”

  “He’s all that, and a close friend of mine. But tell me anyway, please.”

  Dermott’s account was as succinct as it was comprehensive. At the end Ffoulkes said: “Tallies almost exactly with the other reports. But no hard facts?”

  “Suspicions, yes. Hard facts, no.”

  “So the only lead you really have are the prints we got from that telephone booth?” Dermott nodded, and Ffoulkes brought out a buff folder from a desk drawer. “Here they are. Some are pretty smudged but a few are not too bad. Are you an expert?”

&nbs
p; “I can read them with a powerful glass and a lot of luck. But an expert—no.”

  “I’ve got a first-class young lad here. Like to borrow him for a day or two?”

  Dermott hesitated. “That’s kind. But I don’t want to tread on Mr Morrison’s toes. He’s got his own man up there.”

  “Not in the same class as our David Hendry. Mr Morrison won’t object.” He pressed an intercom button and gave an order.

  David Hendry was fair-haired, smiling and seemed ridiculously young to be a police officer. After introductions, Ffoulkes said: “Lucky lad. How do you fancy a vacation in a winter wonderland?”

  Hendry looked cautious. “Which wonderland, sir?”

  “Prudhoe Bay.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Good, glad you’re happy. That’s settled then. Pack your equipment and, of course, your clothes. Three parkas should be enough—worn on top of each other. When’s your plane out, Mr Dermott?”

  “Two hours.”

  “Report back in an hour, David.” Hendry opened the door to leave, then stood to one side as a lean man, white-bearded like an Old Testament prophet, bustled into the room.

  “Apologies, John, apologies. Couldn’t have caught me at a worse time or on a worse day. Two court cases, two suicides—people get more thoughtless every day.”

  “You have my sympathies, Charles—as I, one hopes, have yours. Dr Parker—Mr Dermott.”

  “Hah!” Parker looked at Dermott with an ill-concealed lack of enthusiasm. “You the fellow who’s come to add to my burden of woes?”

  “Through no wish of mine, doctor. Three burdens, to be precise.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about them today, Mr Dermott. Snowed under, just snowed. Very likely I can’t do anything about them tomorrow either. Most unprofessional.”

  “What is?”

  “My two assistants. Going down with the flu at the busiest time of the year. This modern generation—”

  “I daresay they couldn’t help it.”

  “Namby-pambies. What happened to those three anyway?”

  “Two we know for sure. They were in the close vicinity of an explosion. After that an oil fire broke out. Savagely scarred. The fumes alone would have finished them off.”

  “But they were already finished off. So. Blasted to death, burnt, asphyxiated. Doesn’t leave very much for an old sawbones like me to do, does it?”

  “Each of them has also a low-velocity bullet lodged somewhere near the back of his skull,” Dermott said.

  “Hah! So you want them out, is that it?”

  “Not me, Dr Parker. The State police and the F.B.I. I’m no cop, just an oilfield sabotage investigator.”

  Parker looked sour. “I hope my efforts aren’t as thoroughly wasted as usual.”

  Ffoulkes smiled. “What odds would you offer, Mr Dermott?”

  “About a million to one that they’ll be wasted. That gun has almost certainly been tossed out of a helicopter somewhere over the Brooks Range.”

  “I’ll still have to ask you, Charles,” said Ffoulkes.

  Dr Parker was unimpressed. “What about this third man?”

  “B.P/Sohio’s field production manager in Prudhoe Bay, John Finlayson.”

  “Good lord! Know the man well. Suppose I should say ‘knew’, now.”

  “Yes.” Dennott nodded to Ffoulkes’s desk. “That’s his death certificate.”

  Parker picked it up, screwed on a pince-nez and read through the report.

  “Unusual,” he said testily. “But it seems a straightforward medical report to me. There’s no autopsy required here.” He peered at Dermott. “From your expression, you appear to disagree.”

  “I’m neither agreeing nor disagreeing. I’m just vaguely unhappy.”

  “Have you ever practised medicine, Mr Dermott?”

  “No.”

  “And yet you presume to take issue with a colleague of mine?”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Never heard of him.” Parker breathed deeply. “But, dammit, he’s a physician.”

  “So was Dr Crippen.”

  “What the devil are you insinuating?”

  “You read into my words what you choose,” Dermott said flatly. “I’m insinuating nothing. I merely say that his examination was perfunctory and hurried, and that he may have missed something. You wouldn’t claim a divine right of infallibility for doctors?”

  “I would not.” His voice was still testy, but only a testy mutter now. “What is it you want?”

  “A second opinion.”

  “That’s a damned unusual request.”

  “It’s a damned unusual murder.”

  Ffoulkes looked quizzically at Dermott and said: “I’ll look in at Prudhoe Bay tomorrow. There’s nothing like adding a touch of chaos to an existing state of confusion.”

  10

  Dermott and David Hendry flew in from Anchorage to Prudhoe Bay in the leaden twilight of late afternoon to find the weather distinctly improved, with the wind down to ten knots, the top of the drifting snow-cloud not more than five feet above ground level, visibility in the plane’s headlights almost back to normal, and the temperature at least twenty degrees higher than in the morning. In the administration building lounge the first recognisable face Dermott saw was that of Morrison of the F.B.I., who was sitting with a young, ginger-haired man incongruously dressed in grey flannels and blazer. Morrison looked up and smiled.

  “Trust John Ffoulkes,” he said. “No faith in the F.B.I.” He gestured towards the ginger-haired young man. “Nick Turner. Ignore the way he dresses. He’s been to Oxford. My fingerprint man. On your right, David Hendry, your fingerprint man.”

  Dermott said mildly: “John Ffoulkes just observed that two pairs of eyes were better than one. No developments?”

  “Not one. You?”

  “Largely a waste of time. Had a thought on the way up. Why don’t we print John Finlayson’s room?”

  “No dice. We’ve done it.”

  “Clean as a whistle?”

  “Close enough. Lots of unsatisfactory smudges which can only be Finlayson’s, a couple belonging to a plumber who was there on his rounds, and one—would you believe it, just one—belonging to the bull cook, who must be a real whiz-kid with duster and polishing cloth.”

  “Bull cook?”

  “Kind of house-keeper. Bed-maker and cleaner.”

  “Could some other industrious soul have been busy in there with a duster?”

  Morrison produced two keys. “His room key and the master key. Had them in my pocket since Finlayson was taken out this morning.”

  “Here endeth the lesson.” Dermott laid the buff folder on the low table before Morrison. “Prints from the Anchorage phone booth. Now, I must go and report to the boss.”

  Morrison said: “It should amuse the two young gentlemen here to compare your Anchorage prints with the ones in the office safe.”

  “You don’t sound very optimistic,” Dermott said.

  The F.B.I. agent smiled. “By nature I’ve always been an optimist. But that was before I crossed the forty-ninth parallel.”

  Dermott found Brady and Mackenzie taking their ease in the only two chairs in Brady’s room. He looked on them without favour.

  “It’s very pleasant and reassuring to see you two so comfortable and relaxed.”

  Brady said: “Rough afternoon, huh?” He waved a hand towards the serried row of bottles on the sideboard. “This’il restore your moral fibre.”

  Dermott helped himself and asked: “Any news from Athabasca? How are the family?”

  “Fine, fine.” Brady chuckled. “Stella passed on a lot more stuff from Norway. Apparently they’ve got that fire licked. No need to keep in touch any longer.”

  “That’s good.” Dermott sipped his Scotch. “What are the girls doing?”

  “Right now, I guess, they’re touring the Sanmobil plant, courtesy of Bill Reynolds. Very hospitable lot, those Canadians.”

  “Who’ve t
hey got to protect them?”

  “Reynolds’s own security man, Brinckman—the boss, you remember—and Jorgensen, his number two.”

  Dermott was unimpressed. “I’d rather they had those two young cops.”

  Brady snapped: “Your reason?”

  “Three. First, they’re a damned sight tougher, more competent than Brinckman’s lot. Second, Brinckman, Jorgensen and Napier are prime suspects.”

  “Why prime?”

  “For having the keys that opened the Sanmobil armoury door, for having given the keys to those who did. Third, they’re security men.”

  Brady smiled blandly. “You’re bushed, George. You’re becoming paranoid about the security men of the great north-west.”

  “I hope you don’t have reason to regret that remark.”

  Brady scowled but said nothing, so Dermott changed the subject. “How did the day go?”

  “No progress. Along with Morrison we interviewed every man on the base. Every one had a cast-iron alibi for the night of the explosion in Pump Station Four. So it’s all clear there.”

  “Except—” Dermott persisted.

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Bronowski and Houston.”

  Brady glowered at his chief operative and shook his head. “You’re paranoid, George, I say it again. Shit, we know they were both out there. Bronowski’s been hurt, and Houston didn’t have to find Finlayson. If he had been crooked, it would have suited him far better to let the drifting snow obliterate every last trace of Finlayson. What do you say to that?”

  “Three things. The fact that we know they were out at the pump station makes them more suspect, not less.”

  “Second guessing,” growled Brady. “Hate second guessing.”

  “No doubt. But we’ve agreed that the bombers must be people working on the pipeline. We’ve eliminated everyone else, so it has to be them—does it not?”