Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

“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 loud. “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.”

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.”