Athabasca

by Alistair MacLean

  As much as it was possible for so rubicund a face to register an expression, Brady’s was registering unhappiness. “Well, now you’ve found out you don’t like it, maybe you’d rather get back down to Houston.” A note of wistfulness crept into his voice. “It’ll be nearly seventy degrees back there now.”

  Silence descended. Brady looked at Dermott and Dermott looked at him. Jean Brady looked at both of them. “Something goes on that I don’t understand,” she said. Brady dropped his eyes, so she switched her attention to Dermott. “George?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “George!” He looked at her. “And don’t call me ‘ma’am’.”

  “No, Jean.” He sighed and spoke with some feeling. “The boss of Brady Enterprises is not only a fearful old hypocrite: he’s a fearful old coward as well. What he wants, in the good old fashioned Western phrase, is that you should get out of town.”

  “Why? What on earth have we done?”

  Dermott looked hopefully at Mackenzie, who said: “You’ve done nothing. He has—or is about to.” Mackenzie shook his head at Dermott. “This is difficult,” he said.

  Dermott explained: “We’ve decided on a course of action to flush the ungodly into the open, make them show their hand. Don and I have this unpleasant feeling that their reaction may be directed against Brady Enterprises in general and its boss in particular. The reaction may be violent—these people don’t play by any rules but their own. We don’t think they’d go for Jim himself. It’s well known that he can’t be intimidated. But what’s equally well known is what he thinks of his own family. If they got you or Stella, or both of you, they might figure they could force him to pull out.”

  Jean reached out to take Stella’s hand. “But this must be nonsense,” she said. “Drama. Things like that don’t happen any more. Don, I appeal to you…” She looked anxiously at her daughter, gave her hand a little shake and released it.

  Mackenzie was dogged. “Don’t appeal to me, Jean. When they snip off your finger with the wedding ring on it, will you still be saying things like that don’t happen any more?” She looked hurt. “Sorry if I sound brutal, but things like that have never stopped happening. It may not come to anything so bad: I’m looking on the blackest possible side. But that’s the only sensible way to look. We’ve got to find a safe place for you and the girl. How can Jim operate at his best if you’re on his mind?”

  “He’s right,” muttered Brady. “Go pack your bags, please.”

  During Mackenzie’s speech Stella had sat with her hands clasped together on her lap, like a schoolgirl, listening gravely. Now she said: “I can’t do that, Dad.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who’s going to make your daiquiris for you?”

  Her mother cut in sharply. “There’s a little more to this than the damned daiquiris. If we left, who’s going to be number one target?”

  “Dad,” said Stella flatly. She glowered at Dermott. “You know that, George.”

  “I do,” he answered mildly. “But Donald and I are pretty good at looking after people.”

  “That would be just fine, wouldn’t it?” She threw herself back in her chair, hazel eyes blazing. “All three of you shot or blown up or something.”

  “Getting upset isn’t going to help,” said Jean soothingly. “Logic will, though.” She transferred her attention to Brady. “If we went, you’d still be worried stiff about us, and we’d be worried stiff about you. So where would that get us?”

  Brady said nothing, and she went on: “But there’s only one point that really matters. Not only will I not run away from my husband. I’ll be damned if Jean Brady will run, period.”

  Stella said: “And I’ll be damned if Stella Brady runs either. Who’s gonna maintain communications, for one thing? You know how long I spent on the phone today—to England and all that? Four hours.” She stood up decisively. “Another drink, Dad?” She cocked an ear at him ostentatiously. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.”

  “Monstrous regiment of women, was what I said.”

  “Ah!” she smiled, collected the empty glasses and headed for the bar. Brady glared at Dermott and Mackenzie. “Hell of a lot of good you two are. Why didn’t you back me up?” He sighed heavily and changed his tack. “Why don’t we all get something to eat? Lunch, and after it I’ll catch up on some sleep. What are you girls proposing to do this afternoon?”

  Stella came back with full glasses. “We’re going for a sleigh ride. Won’t that be nice!”

  “Good God! You mean outside?” Brady gloomily surveyed the few flakes drifting past the window. “Very nice for some, I’m sure, but not for the sane.” He struggled to his feet. “The dining-room in two minutes, then. George, if you will.” He took Dermott aside.

  With a giant Caribou T-bone steak, a quarter of blueberry pie and some excellent California burgundy inside him, Brady watched his befurred wife and daughter go out through the main entrance and sighed with satisfaction at the feeling of physical well-being that enveloped him.

  “Well, gentlemen, I really believe I might manage a brief snooze after all. Yourselves too?”

  Dermott said: “Off and on. Donald and I thought we’d chivvy up Prudhoe Bay and Sanmobil and get those names and records through as soon as possible.”

  “Well, thank you, gentlemen. Very considerate. Do not wake me up unless Armageddon is nigh. Aha! Here, not unexpectedly, return the ladies.” He waited until his wife had reached the table. “Something up, then?”

  “Something is up.” Jean did not sound pleased. “There are two men on the driving bench of that sleigh. Why two?”

  “My dear, I’m not the arbiter of local customs. Are you afraid they’re homosexual?”

  She lowered her voice. “They’re both carrying guns. You can’t see them, but you can, if you know what I mean.”

  Brady said: “Members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are entitled to bear arms at all times. Says so in their constitution.”

  Jean stared at him, snorted with resignation, turned and left. Jim Brady beamed in satisfaction. Mackenzie said airily: “They tell me there are some very handsome young constables in the R.C.M.P”

  Apart from chatting with Ferguson, Brady’s pilot, Dermott spent the afternoon alone in the lounge, consuming one cup of coffee after the other. About mid-afternoon Jean and Stella returned, rosy-cheeked and in high spirits. Stella, it appeared, had learned from their escorts of a place where the younger people congregated of an evening, and had called Corinne Delorme at work to invite her out. Whether they intended to invite their erstwhile escorts along, Stella did not say nor did Dermott enquire. Brady would have the place comprehensively checked out before he would let them near it. Shortly afterwards Dermott received a call from Alaska. It was Bronowski in Prudhoe Bay: John Finlayson he said, was out at Pump Station Four but was expected back soon; he, Bronowski, would immediately set about obtaining what Dermott wanted and would arrange for the services of a fingerprint expert from Anchorage.

  At five o’clock Reynolds came through to say that the fingerprinting was well in hand. The records Dermott required were even then being delivered to Edmonton Airport and would be delivered straight from McMurray Airport to the hotel. At six-thirty Mackenzie appeared, looking refreshed but at the same time reproachful.

  “You should have called me. I’d meant to come down a couple of hours ago.”

  “I’ll sleep tonight,” Dermott said. “That’s four hours you owe me.”

  “Three and a half. I put a call through to Houston, explained what we had in mind, told them to alert Washington and New York, and emphasised the urgency.”

  “I trust your unofficial listener got it all down.”

  “He could hardly fail to,” Mackenzie said. “There was a bug installed inside the base plate of the telephone.”

  “Well, that should be the final stirring-up of the hornets’ nest. Let’s hope the wrong people don’t get stung. How’s Jim?”

  “Peered round his door on
the way down. Looked like he’d died in his sleep.”

  At seven o’clock a call came through from Sanmobil. Dermott indicated to Mackenzie that he should listen in to the extension earphone slotted onto the back of the receiver.

  “Mr Reynolds? Not more bad news, I hope.”

  “For me it is. I’ve been told to shut down the plant for a week.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Well, a few minutes ago. And I’m to be contacted in forty-eight hours to see if I’ve complied.”

  “Was the message from Anchorage?”

  “Where else?”

  “Phone?”

  “No. Telex.”

  “They sent an open message?”

  “No. Code. Our own company code.”

  Dermott looked at Mackenzie. “Pretty sure of themselves, aren’t they?”

  Reynolds said: “What was that?”

  “Talking to Donald Mackenzie. He’s listening in. So they know that we know it’s an inside job. They must be pretty sure of themselves. Who’s got access to the code books?”

  “Anybody who’s got access to my safe.”

  “How many people does that make?”

  “Twenty. Give or take.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Consult Edmonton. With their approval I intend to be on stream again inside forty-eight hours.”

  “I wish you luck.” Dermott replaced the receiver and looked at Mackenzie. “Now what?”

  “Do you think Armageddon is nigh enough to justify waking up the Boss?”

  “Not yet. Nothing he, we or anybody can do. Infuriating. Let’s try Anchorage. What’s the betting they’ve had a similar threat to close down the pipeline?” He lifted the phone, asked for the number, listened briefly then hung up. “Hold, they say. One hour, two hours. They’re not sure.”

  The telephone rang. Dermott picked it up. “Anchorage? No it can’t be. I’ve just been told—ah, I see.” He looked at Mackenzie. “Police.” Mackenzie picked up the extension receiver. They both listened in silence, Dermott said: “Thank you. Thank you very much,” and both hung up.

  Mackenzie said: “Well, they seem pretty confident.”

  “They’re certain. Perfect copies of the prints from the Anchorage phone boxes. But they can’t match them up with any on their lists.”

  “It all helps,” Mackenzie said gloomily.

  “It’s not all that bad. The Photostat is promised for tomorrow. Might just match up with some of the prints we hope to collect. The Alaskan ones, I mean.”

  “Of course?”

  “Yes. It would be too easy to check up on anyone here who made a brief stopover in Anchorage.”

  Stella came into the lounge, all set for dancing in black sequined silk and coloured tights, and carrying her coat. Dermott said: “And where do you think you’re going?”

  Stella said: “I’m going out with Corinne. First a snack and then the bright lights and the light fantastic.”

  “You’ll confine your dancing activities strictly to this hotel. You’re not going any place.”

  When she had got through a diatribe, calling him a stuffed shirt and a spoil-sport, she added: “Mr Reynolds said it’s all right.”

  “When did he say this?”

  “We phoned about an hour ago.”

  “It’s not up to Mr Reynolds to give you permission.”

  “But he knows Corinne is coming with me. She lives near here. You don’t think he’d let his secretary walk into danger, do you?”

  “She wouldn’t be walking into danger. Nobody would be interested in her. But in you, yes.”

  Stella said: “You sound as if you’re convinced something is going to happen to me.”

  “That’s the way to make sure that nothing will happen to you—by taking precautions. See what your father says anyway.”

  “But how would he know what’s safe and what isn’t? How would he check up?”

  “He’d go to the top: the chief of police, I’m certain.”

  Stella smiled brilliantly and said: “But we’ve talked already to him. Over the phone. He was with Mr Reynolds. He says it’s perfectly okay.” She smiled again, impishly. “Besides, we won’t lack protection.”

  “Your friends of this afternoon?”

  “John Carmody and Bill Jones.”

  “Well, I suppose that does make a difference. Ah, here comes Corinne.” He beckoned her across, made the introductions and watched as they moved off. “Well, I suppose we worry too much.” He glanced at the doorway. “When I look at that lot coming in, I hardly think we need worry at all.”

  “That lot” were a pretty formidable looking pair—big men in their late twenties or early thirties who looked eminently capable of taking care not only of themselves but of anyone who might be along with them. Dermott and Mackenzie rose and crossed to meet them.

  Dermott said: “I could be wrong, but you wouldn’t be two policemen disguised as civilians?”

  “There we go,” said the fair-haired man. “Can’t be very good at undercover work if it’s as obvious as that. I’m John Carmody. This is Bill Jones. You must be Mr Dermott and Mr Mackenzie. Miss Brady described you to us.”

  Mackenzie asked: “You gentlemen on overtime tonight?”

  Carmody grinned. “Tonight? Two gallant volunteers. Labour of love. Doesn’t look like being any great hardship.”

  “Watch them. Beautiful she may be, but Stella’s a conniving young minx. One other thing: you know we have a feeling some bad actors might try to hurt her. Or take her out of circulation. Just a suspicion, but you never know.”

  “I think we might be able to take care of that.”

  “I’m sure you can. Most kind of you gentlemen. Very much appreciated, I can tell you. I know Mr Brady would like to thank you himself, but as he’s in the land of dreams I’ll do it on his behalf. The girls are through there. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

  Dermott and Mackenzie returned to their table, where they talked in desultory fashion. Then the phone rang again. This time it was Alaska: Prudhoe Bay.

  “Tim Houston here. Bad news, I’m afraid. Sam Bronowski is in the hospital. I found him lying unconscious on the floor of Finlayson’s office. Appears to have been struck over the head with a heavy object. He was hit over the temple where the skull is thinnest. Doctor says there may be a fracture—he’s just finishing some X-rays. He’s certainly concussed.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Half hour ago. No more. But that’s not all. John Finlayson is missing: he vanished soon after coming back from Pump Station Four. Searched everywhere. No trace of him. Not in any of the buildings. If he’s outside on a night like this—well…” There was a grim pause. “…he won’t be around for long. We’ve got a high wind and heavy drifting, and the temperature’s between thirty and forty below. Every man in the place is out looking for him. Maybe he was attacked by the same person who attacked Bronowski. Maybe he wandered out dazed. Maybe he was forcibly removed—although I don’t see how that could be possible with so many people around. Are you coming up?”

  “Are the F.B.I. and the State police there?”

  “Yes. But there’s been another development.”

  “A message from Edmonton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Telling you to close down the line?”

  “How did you know?”

  “They make similar demands, we’ve got one here. I’ll talk to Mr Brady. If you don’t hear, you’ll know we’re on our way.” He replaced the receiver and said to Mackenzie: “Armageddon? Enough to wake Jim?”

  “More than enough.”

  8

  Ferguson, the pilot, was unhappy and with good reason. Throughout the flight he was in more or less continuous touch with the operations centre in Prudhoe Bay, and knew that the weather ahead was dangerous. The wind was gusting at 40 miles per hour: flying snow had cut ground visibility to a few feet, and the thickness of the drifting snow-blanket was estimated at sixty feet or even more�
�less than ideal circumstances for landing a fast jet in darkness.

  Ferguson had every modern navigational and landing aid, but although he could make a hands-off touch-down if he had to, he preferred to see terra firma before he put his wheels down on it. One factor in Ferguson’s favour was that he was a profound pessimist: his three passengers well knew that he was not given to endangering his own life, let alone those of other people on board, and would have turned back had the risks been too great.

  Brady, who had been wakened from a deep sleep and was in a sour mood, spoke scarcely a word on the way north. Mackenzie and Dermott, aware that the flight might be their last opportunity for some time, spent most of the trip asleep.

  The landing, with much advancing and retarding of the throttles, was a heavy, bouncing one, but nonetheless safely accomplished. Visibility was down to twenty feet, and Ferguson crept cautiously forward until he picked up the lights of a vehicle. When the cabin door was opened, freezing snow whirled in, and Brady lost no time in making his customary elephantine dash for the shelter of the waiting minibus. At the wheel was Tim Houston, lieutenant to the invalided Bronowski.

  “Evening, Mr Brady.” Houston wore no welcoming smile. “Filthy night. I won’t ask if you had a good flight because I’m sure you didn’t. Afraid you haven’t had too much sleep since you came to the north-west.”

  “I’m exhausted.” Brady didn’t mention that he’d had six hours’ sleep before leaving Fort McMurray. “What’s the word about John Finlayson?”

  “None. We’ve examined every building, every pump-house, every last shack within a mile of the operations centre. We thought there was a remote chance that he’d gone across to the ARCO centre, but they searched and found nothing.”

  “What’s your feeling?”

  “He’s dead. He must be.” Houston shook his head. “If he isn’t—or wasn’t—under cover, he couldn’t have lasted a quarter of the time he’s been missing. What makes that even more certain is that he didn’t take his outdoor furs with him. Without furs? Ten minutes, if that.”