Finlayson's eyes showed no expression. Mackenzie was staring at the ceiling as if he had found something of absorbing interest there. Dermott, he had learned over the years, was a past master at pinning an adversary into a corner. The victim either surrendered or placed himself in an impossible situation of which Dermott would take ruthless advantage. If he couldn't get co-operation, he would settle for nothing less than domination.
Dermott went on, "I have made three requests, all of which I regard as perfectly reasonable, and you have refused all three. You persist in your refusals?"
"Yes, I do."
Dermott said, "Well, Donald, what are my options?"
"There are none." Mackenzie sounded sad. "Only the inevitable."
"Yes." Dermott looked at Finlayson coldly. "You have a radio microwave band to Valdez that links up with the continental exchanges." He pushed a card toward Finlayson. "Or would you refuse me permission to talk to my head office in Houston?"
Finlayson said nothing. He took the card, lifted the phone and talked to the switchboard. After three minutes' silence, which only Finlayson seemed to find uncomfortable, the phone rang. Finlayson listened briefly then handed over the phone.
Dermott said, "Brady Enterprises? Mr. Brady, please… Dermott." There was a pause, then, "Good afternoon, Jim."
"Well, well, George." Brady's strong carrying voice was clearly audible in the office. "Prudhoe Bay, is it? Coincidence, coincidence. I was just on the point of phoning you."
"Well. My report, Jim. News, rather. There's nothing to report."
"And I have news for you. Mine first, it's more important. Open line?"
"One moment." Dermott looked at Finlayson. "What security classification does your switchboard operator have?"
"None. Jesus, she's only a telephone girl."
"As you so rightly observe, Jesus! Heaven help the trans-Alaska pipeline." He pulled out a notebook and pencil and addressed the phone. "Sorry, Jim. Open. Go ahead."
In a clear, precise voice Brady began to recite a seemingly meaningless jumble of letters and figures which Dermott noted down in neatly printed script. After about two minutes Brady paused and said, "Repeat?"
"No thanks."
"You have something to say?"
"Just this. Field manager here uncooperative, unreasonable and obstructive. I don't think we can profitably operate here. Permission to pull out."
There was only a brief pause before Brady said clearly, "Permission granted." There came the click of a replaced receiver and Dermott rose to his feet. Finlayson was already on his. "Mr. Dermott ― " Dermott looked down at him icily and spoke in a voice as cold as winter, "Give my love to London, Mr. Finlayson, if you're ever there."
Two
Thirteen hundred miles southeast of Prudhoe Bay, at ten P.M., Brady's men met Jay Shore in the bar of the Peter Pond Hotel in Fort McMurray. Among those qualified to pass judgement on such matters, it was readily agreed that as an engineering construction manager Shore had no peer in Canada. His face was dark, saturnine, almost piratical ― which was rather an unfair trick for nature to play on him, since that same nature had made him easygoing, companionable, humorous and cheerful.
Not that he felt in the least humorous and cheerful at that moment. Nor did the man who sat beside him, Bill Reynolds, Sanmobil's operations manager, a rubicund and normally smiling man to whom nature had given precisely the kind of diabolical mind that Shore appeared to have but didn't.
Bill Reynolds looked across the table to Dermott and Mackenzie, whom he and Shore had met thirty seconds previously, and said, "You make fast time, gentlemen. Remarkable service, if one may say so."
"We try," Dermott said comfortably. "We do our best."
"Scotch?" asked Mackenzie.
"Thanks." Reynolds nodded. "Twin jet ― is that it?"
"Right."
"A shade expensive, a man would think."
"Gets you around." Dermott smiled.
"Head office ― that's Edmonton ― told us you might take up to four days. We didn't expect you in four hours." Reynolds eyed Dermott speculatively over his newly poured glass. "I'm afraid we don't know much about you."
"Fair enough. We probably know even less about you."
"Not oilmen, then?"
"Of course. But drilling oilmen. We're not familiar with mining the stuff."
"And your full-time job is security?"
"That's right."
"So there's no need to ask what you were doing up on the North Slope?"
"Right again."
"How long were you up there?"
"Two hours."
"Two hours! You mean you can lick a security"
"We licked nothing. We left."
"May one ask why?"
"Operations manager was… unhelpful, let's say."
"Me and my big mouth."
"Meaning?"
"I'm the operations manager here. But I get the message."
Dermott said pleasantly, "No message. You asked a question, I answered."
"And you decided to walk out ― "
"We have a backlog of cases all over the world, and no time to waste trying to help those who won't help themselves. Let's not get off on the wrong foot, gentlemen ― your company expects Mackenzie and me to do the questioning while you do the answering. When was this threat received?"
Shore said, "Ten o'clock this morning."
"You have it with you?"
"Not exactly. It came by phone."
"Where from?"
"Anchorage. International call."
"Who took the message?"
"I did. Bill here was with me, listening in. Caller gave us his message twice. Word for word he said, 'I have to inform you that Sanmobil will be incurring a slight interruption in oil production in the near future. Not much, I assure you, just sufficient to convince you that we can interrupt oil flow whenever and wherever we please.' That was all."
"No demands?"
"No ― surprisingly."
"Don't worry. The demands will come when the big threat does. Would you recognize this voice again?"
"Would I recognize the voices of a million other Canadians who talk exactly as he does? You take this threat seriously?"
"I do. We take most things seriously. How good is security at the plant?"
"Well ― fair enough for normal circumstances, I suppose."
"These promise to be highly abnormal circumstances. How many guards?"
"Twenty-four, under Terry Brinckman. He knows what he's doing."
"I don't doubt it. Guard dogs?"
"None. The usual police dogs ― alsatians, dobermans, boxers ― can't survive in these extreme conditions. Huskies can, of course, but they make lousy watchdogs ― they're more interested in fighting each other than looking for intruders."
"Electric fences?"
Shore rolled his eyes upward and looked sorrowful. "You want to equip the environmentalists with a gallows right on the site? Why, if even the meanest old wolf were to singe its mangy hide…"
"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."