Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

“Bullet’s lodged in the head,” Dermott said. “Rifling marks on it should be of interest to the police ballistics department.”

“There’s that,” Bronowski said. “After all, Alaska only covers just over half a million square miles. Optimism is not my long suit.”

“Agreed.” They lowered the body to the ground and Dermott tried to unzip the shredded green parka, but it, too, was frozen. There was a slight crackling of ice as he eased the jacket away from the shirt beneath and peered into the gap between the two layers of clothing. He could see some documents, including a buff-coloured envelope, tucked away in the inside right pocket. By sliding his hand in flat he tried to extract them with his fore and middle fingers, but because he could achieve so little purchase, and because they seemed frozen – not only together but also to the side of the pocket – they proved impossible to move. Dermott straightened to an upright kneeling position, looked at the dead man thoughtfully, then up at Bronowski.

“Could we have the two bodies moved to some place where they can be thawed out a bit? I can’t examine them in this state, nor by the same token, can the doctors carry out their postmortems.”

“John?” Bronowski looked at Poulson, who nodded, albeit with some reluctance.

“Another thing,” Dermott said. “What’s the quickest way of clearing away the snow here from the floor and machinery?”

“Canvas covers and a couple of hot air blowers. No time at all. Want me to fix it now? And the two men?”

“Please. Then there’s a question or two I’d like to ask. In your living quarters, perhaps?”

“Straight across. Be with you in a few minutes.”

Outside, on their way, Mackenzie said: “Your hound-dog instincts have been aroused. What gives?”

“Dead man back there. Index finger on his right hand is broken.”

“That all? Wouldn’t be surprised if half the bones in his body are broken.”

“Could be. But this bone appears to have been broken in a rather peculiar fashion. Be able to tell better, later.”

Bronowski and Poulson joined them round the table of the comfortable kitchen living quarters. Poulson said: “Okay, fixed. Snow in the pump-room should be gone in fifteen minutes. About the two engineers – well, I wouldn’t know.”

“Considerably longer,” Dermott said. “Thanks. Now, then. Bronowski, Mackenzie and myself think it likely that the murderers were employees of the trans-Alaskan pipeline. What would you think of that?”

Poulson glanced enquiringly at Bronowski, found no inspiration there, looked away and pondered. “It figures,” he said at last. “The only living souls for ten thousand square miles around here – a hundred thousand as far as I know – are employed by the pipeline. More than that, while any mad bomber could have blown up the pump station, it took an oilman to know where to locate and destroy the bypass control valve.”

“We also theorise that the engineers – what were their names, by the way?”

“Johnson and Johnson. Brothers.”

“We think that the bombers gave themselves away in one fashion or another, that the Johnsons recognised them and had to be silenced for keeps. But you and your men didn’t recognise them. That’s for sure?”

“For sure.” Poulson smiled without much humour. “If what you suppose is correct, it’s just as well for us that we didn’t. But then it’s not surprising that we didn’t. Don’t forget that up here in Number Four we’re no better than hermits living on a desert island. The only time we see anybody is when we go on leave every few weeks. Travelling maintenance engineers like the Johnsons – or, come to that, Mr Bronowski here – see ten times as many people as we do, and so are likely to recognise ten times as many people. Which makes your idea that it was an inside job all the more likely.”

“You and your men are certain there wasn’t the remotest peculiarity about them, either in speech or dress, that struck a chord?”

“You’re flogging a dead horse, Dermott.”

“I suppose. There’s a possibility that those saboteurs came by helicopter.”

“Damned if I can see how else they could have come. Mr Bronowski here thought he saw skid marks. I wasn’t sure one way or another. It was a bad night for being sure of anything: dark, with a strong wind and drifting snow. Circumstances like that, you can imagine almost anything.”

“You didn’t hear this helicopter approaching – or imagine you heard it?”

“We heard nothing. Don’t forget we were all asleep and–”

“I thought you mounted a radar watch?”

“In a fashion. Any errant bleep triggers off an alarm. But we don’t sit with our eyes glued to the screen night and day. Then, because of the extremely heavy insulation, it’s difficult for any sound to penetrate from outside. The generator running next door doesn’t help much either. Finally, of course, the wind was blowing – as it still is – almost directly from the north and would have carried away the sound of any craft approaching from the opposite direction. I know that a helicopter is one of the most rackety bits of machinery in existence but – even though we were wide awake then, we didn’t hear Mr Bronowski’s chopper coming in from the south. Sorry, that’s all I can tell you.”

“How long will it take to repair the pump-room?”

“A few days, a week. I’m not sure. We’ll need new engines, switchgear, pipelines, a mobile crane and a bulldozer. All those we already have at Prudhoe except the engines, and I expect a Herc will fly those in this evening. Then a chopper or two can fly the stuff out here. The repair crews will be on the job in the morning.”

“So a week before the oil starts flowing again?”

“No, no: tomorrow, with luck. The bypass control valve is not a major repair job; parts replacement mainly.”

Dermott said: “You might look at all this as just a minor disruption?”

“Technically, yes. The ghosts of the Johnson brothers might see it differently. Want to look at the pump-room now? Most of the stuff should have melted by this time.”

The snow in the pump-room had gone, and the atmosphere was warm and humid. Without the protective white covering, the scene was more repellent than before, the extent of the devastation more clearly and dishearteningly evident, and the stench of oil and charring more pungent and penetrating. Each with a powerful hand-torch to lighten the shadows cast by the arc-lamps, Dermott, Mackenzie and Bronowski embarked on a search of every square inch of the floors and walls.

After ten minutes Poulson said curiously: “What are you looking for?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it,” Dermott said. “Meantime I haven’t a clue.”

“In that case, can I join in the search?”

“Sure. Don’t touch or turn anything over. The F.B.I. wouldn’t like it.”

Ten minutes later, Dermott straightened and switched off his torch. “That’s it, then, gentlemen. If you’ve found no more than I have, among the four of us we’ve found nothing. Looks as if fire or blasts have wiped the platter clean. Let’s have a look at the Johnson brothers. They should be in a fairly examinable state by now.”

They were. Dermott moved first to the man he’d looked at in the pump-room. This time the zip on the green parka unfastened easily. The blast effect that had shredded the parka had not penetrated it, for the plaid shirt beneath bore no signs of damage. Dermott removed some paper, cards and envelopes from the inside right pocket of the jacket, leafed through and replaced them. He then lifted both charred wrists, examined them and the hands in an apparently cursory fashion and lowered them again. He repeated the process with the other victim, then rose to his feet. Poulson bent a quizzical eye on him.