“None.” Dermott was positive. “May be just coincidence, at best a crude attempt to confuse us. Surely they can’t be so naive as to try to convey the impression that Canada is trying to interfere with America’s oil supplies and vice versa. Idea’s ludicrous. In these times of an acute oil shortage, what have two friendly neighbours to gain by cutting each other’s throats?”
“Then who has to gain?”
Mackenzie spoke quietly.
“OPEC,” he said.
Mackenzie was just as positive as Dermott had been. “If they could put a stranglehold on the two countries’ supplies from the north, they stand to gain immensely in both profits and power. Both our governments have made it clear that they’re prepared to go to any lengths to shake free once and for all from this crucifying dependence on OPEC oil. This wouldn’t suit our foreign friends at all. They have us over a barrel — -an oil barrel, if you will — and they want to keep it that way.”
“Why now,” Jim Brady said, “although I know as well as you do.”
“They have tremendous leverage at the moment, and the last thing they’d ever want to do is to abdicate this position of almost dictatorial power. Decisions are being made now in both countries. Should North America become anywhere near self-sufficient in oil, our blackmailing friends would lose their power base. They’d be forced to abandon their pretensions to playing an authoritative role in world affairs, and perhaps worst of all for them, their profits would be reduced to such a trickle that they’d have to forgo their grandiose schemes for industrial and technological expansion, for hauling their countries into the middle of the late twentieth century, without any of the intermediate struggle or learning and developmental process. When it comes to national survival, desperate men are prepared to go to desperate lengths.”
Brady paced for some time, then said, “Do you really think the OPEC countries would take concerted action against us?”
“Hell, no. Half of them are barely on speaking terms with the other half, and you can’t imagine relatively moderate countries like Saudi Arabia participating in any such combined operation. But you know as well as I do that among the OPEC rulers there are some certifiable loonies who would stop at nothing to achieve their own ends. And you won’t have forgotten that some of those countries play host to the most ruthless terrorist trainers in the business.”
Brady said, “What would you say to that, George?”
“It’s a theory, and a perfectly tenable one. On the other hand, since coming here I haven’t seen a single person who looks remotely like an Arabian or Middle Eastern terrorist.”
“So what would your guess be?”
“As a wild guess, I would suspect our troubles are caused by good old-fashioned capitalistic free enterprise. And if that’s the case, the potential sources of our troubles are legion. I’m afraid we won’t solve this by looking at it from the outside; we’ll have to look out from the inside.”
“And the motive?”
“Blackmail, obviously.”
“Cash?”
“Well, the only other bargaining counter is hostages. Nobody’s balding any hostages. So what’s left? They’re now in the process of softening us up by proving they can carry out their threats when and as they wish.”
“They won’t be asking for pennies.”
“I shouldn’t think so. To start with, the pipeline and Sanmobil have a combined investment of ten billion. For every day that delivery is held up they’ll be losing millions more. Most important of all, our two countries are desperate for oil. Whoever those people are, they have us not over but in a barrel. Naked. The ransom will be high. I should imagine it would be paid.”
“Who’d pay it?” Mackenzie said.
“The oil companies. The governments. They’ve all got a stake in this.”
Brady said, “And once the blackmailers have been paid, what’s to prevent them repeating the process all over again?”
“Nothing that I can see.”
“God, you’re a Job’s comforter.”
“Let me comfort you some more, shall I? There could be a lash-up between Don’s theory and mine. If this is blackmail, and if the killers do collect, what’s to prevent some of the OPEC countries approaching them and offering to double or triple their money if they destroy the supply lines for keeps — and get out? You’ve a big responsibility on your shoulders, Mr. Brady.”
“You, George, are a rock of strength and compassion in times of trouble and stress.” Brady sounded plaintive. “Well, if there are no constructive suggestions forthcoming, I suggest we all retire. There is thinking to be done and I must take counsel with myself. On such nights, the best company.”
Dermott still felt unaccountably tired when the alarm clock dragged him up from the depths of a troubled sleep. It was just before eight in the morning. He rose reluctantly, showered, shaved, made his way to Finlayson’s room, and was about to knock when the door was opened by Dr. Blake. At that time of the morning the doctor’s beaked nose, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes lent him a more cadaverous look than ever — not the kind of physician’s face, Dermott thought, to inspire hope and confidence.
“Ah, come in, Mr. Dermott. I’ve finished with Finlayson. Was just about to send for his casket. He and the two engineers from Pump Station Four are being flown out at nine-thirty. I understand you’re going with them.”
“Yes. You have caskets?”
“Macabre, you think? Well, we do keep a few tucked away. Apart from natural illnesses, this is an accident-prone profession, and we have to be prepared. You can’t very well whistle up an undertaker from Fairbanks or Anchorage at a moment’s notice.”
“I suppose not.” Dermott nodded at the dead man. “Any luck in establishing the cause of death?”
“Well, normally it requires a full autopsy to discover whether a victim has been suffering from cerebrovascular disease or cardiac arrest. Fortunately — or unfortunately — it wasn’t necessary in this case.” Blake sounded grim. “What would be natural causes elsewhere are unnatural here. John Finlayson was murdered.”
“How? Beyond exposure?”
“None of your usual methods. He was rendered unconscious and left to die in the cold. Clad as he was in these abnormally low temperatures, I’d say his heart must have stopped in under a minute.”
“How was he knocked out?”
“Sandbagged. In the classic spot, at the base of the neck. An expert. You can see the slight contusion and roughness there. A contusion can only be caused by blood still circulating, so he was clearly alive after the blow. The cold killed him.”
“Where could the attacker have got sand in this Godforsaken frozen hole?”
Dr. Blake smiled. Dermott wished he hadn’t: the long narrow teeth only accentuated the death’s head effect. “If you aren’t too squeamish, you can smell what they used.”
Dermott bent and rose almost immediately. “Salt.”
Blake nodded. “Probably slightly dampened. Makes an even more effective bludgeon than sand.”
“They teach you this in medical school?”
“I was on the forensic side once. If I make out and sign the death certificate, will you be kind enough to hand it in at Anchorage?”
“Of course.”
Big, burly, high-colored and irrepressibly cheerful, John Ffoulkes looked more like a prosperous farmer than a tough, competent senior police officer. He produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses and smiled at Dermott.
“In view of those ridiculous prohibition laws they have up at Prudhoe Bay, maybe we can make up here in Anchorage…”
“My chief would like your style. We don’t do so badly there. Mr. Brady claims to have the biggest portable bar north of the Arctic circle. He has, too.”
“Well, then, to help erase the memory of your flight. I gather you didn’t enjoy it much?”
“Extreme turbulence, an absence of pretty stewardesses, and the knowledge that you’re carrying three murdered men in the cargo hold doesn’t make for a very relaxed flight.”
Ffoulkes stopped smiling. “Ah, yes, the dead men. Not only a tragic affair, but an extremely unpleasant one. I’ve had reports from my own State Troopers and the FBI. I wonder if you could have anything to add to what they said?”
“I doubt it. Mr. Morrison of the FBI struck me as a highly competent officer.”
“He’s all that, and a close friend of mine. But tell me anyway, please.”
Dermott’s account was as- succinct as it was comprehensive. At the end Ffoulkes said, “Tallies almost exactly with the other reports. But no hard facts?”
“Suspicions, yes. Hard facts, no.”
“So the only lead you really have are the prints we got from that telephone booth?” Dermott nodded, and Ffoulkes brought out a buff folder from a desk drawer. “Here they are. Some are pretty smudged but a few are not too bad. Are you an expert?”
“I can read them with a powerful glass and a lot of luck. But an expert — no.”