Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

“Waste of time. Among the people who built and run this line are as good – if not better – explosives experts than in any Army Ordnance Corps. The killers wouldn’t have left a trace of explosives at Pump Station No. 4.”

If a silence can be said to be cold, the ensuing silence was downright chilly. Finlayson said stonily: “Does that statement mean what I think it means?”

“I should imagine it does,” said Brady. “Explain, George.”

Dermott explained. When he had finished, Finlayson said: “Preposterous. Why should any of our pipeline employees want to do a thing like that? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s never a pleasant thing to nurture a viper in your bosom,” Brady said agreeably. “Mr Black?”

“Makes sense to me, if only because no other immediate explanation occurs. What do you think, Mr Brady?”

“Exactly what I was asking Mr Bronowski as we touched down.”

“Yes. Well.” Bronowski didn’t seem any too comfortable. “I don’t like it. An inside job is all too damn plausible. Point is, carry this line of thinking a little further, and the finger points at Tim Houston and myself as the two prime suspects.” Bronowski paused. “Tim and I had a helicopter. We were in the right place at approximately the right time. We know of a dozen ways to sabotage the pipeline. It’s no secret that we’re both pretty experienced in the use of explosives, so taking out Station Four would have presented no problem for us.” He paused. “But who’s going to suspect the security chief and his number two?”

“Me, for one,” said Brady. He sipped his drink and sighed. “I’d have you clapped behind bars right now were it not for your impeccable record, lack of apparent motive, and the fact that it’s incredible that you should have acted in such a clumsy fashion.”

“Not clumsy, Mr Brady. The killers were stupid to the point of insanity, or badly frightened. The job certainly wasn’t the work of professional hit men. Why shoot the two engineers? Why leave any evidence that murder had been done? Just knock them unconscious – a dozen ways that can be done without leaving a mark – then blow them to pieces along with the pump station. Act of God, and no hint of foul play.”

“Amateurism is a grievesome thing, is it not?” Brady turned to Finlayson. “Could we have a line to Anchorage, please? Thank you. Give him the number, then take the call, George.” Dermott did so and within four minutes had hung up, his part of the conversation having been limited mainly to monosyllables.

“Wouldn’t you know it,” Dermott said.

“No luck?” said Mackenzie.

“Too much. The Anchorage police have located not one but four hot phone boxes. Suspicious characters either inside them or lurking in the vicinity, and this at a most ungodly hour. All four of them, dammit, with a disproportionate number of high-denomination coins inside them. All four have been dismantled and taken along to the cop shop. But they haven’t been fingerprinted yet, and it may be hours before the cops can check the prints against their files.”

Black said with sardonic restraint: “The relevance of this call escapes me. It has something to do with Pump Station Four?”

“Maybe,” said Brady. “Maybe not. All we know for certain is that Sanmobil – the people who have the tar sands concession north of Fort McMurray, in Alberta – have also received a threat against their oil production lines. Couched in almost identical forms with the threat you received, the only difference being that while yours arrived by mail, theirs came from a public phone booth in Anchorage. We’re trying to trace which booth and, with any fingerprint luck, who the caller may have been.”

Black thought briefly, then said: “Curious. A threat against Alaskan oil from Alberta, and one against Albertan oil from Alaska. Must tie up with Pump Station Four: the arm of coincidence isn’t all that long…and while you’re sitting here, Mr Brady, some ill-intentioned person or persons may be planting an explosive device at some strategic point in Sanmobil’s tar sands.”

“The thought had not escaped me. However, surmise and speculation will serve no point until we turn up one or two hard facts. We hope that one may even result from a close inspection of Pump Station Four. Coming out there, Mr Black?”

“Good heavens, no, I’m very much a deskbound citizen. But I shall await your return with interest.”

“Return? I’m going no place. Those frozen wastes – not for me. My excellent representatives know what to look for. Besides, someone has to stay and run the command post. How far to the pump station, Mr Bronowski?”

“Helicopter miles? Hundred and forty, give or take.”

“Splendid. That will leave us ample time for a belated lunch. Your commissary is still open, Mr Finlayson, I trust, and your wine cellar tolerable?”

“Sorry about that, Mr Brady.” Finlayson made no effort to conceal the satisfaction in his voice. “Company regulations forbid alcohol.”

“No need to distress yourself,” Brady said urbanely. “Aboard my jet is the finest cellar north of the Arctic Circle.”

Three generator-fed arc-lamps threw the half-demolished pump-house and its shattered contents into harsh relief, glaring white and Stygian blackness, with no intermediate shading between. Snow drifted silently down through the all-but-vanished roof, and a high wind blew a fine white cloud through a gaping hole in the northern wall. Already the combined effects of the two snows had softened and blurred the outlines of the machinery, but not sufficiently to conceal the fact that engines, motors, pumps and switchgear had been either destroyed or severely damaged. Mercifully, the snow had already covered the two mounds that lay side by side before the mangled remains of a switchboard. Dermott looked slowly around with a face again as bleak as the scene that lay before him.

“Damage evenly spread,” he said, “so it couldn’t have come from one central blast. Half-a-dozen charges, more likely.” He turned to Poulson, the charge-hand, a black-bearded man with bitter eyes. “How many explosions did you hear?”

“Just the one, I think. We really can’t be sure. If there were more after the first one, our eardrums were sure in no condition to register them. But we’re agreed that one was all we heard.”

“Triggered electrically, by radio or, if they used fulminate of mercury, by sympathetic detonation. Experts, obviously.” He looked at the two shapeless, snow-covered mounds. “But not so expert in other ways. Why have those two men been left here?”

“Orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Head Office. Not to be moved until the postmortems have been carried out.”

“Rubbish! You can’t do a post-mortem on a frozen body.” Dermott stooped, began to clear away the snow from the nearest of the mounds, then looked up in surprise as a heavy hand clamped on his left shoulder.

“You deaf or something, mister?” Poulson didn’t sound truculent, just annoyed. “I’m in charge here.”

“You were. Donald?”

“Sure.” Mackenzie eased Poulson’s hand away and said: “Let’s go talk to the head office-man, Black, and hear what he has to say about obstructing murder investigations.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr Mackenzie,” Bronowski said. He nodded to Poulson. “John’s upset. Wouldn’t you be?”

Poulson hesitated briefly, turned and left the pump room. Dermott had most of the snow cleared away when he felt a light touch on his shoulder: it was Poulson again, proffering him, of all things, a long-handled clothes brush. Dermott took it, smiled his thanks and delicately brushed away the remaining snow.

The dreadfully charred skull of the dead man was barely recognisable as that of a human being, but the cause of the round hole above the eyeless left socket was unmistakable. With Mackenzie’s help – the corpse was frozen solid – he lifted the body and peered at the back of the skull. The skin was unbroken.