Athabasca

by Alistair MacLean

  “Good God! Dermott!”

  “Carmody! Where in hell have you been?”

  “Trying to ditch the chopper. What about you?”

  “Had a…had a bit of bother.” Suddenly Dermott found he could hardly talk. He was about to break down. “Take her, will you?” he croaked. “I’ve had it.”

  With an exclamation Carmody relieved him of his inert burden. “Quick,” said the policeman. “Inside.”

  They laid Corinne on one bed and Dermott collapsed on to another with the manacles still dangling from his wrists. “Ring Shore!” he gasped. “Tell him for Christ’s sake to switch off the power to Dragline One. Tell him and Brady to get up here like they never drove before.”

  They had turned on the floodlamps to illuminate the 150-foot depths of the pit below. They had also hammered in spikes ten yards back from the lip, and to these they had attached ropes so that the vertiginously-inclined or the less-than-sure-footed could cling to them as they peered over the edge.

  Dragline One had ended up on its nose, tilted backwards towards the near-vertical face at an angle of thirty degrees. The massive casing appeared undamaged, as did the triangular arm over which the control cables passed. Even the boom, its enormous length stretched out horizontally across the uneven valley floor, seemed undamaged, at least from above.

  Brady had prudently wrapped his belaying rope three times round his mighty girth. “Surprisingly little damage,” he said. “Or so it looks. I suppose some of the electric motors were wrenched free from their beds.”

  “That’ll be the least of our troubles.” Jay Shore looked stricken, ashen-faced in the floodlights. The sight of the crippled monster had far more effect on him than on any of the others. “It’s getting the damn thing out of there.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to get a replacement?” asked Brady.

  “Jesus! Do you know what a replacement would cost at today’s prices? Forty million dollars. Probably more. And you don’t order one up, just like that. If we could have one on our doorstep tomorrow, I’m sure Sanmobil would order it. But it can’t be done that way. You can’t transport a thing that size overland. Electric motors apart, the whole caboodle comes crated in tens of thousands of pieces, and it takes a team of skilled engineers months to assemble it.”

  “Cranes?” Brady suggested. He seemed fascinated by the sheer size of the problem. Or he was trying to be diverted, trying not to think of his missing wife and daughter.

  Shore made a dismissive gesture with his gloved hands. “The biggest cranes in the world—a whole battery of them—couldn’t lift the dragline an inch off the floor. We’ll either have to dismantle it piece by piece and raise the bits up here for reassembly, or build a road from down there back up to the surface level and have it towed up on bogies—or, perhaps, under its own steam. The road would have to be a very gentle gradient, which would mean a length of over a mile, heavily metalled on massive foundations. Whatever we do, it’ll cost millions.” He swore at some considerable length. “And all this in just seven minutes’ work!”

  “Why in hell couldn’t you stop it, when we phoned you?” asked Carmody.

  “The bastards knew what they were doing,” said Shore savagely. “They’d gone into the generator room, thrown the breaker that fed power to Dragline One, locked the door from the outside, left the key in the lock and smashed it so thoroughly that it’ll need an oxy-acetylene torch to open it again. We just couldn’t get in to shut down the power.”

  “They sure knew how to cause the maximum damage and disruption with the minimum of effort,” said Brady. “I suggest, Mr Shore, there’s no point in our remaining here a moment longer: all you’re doing is twisting the knife deeper into your wound. Let’s all get back inside and ask George what happened.”

  “O.K. Let’s go.” Shore, who had supervised the construction of the dragline, working along with the contractors, Bucyrus-Erie, seemed strangely reluctant to leave the fallen giant. It was as if he were abandoning an old friend. Brady could appreciate how he felt. But he could also appreciate how he felt himself: he had become acutely conscious of the cold.

  Shore took one last look at the dragline and turned back towards the heated haven of the minibus. “O.K.,” he repeated automatically. “Let’s go hear Dermott’s story.”

  They drove the short distance back to the isolation block, where they found Dermott lying on a bed, already being questioned by Willoughby. Corinne was sitting on a chair in the corner of the small room, looking in better shape than the man she’d rescued

  “How is he?” Brady whispered to the nurse out in the corridor.

  “His wrists look pretty bad: they got chewed up by the manacles, and frost-bitten as well. They’re going to be real painful for the next few days. They’ll mend, though.”

  “What about his general condition—exposure?”

  “What are you talking about? He’s got the constitution of an ox.”

  By the time Brady, Mackenzie and Carmody had filed into the room, the place was crammed full. Brady seemed much moved by the sight of his senior operative brought low, with hands and forearms heavily bandaged.

  “Well, George,” he began, clearing his throat heavily. “I am informed that you plan to survive.”

  “Sure do.” Dermott grinned up at them. “But boy—I wouldn’t want to go through that again.”

  “I got the story,” Willoughby cut in, brisk and businesslike. He gave a quick précis of what had happened, including the arrival and departure of the helicopter. “I’m sorry to say it, Mr Shore, but it seems the plant is riddled with corruption. Number one, somebody sabotaged the generator room, so that you couldn’t turn the power off. Number two, somebody else set the controls of the dragline to take it over the edge. Number three, somebody else hit Dermott and manacled him to the steel ring. Number four, somebody else again informed the kidnappers that the girl had survived her fall out of the helicopter and was back in the isolation unit. That makes quite a lot of villains for one plant.”

  “Too right, it does,” Shore said bitterly. “You don’t think the chopper came back to do the dragline job—that somebody on board got out and set the controls?”

  “Impossible. The dragline was moving before the chopper landed. Isn’t that right, Mr Dermott?”

  “Right. At least—no—not quite. But we saw men from the chopper go straight to the building here—and then we heard the dragline moving, right near us. The guys from the helicopter didn’t have time to reach the dragline and set up the controls.”

  “What I’d like to know is whether your family, Mr Brady, were still on board the helicopter,” Willoughby said.

  “Yes, they were.” Carmody startled them all with his sudden pronouncement. “And Mr Reynolds. He was with them.”

  “How d’you know?” Jim Brady asked. Dermott sat up abruptly.

  “I saw them. That’s what I was doing all the time you were involved with the dragline. I made a wide circle on foot and approached the helicopter from the back. There was a man armed with a machine pistol guarding the ladder, but I climbed up onto the skid-struts from the opposite side and got a look in through the cabin windows. They were all there—Mrs Brady, Stella, Mr Reynolds.”

  “How…” Brady faltered. “How did they look?”

  “Fine—just fine. Quite calm, all of them. But they weren’t quite as passive as they looked.”

  “What d’you mean?” Dermott asked quickly.

  “One of them managed to drop this out of the door, or out of a window.” From his breast pocket Carmody drew a brown leather bill-fold, which he handed to Brady. “Looks like one of yours—J.A.B., nicely embossed in gold.”

  “My God!” Brady took it. “That’s Jean’s. Her middle name’s Anneliese. This was a birthday present. Anything in it?”

  “Sure is. Take a look.”

  With his fingers trembling a little, Brady opened the billfold, unbuttoned a flap and drew out a small scrap of paper. “Crowfoot Lake Met. Station,” he read out lo
ud. “Well I’m damned.”

  Dermott was elated. “I knew it! I knew it!” he kept saying. “I knew the bastards would overreach themselves. Didn’t I say they’d make a major mistake through over-confidence or desperation? Well, they’ve made it. Somebody couldn’t resist the temptation to talk. Jean heard the name and wrote it down. Great, Jean!”

  “Sheer luck I found it,” said Carmody. “When the chopper took off it blew hell out of the snow and all-but buried the bill-fold. I was just having a quick look-round when I saw the corner sticking up out of a drift.”

  “We got it, anyway,” said Dermott. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Not so fast,” Brady countered. “For one thing we don’t know where Crowfoot Lake is.”

  “Oh yes we do,” said Willoughby. “It’s up beyond the Birch Mountains, seventy, eighty miles north. I know it well.”

  “How do we get there?” Dermott asked.

  Willoughby looked at him reproachfully. “Helicopter. No other way.”

  “It’s four o’clock in the morning, gentlemen,” Brady said heavily. “An error to pursue further tonight. For one thing, we are all exhausted.”

  “And for another we don’t have a helicopter,” said Dermott.

  “Precisely, George. I must say, your ordeal doesn’t seem to have blunted your wits any.”

  “Thank you.” Dermott lay back happily. “Maybe Mr Willoughby can help us in the morning—I mean, later this morning.”

  “Sure, sure.” Willoughby stood up. “But everyone please be careful. We’re up against professionals. Their performance has been pretty impressive to date. Nothing would please them better than to catch one of your gentlemen on their own, Mr Brady. Or you, for that matter.” He turned to Corinne, only to find she had fallen asleep, sitting upright, in the corner. “O.K.,” he said gently to Mackenzie. “Look after her. But whatever you do, all keep together.”

  “Like now,” said Brady. “We’ll all get in that bus together and drive back to town. Mr Carmody—it doesn’t sound as though your vehicle’s too serviceable. May I offer you a ride?”

  “Flat as a pancake,” said Carmody wryly. “Never saw anything to match it. Thank you.”

  They all piled in, with Shore driving. But before they even reached the administration block a radio message caught them.

  “Mr Shore—urgent.” It was Steve Dawson, charge-hand of the night-shift. “We got another emergency.”

  “Oh no!”Shore groaned. “I’m coming. Be right there.”

  Dawson met them and led them straight into a room off the main corridor which held six beds and was obviously a dormitory. On one of the beds lay the body of a fair-haired young man whose sightless eyes gazed at the ceiling.

  “Oh my God!” said Shore.

  “Who is it?” Dermott snapped.

  “David Crawford. The security man we were talking about.”

  “The one we suspected?”

  “That’s him. What happened?”

  “Stabbed through the heart, from behind,” said Saunders, the doctor, who was standing by the bed. “He’s been dead some hours. We only just found him.”

  “How come?” Dermott demanded. “Isn’t this the security men’s dormitory?”

  “One of two,” said Saunders. “The other’s larger. Normally both are occupied by off-duty shifts. But since the shut-down, the men have been living at home. Nobody had any cause to come in here tonight.”

  “Ruthless bastards,” said Brady, very low. “Four dead and two critically injured so far. Well, Mr Willoughby You’ve got a murder investigation on your hands.”

  14

  At 11.30 that same morning Brady and his team were the sole occupants of the hotel’s dining-room. Outside, the wind had gone, the snow had been reduced to the occasional flurry, and the sun was making a valiant effort to shine through the drifting grey cloud. Inside, the mood was one of expectancy and suppressed excitement.

  “One thing’s for sure,” said Brady firmly. “You’re not coming on this little jaunt.”

  “Oh yes I am,” Dermott countered. “I most certainly am. You try leaving me behind.”

  “What can you do?” Brady was half-scornful, half-sympathetic. “You can’t use a gun, knock anybody down, tie anybody up.”

  “All the same, I’ve got to be there.” Dermott was grey from lack of sleep and the pain in his savaged wrists. He could use his hands for gentle tasks, but his fingers were stiff, and to ease the discomfort he kept both elbows propped on the table with his forearms sticking straight up. “I really need two slings,” he muttered. “One for each arm.”

  “Why not stay here and look after your gallant saviour?” Mackenzie suggested slyly.

  Dermott coloured perceptibly and grunted: “She’s O.K., I guess.”

  “She’s being guarded, sure,” Mackenzie agreed. “But she might be even safer if she came with us. With the rot spreading as far as it has…” He broke off and went back to eating as he saw Willoughby, the police chief, approaching across the room.

  “Good morning, Chief,” Brady beamed at him. “Get any sleep?”

  “One hour.” Willoughby tried to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Call of duty. Can’t complain.”

  “News,” Brady announced abruptly. “Take a seat.” He handed a letter across the table. “Communication from our friends. Mailed yesterday in the local post office.”

  Willoughby read the first paragraph without alteration of expression. Then he looked slowly round the watching faces and said matter-of-factly: “One billion dollars.” Suddenly his calm gave way. “One billion dollars!” he cried. “Jesus!” He qualified the word “dollars” several times. “The sonsabitches are crazy. Who’s going to pay attention to this kind of drivel?”

  “You think it’s drivel?” Dermott asked. “I don’t. Probably a rather optimistic estimate of what the market will stand, but not very, I would think.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Willoughby threw the letter down on the table. “A billion dollars! Even if they mean it, how could the money be transferred without being traced to the recipient?”

  “Nothing simpler,” said Mackenzie, forking a pancake. “You could lose Fort Knox in the labyrinth of Eurodollars and offshore funds.”

  Willoughby glared at him over the breakfast table. “You’d actually pay this blackmailing monster?”

  “Not me,” Mackenzie answered. “I couldn’t. But somebody sure enough will.”

  “Who’d be so crazy?”

  “There’s no craziness involved,” said Dermott patiently. “Just calculating, common business sense. The people who stand to lose most—our two governments, and the major oil companies who’ve invested in Alaska and Alberta. I don’t know what the position is in Canada, but this is going to pose an intriguing problem in the States, because any governmental operation in tandem with the oil companies requires Congressional approval—and as every schoolkid knows, Congress would cheerfully immolate the oil companies. Looks like it’ll make a highly diverting spectacle.”

  Willoughby looked baffled.

  “Read some more,” Brady prompted. “The next paragraph is only a minor shock to the nervous system.”

  The policeman picked up the letter and started again. “So they want you out of Alaska and Alberta—specifically, south of the forty-ninth parallel.”

  “As predicted,” said Brady.

  “But no mention of any ransom?”

  “Again, as we predicted.” Brady sounded smug.

  “You’re not getting out, I take it.”

  “Oh no? I’m going to contact my pilot in a moment and have him file a flight plan for Los Angeles.”

  Willoughby stared at him. “I thought you wanted to go to Crowfoot Lake?”

  “We do. But we don’t want to advertise our destination to any ill-natured persons who may be listening-in. Therefore, we file a flight plan for L.A.”

  “O.K., I get it.” Willoughby grinned. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well�
��” Brady became evasive. “First, we need a guarantee from you.”

  “You can’t make deals with the police.” Willoughby’s tone suddenly hardened.

  “Rubbish!” said Brady comfortably. “It’s done all the time. Felons even make deals with judges in court.”

  “O.K. So what do you want?”

  “What we don’t want is a company of paratroopers. Sure, they could mop this lot up with their hands tied behind their backs, but they might mop up a few wrong people too. Softly, softly on this one. Finesse. Stealth. Secrecy. Our way or not at all.”

  “You making a point or something?”

  “Tell me about Crowfoot Lake,” said Brady.

  “It’s an ideal place for this sort of thing. Tucked right away in the hills. Big, covered helicopter shelter right by the station. A chopper would never be spotted from the air. I was up there a year back, investigating a reported murder which turned out to be death by misadventure. Couple of young city boys newly arrived at the weather station. Happens at the beginning of the hunting season every year, without fail: all the Dan’l Boones and Buffalo Bills dropping like flies all over the place.”

  “How big’s the lake?” Dermott asked. “Can a plane land on it?”

  “Well, you can land on it.” Willoughby paused. “But I don’t think it would do you much good. See here: the lake’s only two miles long, so wherever you came down on it, the people in the Met. Station would be bound to hear you. I’ve got a better idea.”

  “We need one.”

  “Now, Mr Brady. I’ve got a request. I’m in a delicate position. I am the law around these parts, and I’m supposed to know what’s going on. I’m also a blackmailer. In return for guaranteeing that I can get you to the Met. Station undetected, I’d like some degree of participation in your expedition. You can’t operate without police authority, and I’m the authority. All cards very close to the chest, O.K. But I’d like an official watching brief—a presence.”