Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

“Stay where you are,” the same voice ordered. “Billy.”

Billy didn’t have to be told what to do. His search was quick but thorough. He stepped back and said: “Clean, boss.”

“So.” The door closed and a burly man appeared before them. Like the others, he was masked. “Sit on that bench there.” He waited until they had done so, seated himself by the table and said: “Watch them.” Three of his men produced pistols and covered the three seated men. He put away his gun.

“The ladies, I must say, seem very disappointed. They shouldn’t, really.”

Brady looked at them. “What he means is that things could be worse. If his plan had worked, we three would be dead. As it is, Ferguson is critically ill and two others seriously injured.” He looked at the leader. “You placed that bomb in the plane?”

“I can’t take all the credit. One of my men did.” He lit a cigarette and stuck it through a hole in the stocking mask which had been cut out for that purpose. “So now I have Mr Jim Brady and his two invaluable associates. A full hand, one might say.”

Brady said: “Designed to blow our tail off at 30,000 feet?”

“What else? It would be interesting to know how you’re alive.”

“ We’re alive. But one man’s probably dying, and two are seriously injured. God, man, what are you – a psychopathic killer?”

“Not psychopathic. Just a businessman. How come you didn’t die?”

“Because we landed before the bomb went off.” Brady sounded very tired. “We got a report from a forest ranger saying that an off-white helicopter had been seen in these parts. Nobody paid attention except us – we knew you had a white helicopter.”

“How did you know that?”

“A lot of people saw it around the plant at Athabasca.”

“No harm done.” He waved a hand. “All the aces in the pack.”

“Whoever placed that explosive charge in my plane made a lousy job of securing it,” said Brady sarcastically.

“I can vouch for that. He was interrupted.”

“The package moved forward and jammed the controls – the tail ailerons. The pilot had to land – it was on the way down that we caught a glimpse of your helicopter. We crash-landed on another lake. Pilot told us to get out. He tried to remove the charge, and the two others stayed with him. I guess they felt they had to – they were cops.”

“We know that, too.”

“So they were expendable. You had no compunction about murdering them, too?”

“Compunction is not a word in my vocabulary. Why did you come here?”

“For your helicopter, of course. We have to get those injured men to hospital.”

“Why hold us up?”

“Don’t be so stupid. We can’t fly the damn thing.”

The leader turned to one of the masked men. “Sorry about that, Lucky. A pleasure spared.”

“And of course, you people killed Crawford.”

“Crawford?” He turned to another of his men. “Fred, that lad you attended to–”

“Yeah. That was him.”

“And you critically wounded Sanmobil’s president, and a policeman?”

“Seems to have been an awful lot you didn’t know.”

“And it was you who blew up the plant and destroyed the dragline. A pity you had to kill and wound so many in the process.”

“Look friend, we don’t play kiddies’ games. Too bad if someone gets in our way. This is a man’s world, and we play for keeps.”

Brady bowed his head in apparent acceptance, raised his hands to cross them behind his neck. His fingers touched.

What should have been the tinkling of shattered glass was lost in the crash of three shots that sounded almost as one. The masked men with the guns yelled out in agony and stared in shocked disbelief at their shattered shoulders. The door was kicked violently open and Carmody jumped in, machine pistol steady in his big hands. He moved a couple of steps forward. Willoughby ran into the cabin carrying a revolver.

Dermott said: “Your words. This is a man’s world, and we play for keeps.”

Carmody advanced on the masked leader and thrust the barrel of his machine pistol hard against the man’s teeth. “Your gun. By the barrel. Do you know what is my one ambition in life right now?” The man, apparently, did. Carmody pocketed the pistol and turned to the remaining and unwounded member of the quintet, who had his gun on the table before Carmody could even speak to him.

Brady said: “Satisfactory, Mr Willoughby? The floor is yours.”

“An Oscar, Mr Brady. They sang beautifully.” He advanced to the table. “I think you all know who I am?”

Nobody spoke.

“You.” He indicated the person who had so hastily placed his gun on the table. “Towels, cotton wool, bandages. Nobody’s going to mind very much if your three friends bleed to death, but personally I would sooner see them die legally. After they’ve been tried, of course. Let’s see your faces.” He walked round ripping off masks. The first three faces apparently meant nothing to him. The fourth, belonging to the man he’d just appointed to first-aid duty, clearly did.

“Lucky Lorrigan,” Willoughby said. “Erstwhile helicopter pilot, more recently a murderer on the run from Calgary. Severely wounded a couple of officers in your breakout, Lucky, didn’t you? My, aren’t they going to be pleased to see you again!”

He tore the mask from the leader’s face. “Well, well, would you believe it? No less than Frederick Napier himself, second senior charge-hand in Sanmobil security. You’ve strayed a bit from home, haven’t you, Freddie?

“All five of you are hereby taken into arrest and charged with murder, attempted murder, kidnapping and industrial sabotage. I don’t have to remind you about your legal rights, silence, access to lawyers. You’ve heard it all before. Not that it will do any of you the slightest good. Not after the beautiful way Napier sang.”

Brady said: “Would you say he was the best singer of the lot, Mr Willoughby?”

Willoughby stroked his chin. “A moot point, Mr Brady.” He had no idea what Brady was talking about, but had learned to listen when he suggested something.

Brady said: “You really are extraordinarily naïve, Napier. I told you that Mr Willoughby and his officer were severely injured when our plane crash-landed, yet you seemed hardly surprised to see them here. Perhaps you’re just stupid. Perhaps events have moved too fast for your limited intellect. Our plane, of course, did not crash-land. No forest ranger pilot spotted you. We never saw your helicopter on the way to our alleged crash-landing.

“Deerhorn, the lake just over the hill there, was our destination from the time we left Fort McMurray, because we knew exactly where you were. You sing like a lark, Napier. But Brinckman and Jorgensen sing like angels. They’re going to turn State’s evidence. Should get off with five years.”

“Brinckman and Jorgensen!” Napier jumped to his feet then collapsed back in his chair with a whoosh of expelled air as the barrel of Carmody’s machine pistol caught him in the solar plexus. He sat there gasping for breath. “Brinckman and Jorgensen,” he wheezed, and had just started in on a résumé of their antecedents when Carmody’s gun caught him lightly on the side of the head.

“Ladies present,” Carmody said pleasantly.

“State’s evidence!” Napier said huskily. “Five years! Good God, man, Brinckman’s my boss. Jorgensen’s his lieutenant. I’m only number three on the totem pole. Brinckman is the one who fixes everything, arranges everything, gives all the orders. I just do what I’m told. State’s evidence! Five years! Brinckman!”

Willoughby said: “Would you swear to that in court?”

“Too damn right, I would! Treacherous bastard!” Napier stared into space, his mouth no more than a compressed white line.