Czytaj książkę: «Athabasca»

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“This,” said George Dermott, “is no place for us.” He eased his considerable bulk back from the dining-table and regarded the remains of several enormous lamb chops with disfavour. “Jim Brady expects his field operatives to be lean, fit and athletic. Are we lean, fit and athletic?”

“There are desserts,” Donald Mackenzie said. Like Dermott he was a large and comfortable man with a rugged, weatherbeaten face, a little larger and a little less comfortable. Observers often took him and his partner for a pair of retired heavyweight boxers. “I can see cakes, cookies and a wide variety of pastries,” he went on. “You read their food brochure? Says that the average man requires at least five thousand calories a day to cope with Arctic conditions. But we, George, are not average men. Six thousand would do better in a pinch. Nearer seven would be safer, I’d say. Chocolate mousse and double cream?”

“He had a notice about it on the staff bulletin board,” Dermott said wryly. “Heavy black border, for some reason. Signed, too.”

“Senior operatives don’t look at staff boards,” Mackenzie sniffed. He heaved his 220 pounds erect and headed purposefully for the food counter. There was no doubt that B.P./Sohio did extremely well by their staff. Here at Prudhoe Bay, on the bitter rim of the Arctic Ocean in midwinter, the spacious, light and airy dining-room, with multi-coloured pastel walls back-dropping the recurrent five-pointed star motif, was maintained at a pleasantly fresh 72 degrees by the air-conditioned central heating. The temperature difference between the dining-room and the outside world was 105°F. The range of excellently-cooked food was astonishing.

“Don’t exactly starve themselves up here,” he said as he returned with a mousse for each of them and a pitcher of heavy cream. “I wonder what any of the old Alaskan sourdoughs would have made of it.”

The first reaction of a prospector or trapper of yesteryear would have been that he was suffering from hallucinations. All in all, it was hard to say what feature he would have found the most astonishing. Eighty per cent of the items on the menu would have been unknown to him. But he would have been still more amazed by the forty-foot swimming-pool and the glassed-in garden, with its pine-trees, birches, plants and profusion of flowers, that abutted on the dining-room.

“God knows what the old boy would have thought,” said Dermott. “You might ask him, though.” He indicated a man heading in their direction. “Jack London would have recognised this one right away.”

Mackenzie said: “More the Robert Service type, I’d say.”

The newcomer certainly wasn’t of current vintage. He wore heavy felt boots, moleskin trousers and an incredibly faded mackinaw, which went well enough with the equally faded patches on the sleeves. A pair of sealskin gloves was suspended from his neck, and he carried a coonskin cap in his right hand. His hair was long and white and parted in the middle. He had a slightly hooked nose and clear blue eyes with deeply entrenched crow’s feet, which could have been caused by too much sun, too much snow or a too highly developed sense of humour. The rest of his face was obscured by a magnificent grizzled beard and moustache, both of which were at that moment rimed by droplets of ice. The yellow hard hat swinging from his left hand struck a jarring note. He stopped at their table, and from the momentary flash of white teeth it could be assumed that he was smiling.

“Mr Dermott? Mr Mackenzie?” He offered his hand. “Finlayson. John Finlayson.”

Dermott said: “Mr Finlayson. Field operations manager’s office?”

“I am the field operations manager.” He pulled out a chair, sat, sighed and removed some ice particles from his beard. “Yes, yes, I know. Hard to believe.” He smiled again, gestured at his clothing. “Most people think I’ve been riding the rods. You know, hobo on the box-cars. God knows why. Nearest railroad track’s a long, long way from Prudhoe Bay. Like Tahiti and grass skirts. You know, gone native. Too many years on the North Slope.” His oddly staccato manner of speech was indeed suggestive of a person whose contact with civilisation was, at best, intermittent. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. Meet you, I mean. Deadhorse.”

Mackenzie said: “Deadhorse?”

“Airstrip. A little trouble at one of the gathering centres. Happens all the time. Sub-zero temperatures play hell with the molecular structure of steel. Being well taken care of, I hope?”

“No complaints.” Dermott smiled. “Not that we require much care. There the food counter, here Mackenzie. The watering hole and the camel.” Dermott checked himself: he was beginning to talk like Finlayson. “Well, one little complaint, perhaps. Too many items on the lunch menu, too large a helping of any item. My colleague’s waist-line –”

“Your colleague’s waist-line can take care of itself,” Mackenzie said comfortably. “But I do have a complaint, Mr Finlayson.”

“I can imagine.” Another momentary flash of teeth, and Finlayson was on his feet. “Let’s hear it in my office. Just a few steps.” He walked across the dining-hall, stopped outside a door and indicated another door to the left. “Master operations control centre. The heart of Prudhoe Bay – or the western half of it, at least. All the computerized process control facilities for the supervision of the field’s operations.”

Dermott said: “An enterprising lad with a satchelful of grenades could have himself quite a time in there.”

“Five seconds, and he could close down the entire oilfield. Come all the way from Houston just to cheer me up? This way.”

He led them through the outer door, then through an inner one to a small office. Desks, chairs and filing cabinets, all in metal, all in battleship grey. He gestured them to sit and smiled at Mackenzie. “As the French say, a meal without wine is like a day without sunshine.”

“It’s this Texas dust,” Mackenzie said. “Sticks in the gullet like no other dust. Laughs at water.”

Finlayson made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Some big rigs out there. Damned expensive and damned difficult to handle. It’s pitch dark, say, forty below and you’re tired – you’re always tired up here. Don’t forget we work twelve hours a day, seven days a week. A couple of Scotches on top of all that, and you’ve written off a million dollars’ worth of equipment. Or you damage the pipeline. Or you kill yourself. Or, worst of all, you kill some of your mates. Comparatively, they had it easy in the old prohibition days – bulk smuggling from Canada, bathtub gin, illicit stills by the thousand. Rather different on the North Slope here – get caught smuggling in a teaspoonful of liquor, and that’s it. No argument, no court of appeal. Out. But there’s no problem – no one is going to risk eight hundred dollars a week for ten cents’ worth of bourbon.”

Mackenzie said: “When’s the next flight out to Anchorage?”

Finlayson smiled. “All is not lost, Mr Mackenzie.” He unlocked a filing cabinet, produced a bottle of Scotch and two glasses and poured with a generous hand. “Welcome to the North Slope, gentlemen.”

“I was having visions,” said Mackenzie, “of travellers stranded in an Alpine blizzard and a St Bernard lolloping towards them with the usual restorative. You’re not a drinking man?”

“Certainly. One week in five when I rejoin my family in Anchorage. This is strictly for visiting V.I.P.s. One would assume you qualify under that heading?” Thoughtfully, he mopped melting ice from his beard. “Though frankly, I never heard of your organisation until a couple of days ago.”

“Think of us as desert roses,” Mackenzie said. “Born to blush and bloom unseen. I think I’ve got that wrong, but the desert bit is appropriate enough. That’s where we seem to spend most of our time.” He nodded towards the window. “A desert doesn’t have to be made of sand. I suppose this qualifies as an Arctic desert.”

“I think of it that way myself. But what do you do in those deserts? Your function, I mean.”

“Our function?” Dermott considered. “Oddly enough, I’d say our function is to reduce our worthy employer, Jim Brady, to a state of bankruptcy.”

“Jim Brady? I thought his initial was A.”

“His mother was English. She christened him Algernon. Wouldn’t you object? He’s always known as Jim. Anyway, there are only three people in the world any good at extinguishing oil-field fires, particularly gusher fires, and all three are Texasbased. Jim Brady’s one of the three.

“It used to be commonly accepted that there are just three causes of such oil fires: spontaneous combustion, which should never happen but does; the human factor, i.e. sheer carelessness; and mechanical failure. After twenty-five years in the business Brady recognised that there was a fourth and more sinister element involved, that would come broadly speaking under the heading of industrial sabotage.”

“Who would engage in sabotage? What would the motivation be?”

“Well we can rule out the most obvious – rivalry among the big oil companies. It doesn’t exist. This notion of cut-throat competition exists only in the sensational press and among the more feeble-minded of the public. To be a fly on the wall at a closed meeting of the oil lobby in Washington is to understand once and for all the meaning of the expression ‘two minds with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one’. Multiplied by twenty, of course. Let Exxon put up the price of gas by a penny today, and Gulf, Shell, B.P., Elf, Agip and all the others will do the same tomorrow. Or even take Prudhoe Bay here. The classic example, surely, of co-operation – umpteen companies working hand-in-glove for the mutual benefit of all concerned: benefit of all the oil companies, that is. The State of Alaska and the general public might adopt a rather different and more jaundiced viewpoint.

“So we rule out business rivalries. This leaves another kind of energy. Power. International power politics; Say Country X could seriously weaken enemy Country Y by slowing down its oil revenues. That’s one obvious scenario. Then there’s internal power politics. Suppose disaffected elements in an oil-rich dictatorship see a means of demonstrating their dissatisfaction against a regime that clasps the ill-gotten gains to its mercenary bosom or, at best, distributes some measure of the largesse to its nearest and dearest, while ensuring that the peasantry remains in the properly medieval state of poverty. Starvation does nicely as motivation; this kind of set-up leaves room for personal revenge, the settling of old scores, the working off of old grudges.

“And don’t forget the pyromaniac who sees in oil a ludicrously easy target and the source of lovely flames. In short, there’s room for practically everything, and the more bizarre and unimaginable, the more likely to happen. A case in point.”

He nodded at Mackenzie. “Donald and I have just returned from the Gulf. The local security men and the police were baffled by an outbreak of small fires – small, so-called, but with damage totalling two million dollars. Clearly the work of an arsonist. We tracked him down, apprehended him, and punished him. We gave him a bow and arrow.”

Finlayson looked at them as if their Scotch had taken hold too quickly.

“Eleven-year-old son of the British consul. He had a powerful Webley air pistol. Webley make the traditional ammunition for this – hollow, concave lead pellets. They do not make pellets of hardened steel, which give off a splendid spark when they strike ferrous metal. This lad had a plentiful supply obtained from a local Arab boy who had a similar pistol and used those illegal pellets for hunting desert vermin. Incidentally, the Arab boy’s old man, a prince of the blood royal, owned the oilfield in question. The English boy’s arrows have rubber tips.”

“I’m sure there’s a moral there somewhere.”

“Sure, there’s a lesson: the unpredictable is always with you. Our industrial sabotage division – that’s Jim Brady’s term for it – was formed six years ago. There are fourteen of us in it. At first it was as a purely investigative agency. We went to a place after the deed had been done and the fire put out – as often as not it was Jim who put it out – and tried to find out who had done it, why, and what his modus operandi had been. Frankly, we had very limited success: usually the horse had gone, and all we were doing was locking the empty stable door.

“Now the emphasis has changed – we try to lock the damned door in such a fashion that no-one can open it. In other words, prevention: the maximum tightening of both mechanical and human security. The response to this service has been remarkable – we’re now the most profitable side of Jim’s operations. By far. Capping off runaway wells, putting fires out, can’t hold a candle, if you’ll pardon the expression, to our security work. Such is the demand for our services that we could triple our division and still not cope with all the calls being made upon us.”

“Well, why don’t you? Triple the business, I mean.”

“Trained personnel,” Mackenzie said. “Just not there. More accurately, there are next to no experienced operatives and there’s an almost total dearth of people qualified to be trained for the job. The combination of qualifications is difficult to come by. You have to have an investigative mind, and that in turn is based on an inborn instinct for detection – the Sherlock Holmes genes, shall we say. You’ve either got it or not: it can’t be inculcated. You have to have an eye and a nose for security, an obsession, almost – and this can only come from field experience; you have to have a pretty detailed knowledge of the oil industry world-wide: and, above all, you have to be an oilman.”

“And you gentlemen are oilmen.” It was a statement, not a question.

“All our working lives,” Dermott said. “We’ve both been field operations managers.”

“If your services are in such demand, how come we should be so lucky as to jump to the head of the queue?”

Dermott said: “As far as we know this is the first time that any oil company has received notification of intent to sabotage. First real chance we’ve had to try out our preventive medicine. We’re just slightly puzzled on one point, Mr Finlayson. You say you never heard of us until a couple of days ago. How come that we’re here, then? I mean, we knew of this three days ago when we arrived back from the Mid East. We spent a day resting up, another day studying the layout and security measures of the Alaskan pipeline and –”

“You did that, eh? Isn’t it classified information?”

Dermott was patient. “We could have sent for it immediately on receiving the request for assistance. We didn’t have to. The information, Mr Finlayson, is not classified. It’s in the public domain. Big companies tend to be incredibly careless about such matters. Whether to reassure the public or burnish their own image by taking thoroughgoing precautions, they not only release large chunks of information about their activities but positively bombard the public with them. The information, of course, comes in disparate and apparently unrelated lumps: it requires only a moderately intelligent fella to piece them all together.

“Not that those big companies, such as Alyeska, who built your pipeline, have much to reproach themselves about. They don’t even begin to operate in the same league of indiscretion as the all-time champs, the U.S. Government. Take the classic example of the de-classification of the secret of the atom bomb. When the Russians got the bomb, the Government thought there was no point in being secretive any more and proceeded to tell all. You want to know how to make an atom bomb? Just send a pittance to the A.E.C. in Washington and you’ll have the necessary information by return mail. That this information could be used by Americans against Americans apparently never occurred to the towering intellects of Capitol Hill and the Pentagon, who seem to have been under the impression that the American criminal classes voluntarily retired en masse on the day of declassification.”

Finlayson raised a defensive hand. “Hold. Enough. I accept that you haven’t infiltrated Prudhoe Bay with a battalion of spies. Answer’s simple. When I received this unpleasant letter – it was sent to me, not to our H.Q. in Anchorage – I talked to the general manager, Alaska. We both agreed that it was almost certainly a hoax. Still, I regret to say that many Alaskans aren’t all that kindly disposed towards us. We also agreed that if it was not a hoax, it could be something very serious indeed. People like us, although we’re well enough up the ladder in our own fields, don’t take final decisions on the safety and future of a ten-billion-dollar investment. So we notified the grand panjandrums. Your directive came from London. Informing me of their decision must have come as an afterthought.”

“Head offices being what they are,” Dermott said. “Got this threatening note here?”

Finlayson retrieved a single sheet of notepaper from a drawer and passed it across.

“‘My dear Mr Finlayson’,” Dermott read. “Well, that’s civil enough. ‘I have to inform you that you will be incurring a slight spillage of oil 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. Please notify ARCO.’”

Dermott shoved the letter across to Mackenzie. “Understandably unsigned. No demands. If this is genuine, it’s intended as a softening-up demonstration in preparation for the big threat and big demand that will follow. A morale-sapper, if you will, designed to scare the pants off you.”

Finlayson’s gaze was on the middle distance. “I’m not so sure he hasn’t done that already.”

“You notified ARCO?”

“Yup. Oilfield’s split more or less half-and-half. We run the western sector. ARCO – Atlantic Richfield, Exxon, some smaller groups – they run the eastern sector.”

“What’s their reaction?”

“Like mine. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”

“Your security chief. What’s his reaction?”