“Okay, okay. I suppose it’s pointless to ask about electronic beams, sensor devices and the like?”
“Pointless is right.”
Mackenzie said, “How big is this plant site?”
Reynolds looked unhappy. “About eight thousand acres.”
“Eight thousand acres.” Mackenzie’s voice was all doom. “What kind of perimeter would that make for?”
“Fourteen miles.”
“Yes. We have a problem here,” Mackenzie said. “I take it your security duties are twofold: the guarding of vital installations in the plant itself and patrolling the perimeter to keep intruders out?”
Reynolds nodded. “The guards are in three shifts, eight men per shift.”
“Eight men, without any protective aids at all, to guard the plant itself and at the same time patrol fourteen miles of perimeter in the blackness of a winter night.”
Shore was defensive. “Ours is a twenty-four-hour operation. The plant is brilliantly lit day and night.”
“But the perimeter isn’t. A blind man could drive a coach and four — hell, why go on? A couple of army regiments might help, although I doubt even that. As I say, a problem.”
“Not only that,” Dermott said, “all the brilliant illumination in the world isn’t of the slightest help. Not when you’ve got hundreds of workers on each of the three shifts a day.”
“Meaning?”
“Subversives.”
“Subversives! Less than two per cent of the work force are non-Canadians.”
“There’s been a royal decree abolishing Canadian criminals? When you hire, you investigate backgrounds?”
“Well, not intensive questioning, third degree, lie detector tests or any of that rubbish. Try that and you’d never hire anyone. We check on previous experience, qualifications, recommendations and, most important, criminal records.”
“That’s the least important. Really clever criminals never have criminal records.” Dermott looked like a man who had been about to sigh, explode, curse or quit, but had changed his mind. “Well — it’s late. Tomorrow, Mr. Mackenzie and I would like to talk to your Terry Brinckman and look over the plant.”
“If we have a car here at ten o’clock — ”
“How about seven o’clock? Yes, seven will be fine.”
Dermott and Mackenzie watched the two men go, looked at each other, emptied their glasses, signalled the barman, then looked out through the windows of the Peter Pond Hotel, named after the first white man ever to see the tar sands.
Pond went down the Athabasca River by canoe almost exactly two hundred years before. He did not take too much interest in the sand, it appears, but ten years later the much more famous explorer Alexander Mackenzie was intrigued by the sticky substance oozing from outcrops high above the river, and wrote: “The bitumen is in a fluid state, and when mixed with gum, or the resinous substance collected from the spruce fir, serves to gum the Indians’ canoes. In its heated state it emits a smell like that of sea-coal.”
Oddly, the significance of the words “sea-coal” wasn’t appreciated for more than a hundred years; nobody realized that the two eighteenth-century explorers had stumbled across one of the world’s largest reservoirs of fossil fuels. But had they not so stumbled, there would have been no Peter Pond Hotel where it is today nor, indeed, the township beyond its windows.
Even in the mid-nineteen-sixties Fort McMurray was little more than a rough, primitive frontier outpost, with a population of only thirteen hundred, and streets covered with dust, mud or slush according to season. By now, though still a frontier town, it had become a frontier town with a difference. Treasuring its past, but with an eye to the future, it was the epitome of a boomtown and, in terms of burgeoning population, the fastest expanding township in Canada. Where there were thirteen hundred citizens fourteen years earlier, there were now thirteen thousand. Schools, “hotels, banks, hospitals, churches, supermarkets and, above all, hundreds of new houses stood and more were being built. And, wonder of wonders, the streets were paved. This seeming miracle stemmed from one factor and one factor only: Fort McMurray sits squarely in the heart of the Athabasca tar sands, the biggest such known deposits in the world.
It had been snowing heavily earlier in the evening and had still not completely stopped. Everything — houses, streets, car tops, trees — was under a smooth cover of white. Hundreds of lights shone hospitably through the gently falling flakes. The scene would have gladdened the eye and heart of a Christmas postcard artist. Some such thought had occurred to Mackenzie.
“Santa Claus should be here tonight.”
“Indeed.” Dermott sounded morose. “Especially if he brought along some of that peace on earth and goodwill to all men. Whatever happened to peace on earth? We’re running low on goodwill toward men. Shortage of everything. What did you make of that telephone message to Sanmobil?”
“Same thing you did. Practically identical to the letter Finlayson received up in Prudhoe Bay. ‘ Obviously the work of the same man or group of men.”
“And what do you make of the fact that Alaskan oil people got a threatening message from Alberta, while the Albertan oil interests received the same threat from Alaska?”
“Nothing — except that both threats had the same origin. That call from Anchorage. For a certainty, from a public telephone booth. Untraceable.”
“Probably. Not certainly. I don’t know if you can dial direct from Anchorage to here. I don’t think so, but we can find out. If not, the telephone operator will have a record. There’s a chance that we might locate the phone.”
Mackenzie briefly surveyed Fort McMurray through the base of his glass and said, “That’ll be a big help.”
“It might be a small help. Two ways. That call came in at ten this morning. That’s six A.M. Anchorage time. Who except a nut — or some night-shift worker — is going to be out in the black and freezing streets of Anchorage at that hour? That sort of odd behaviour, I suggest, isn’t likely to go unnoticed.”
“If there’s anyone there to notice.”
“State Troopers in a patrol car. Taxi driver. Snowplough driver. Mailman on the way to work. You’d be surprised at the number of people who go about their lawful occasions in the dark watches of the night.”
“I would not be surprised.” Mackenzie spoke with some feeling. “We’ve done it often enough in this damned job of ours. Two ways, you said. What’s the second way?”
“If I locate this pay phone, we can have the police remove the coin box and give it to their fingerprint boys. The chances are good that the person who made the call to Fort McMurray used more high-denomination coins than anyone else who went into the pay phone that day — or night. Get two or three large coins with the same prints, and that’s our man.”
“Objection. Coins are handled by many people. You’ll get prints, all right. A plethora, shall we say, of fingerprints.”
“Objection overruled. It’s established that on a metal surface — the overlay — the last person to touch such a surface leaves the dominant print. By the same token, we’d print the area around the dial. People don’t dial in fur mittens. Then we’d check with criminal records. The prints may be on file. If they are, we’ll get the man and ask him all sorts of interesting questions.”
“You do have a devious mind, George. Low cunning, but albeit a mind. First catch your man, though.”
“If we get a description or prints with history, it shouldn’t be too difficult. If he’s gone to ground, it would be different. But there’s no reason why he should think he has to take cover. Might be awkward for him anyway. May well be a pillar of the Anchorage business and social communities.”
“I’ll bet the other Anchorage pillars would love to hear you say that. They’d have the same opinion of you as our friend John Finlayson has now. What are we going to do about Finlayson, anyway? Rapprochement doesn’t seem advisable — it’s essential. With the tie-up so obvious — ”
“Let him stew in his own juice for a while. I don’t mean that the way it sounds, but just let him worry awhile in Prudhoe Bay until we’re ready. He’s a good man, intelligent, honest. He reacted precisely the way you or I would have if a couple of interlopers had tried to take over. The longer we stay away, the more certainly we’re guaranteed his co-operation when we get back. Jim Brady may have been the bearer of bad news, but that call of his couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. Gave us the perfect excuse to take off. Speaking of Jim — ”
“I’ve been thinking that I don’t much like any of this. Presentiments. My Scottish forebears, one presumes. You know that Prudhoe Bay and this place here contain well over half the oil reserves of North America. It’s an awful lot of oil. A man wouldn’t want anything to happen to these two.”