Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

“That’s the way a detective examines a murdered man?”

“I don’t suppose it is. But then, I’m not a detective.” He turned to Bronowski. “You all through?”

“If you are.” Sam Bronowski led the way to the helicopter, Dermott and Mackenzie following through the thinly-driving snow that reduced visibility to a few yards. It was intensely cold.

“Clues,” Mackenzie said into Dermott’s ear, not from any wish for privacy but simply to make himself heard. “Man can’t move around without tripping over them.”

“None in the pump-room, that’s sure. Place had been pretty comprehensively quartered before we ever got there. Almost certainly before the snow had started to cover anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The old fine tooth-comb is what I mean.”

“Poulson and his men?”

“And/or. Who else?”

“Perhaps there was nothing to find?”

Dermott said – or rather shouted: “That dead man’s forefinger had been deliberately broken. Bent in at forty-five degrees towards the thumb. Never seen anything like it before.”

“Freak accident.”

“‘Odd’ is better. Something else odd, too. When I searched him first there was a buff envelope in his inner pocket. I was unable to get it out.”

“But you were when you unzipped it later?”

“No. It was gone.”

“‘And/or’ at work, you think?”

“So it seems.”

“All very curious,” Mackenzie said.

Jim Brady was of the same opinion. After reporting the results of their investigation, Dermott and Mackenzie had retired with him to the room he’d been allocated for the night.

Brady said: “Why didn’t you mention those things to Black and Finlayson? Those are hard facts – an oddly broken finger, a missing envelope?”

“Hard facts? There’s only my word for it. I’ve no idea what was in the envelope anyway, and although I’d say the forefinger had been deliberately broken, I’m no osteologist.”

“But no harm in mentioning those things, surely?”

“Bronowski and Houston were there too.”

“You really don’t trust anyone, do you, George?” Brady’s tone was admiring, not reproachful.

“As you never fail to remind people, sir, you taught me yourself.”

“True, true,” Brady said complacently. “Very well, then, have them up. I’ll do my Olympian act while you ply them with questions and strong drink.”

Dermott spoke on the phone and within a minute Bronowski and Houston had knocked, entered and taken seats.

“Kind, gentlemen, kind.” Brady was at his most avuncular. “Long day, I know, and you must be damnably tired. But we’re babes in the wood up here. We’re not only short of necessary information, we’re totally devoid of it, and we believe you two gentlemen are those best equipped to supply us with that information. But I forget myself, gentlemen. I suggest a pre-inquisitional restorative.”

Mackenzie said: “What Mr Brady means is a drink.”

“That’s what I said: You gentlemen like Scotch?”

“Off-duty, yes. But you know the company regulations, sir, and how strictly Mr Finlayson interprets those.”

“Strict? I am iron-clad in the interpretation of my own regulations.” The wave of Brady’s arm was, indeed, Olympian. “You are off-duty. Off regular duty, anyhow. George, refreshments. Mr Dermott will ask the questions, alternating, I do not doubt, with Mr Mackenzie. You gentlemen, if you will be so kind, will fill in the gaps in our knowledge.”

He took his daiquiri from Dermott, savoured it, laid down his glass, relaxed in his chair and steepled his hands under his chin. “I shall but listen and evaluate.” Nobody was left with any doubt as to which was the most demanding task of the three. “Health, gentlemen.”

Bronowski lifted his own glass, which he had accepted with no great show of reluctance. “And confusion to our enemies.”

Dermott said: “That’s precisely the point. The enemy aren’t confused, we are. The taking out of Pump Station Four is only the opening skirmish in what promises to be bloody battle. They – the enemy – know where they’re going to hit again. We have not the vaguest idea. But you must have – by the very nature of your job you must be more aware of the points most vulnerable to attack than anyone else between Prudhoe Bay and Valdez. Take off your security hats and put on those of the enemy. Where would you strike next?”

“Jesus!” Bronowski fortified himself with some of Brady’s malt. “That’s more than a sixty-four-dollar question. It’s an 800-mile question – and every damned mile is virtually a sitting target.”

“The boss is right,” Tim Houston said. “If we sit here and drink your whisky while pretending to help, we’re only abusing your hospitality. There’s nothing we or anyone else can do to help. A combat-ready division of the U.S. Army would be about as useful as a gaggle of girl guides. The task is impossible and the line indefensible.”

Mackenzie said: “Well, George, at least we’re operating on a bigger scale than with the tar-sands boys in Athabasca. There they said a battalion wouldn’t be big enough to guard their installation. Now it’s a division.” Mackenzie turned to Bronowski. “Let’s switch hats with the enemy. Where wouldn’t you strike next?”

Bronowski said: “Well, I wouldn’t strike at any of the pump stations again on the assumption that, until this matter is cleared up, they will be heavily guarded. I’d have been sorely tempted to go for Pump Station Ten at the Isabel Pass in the Alaska Range, or No. 12 at the Thompson Pass in the Chugach Mountains. All pump stations are vital of course, but some are more vital than others, and those are No. 10 and No. 12 – along with No. 4 here.” He considered briefly. “Or maybe I would go for them…I mean, maybe you’d be so damned certain that I wouldn’t hit again in the same place that you wouldn’t much bother–”

Dermott held up his hand. “Start in on the double-guessing, and we’re up all night. On with the hazards – the low priority ones, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t go for the two master operations control centres at Prudhoe Bay. They could be taken out easily enough and, sure, they’d stop all production from the wells immediately, but not for long. It’s no secret that contingency plans for bypassing the centres are already in hand. Repairs wouldn’t take all that long. In any event, security will be now tightened to the extent that the game wouldn’t be worth the candle. So we can be pretty certain that there will be no attempt made to sabotage the oil supply before it enters the pipeline. Same goes for when it leaves the pipe at Valdez. Maximum damage there could be inflicted at the oil movements control centre, where the pipeline controller can monitor and control the flow of oil all the way from Prudhoe to Valdez, and the terminal controller – he’s in the same room, actually – controls practically everything that moves in the terminal itself. Both of those, in turn, are dependent on what’s called the backbone supervisory system computer. Knock out any of those three and you’re in dead trouble. But they’re pretty secure as they are: from now on, they’ll be virtually impregnable. Again, not worth it.”

Dermott said: “How about the storage tanks?”

“Well, now. If one or two of them were attacked or ruptured – it would be impossible to get them all at once – the containment dykes would take care of the spillage. Fire would be another thing, but even then the snow would have a blanketing effect – we may only have an annual dusting of snow up here, but down there they have over three hundred inches. Anyway, the tank farms are the most open and easily guarded complex on the entire pipeline. There’s no way you can really get at them without bombing the area: not very likely, one would think.”