“Anybody who’s got access to my safe.”
“How many people does that make?”
“Twenty. Give or take.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Consult Edmonton. With their approval I intend to be on stream again inside forty-eight hours.”
“I wish you luck.” Dermott replaced the receiver and looked at Mackenzie. “Now what?”
“Do you think Armageddon is nigh enough to justify waking up the boss?”
“Not yet. Nothing he, we or anybody can do. Infuriating. Let’s try Anchorage. Want to bet they’ve had a similar threat to close down the pipeline?” He lifted the phone, asked for the number, listened briefly then hung up. “Hold, they say. One hour, two hours. They’re not sure.”
The telephone rang. Dermott picked it up. “Anchorage? No it can’t be. I’ve just been told — ah, I see.” He looked at Mackenzie. “Police.” Mackenzie picked up the extension receiver. They both listened in silence. Dermott said, “Thank you. Thank you very much,” and both hung up.
Mackenzie said, “Well, they seem pretty confident.”
“They’re certain. Perfect copies of the prints from the Anchorage phone booths. But they can’t match them up with any of their lists.”
“It all helps,” Mackenzie said gloomily.
“It’s not all that bad. The photostat is promised for tomorrow. Might just match up with some of the prints we hope to collect. The Alaskan ones, I mean. It would be too easy to check up on anyone here who made a brief stopover in Anchorage.”
Stella came into the lounge, all set for dancing in black sequinned silk and colored tights, and carrying her coat. Dermott said, “And where do you think you’re going?”
Stella said, “I’m going out with Corinne. First a snack and then the bright lights and the light fantastic.”
“You’ll confine your dancing activities strictly to this hotel. You’re not going any place.”
When she had got through a diatribe, calling him a stuffed shirt and a spoilsport, she added, “Mr. Reynolds said it’s all right.”
“When did he say this?”
“We phoned about an hour ago.”
“It’s not up to Mr. Reynolds to give you permission.”
“But he knows Corinne is coming with me. She lives near here. You don’t think he’d let his secretary walk into danger, do you?”
“She wouldn’t be walking into danger. Nobody would be interested in her. But in you, yes.”
Stella said, “You sound as if you’re convinced something is going to happen to me.”
“That’s the way to make sure that nothing will happen to you — by taking precautions. See what your father says anyway.”
“But how would he know what’s safe and what isn’t? How would he check up?”
“He’d go to the top — the chief of police, I’m certain.”
Stella smiled brilliantly and said, “But we’ve
talked already to him. Over the phone. He was with
Mr. Reynolds. He says it’s perfectly okay.” She smiled again, impishly. “Besides, we won’t lack protection.”
“Your friends of this afternoon?”
“John Carmody and Bill Jones.”
“Well, I suppose that does make a difference. Ah, here comes Corinne.” He beckoned her across, made the introductions and watched as they moved off. “Well, I suppose we worry too much.” He glanced at the doorway. “When I look at that lot coming in, I hardly think we need worry at all.”
“That lot” were a pretty formidable looking pair — big men in their late twenties or early thirties who looked eminently capable of taking care not only of themselves but of anyone who might be along with them. Dermott and Mackenzie rose and crossed to meet them.
Dermott said, “I could be wrong, but you wouldn’t be two policemen disguised as civilians?”
“There we go,” said the fair-haired man. “Can’t be very good at undercover work if it’s as obvious as that. I’m John Carmody. This is Bill Jones. You must be Mr. Dermott and Mr. Mackenzie. Miss Brady described you to us.”
Mackenzie asked, “You gentlemen on overtime tonight?”
Carmody grinned. “Tonight? Two gallant volunteers. Labor of love. Doesn’t look like being any great hardship.”
“Watch them. Beautiful she may be, but Stella’s a conniving young minx. One other thing. You know we have a feeling some bad actors might try to hurt her. Or take her out of circulation. Just a suspicion, but you never know.”
“I think we might be able to take care of that.”
“I’m sure you can. Most kind of you gentlemen. Very much appreciated, I can tell you. I know Mr. Brady would like to thank you himself, but as he’s in the land of dreams, I’ll do it on his behalf. The girls are through there. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
Dermott and Mackenzie returned to their table, where they talked in desultory fashion. Then the phone rang again. This time it was Alaska: Prudhoe Bay.
“Tim Houston here. Bad news, I’m afraid. Sam Bronowski is in the hospital. I found him lying unconscious on the floor of Finlayson’s office. Appears to have been struck over the head with a heavy object. He was hit over the temple where the skull is thinnest. Doctor says there may be a fracture — he’s just finishing some X rays. He’s certainly concussed.”
“When did this happen?”
“Half hour ago. No more. But that’s not all. John Finlayson is missing. He vanished soon after coming back from Pump Station Pour. Searched everywhere. No trace of him. Not in any of the buildings. If he’s outside on a night like this, well” — there was a grim pause — “he won’t be around for long. We’ve got a high wind and heavy drifting, and the temperature’s between thirty and forty below. Every man in the place is out looking for him. Maybe he was attacked by the same person who attacked Bronowski. Maybe he wandered out dazed. Maybe he was forcibly removed — although I don’t see how that could be possible with so many people around. Are you coming up?”
“Are the FBI and the State Police there?”
“Yes. But there’s been another development.”
“A message from Edmonton?”
“Yes.”
“Telling you to close down the line?”
“How did you know?”
“They made similar demands. We’ve got one here. I’ll talk to Mr. Brady. If you don’t hear, you’ll know we’re on our way.” He replaced the receiver and said to Mackenzie, “Armageddon? Enough to wake Jim?”
“More than enough.”
Eight
Ferguson, the pilot, was unhappy and with good reason. Throughout the flight he was in more or less continuous touch with the operations center in Prudhoe Bay, and knew that the weather ahead was dangerous. The wind was gusting at 40 miles per hour. Flying snow had cut ground visibility to a few feet, and the thickness of the drifting surface snow storm was estimated at sixty feet or even more — less than ideal circumstances for landing a fast jet in darkness.
Ferguson had every modern navigational and landing aid, but although he could make a hands-off touchdown if he had to, he preferred to see terra firma before he put his wheels down on it. One factor in Ferguson’s favor was that he was a profound pessimist. His three passengers well knew that he was not given to endangering his own life, let alone those of other people on board, and would have turned back had the risks been too great.
Brady, who had been wakened from a deep sleep and was in a sour mood, spoke scarcely a word on the way north. Mackenzie and Dermott, aware that the flight might be their last opportunity for some time, spent most of the trip asleep.
The landing, with much advancing and retarding of the throttles, was a heavy, bouncing one, but nonetheless safely accomplished. Visibility was down to twenty feet, and Ferguson crept cautiously forward until he picked up the lights of a vehicle. When the cabin door was opened, freezing snow whirled in, and Brady lost no time in making his customary elephantine dash for the shelter of the waiting minibus. At the wheel was Tim Houston, lieutenant to the invalided Bronowski.
“Evening, Mr. Brady.” Houston wore no welcoming smile. “Filthy night. I won’t ask if you had a good flight because I’m sure you didn’t. Afraid you haven’t had too much sleep since you came to the northwest.”
“I’m exhausted.” Brady didn’t mention that he’d had six hours’ sleep before leaving Fort McMurray. “What’s the word about John Finlayson?”
“None. We’ve examined every building, every pump house, every last shack within a mile of the Operations Center. We thought there was a remote chance that he’d gone across to the ARCO Center, but they searched and found nothing.”
“What’s your feeling?”
“He’s dead. He must be.” Houston shook his head. “If he isn’t — or wasn’t — under cover, he couldn’t have lasted a quarter of the time he’s been missing. What makes that even more certain is that he didn’t take his outdoor furs with him. Without furs? Ten minutes, if that.”