Athabasca Page 2

  “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 feebleminded 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 i
nterrupt 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?”

  “Downright pessimistic. It’s his baby, after all. If I were in his shoes I’d feel the same way. He’s convinced of the genuineness of this threat.”

  “Me too,” Dermott said. “This came in an envelope? Ah, thank you.” He read the address. “‘Mr John Finlayson, B.Sc, A.M.I.M.E.’. Not only punctilious, but they’ve done their homework on you. ‘B.P./Sohio, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska’. Postmarked Edmonton, Alberta. That mean anything to you?”

  “Nary a thing. I have neither friends nor acquaintances there, and certainly no business contacts.”

  “Your security chief’s reaction?”

  “Same as mine. Zero.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bronowski. Sam Bronowski.”

  “Let’s have him in, shall we?”

  “You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. He’s down in Fairbanks. Back tonight, if the weather holds up. Depends on visibility.”

  “Blizzard season?”

  “We don’t have one. Precipitation on the North Slope is very low, maybe six inches in a winter. High winds are the bugaboo. They blow up the surface snow so that the air can be completely opaque for thirty or forty feet above the ground. Just before Christmas a few years ago a Hercules, normally the safest of aircraft, tried to land in those conditions. Didn’t make it. Two of the crew of four killed. Pilots have become a bit leery since—if a Hercules can buy it, any aircraft can. These high winds and the surface snowstorms they generate—that snow can be driving along at 70 miles an hour—are the bane of our existence up here. That’s why this operations centre is built on pilings seven feet above ground—let the snow blow right underneath. Otherwise we’d end the winter season buried under a massive drift. The pilings, of course, also virtually eliminate heat transfer to the permafrost, but that’s secondary.”

  “What’s Bronowski doing in Fairbanks?”

  “Stiffening the thin red line. Hiring extra security guards for Fairbanks.”

  “How does he set about that?”

  “Approach varies, I suppose. Really Bronowski’s department, Mr Dermott. He has carte blanche in those matters. I suggest you ask him on his return.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re his boss. He’s a subordinate. Bosses keep tabs on their subordinates. Roughly, how does he recruit?”

  “Well. He’s probably built up a list of people whom he’s personally contacted and who might be available in a state of emergency. I’m honestly not sure about this. I may be his boss, but when I delegate responsibility I do just that. I do know that he approaches the chief of police and asks for suitable recommendations. He may or may not have put an ad. in the All-Alaska Weekly—that’s published in Fairbanks.” Finlayson thought briefly. “I wouldn’t say he’s deliberately close-mouthed about this. I suppose when you’ve been a security man all your life you naturally don’t let your left hand know what the right hand’s doing.”

  “What kind of men does he recruit?”

  “Almost all ex-cops—you know, ex-State troopers.”

  “But not trained security men?”

  “As such, no, although I’d have thought security would have come as second nature to a State trooper.” Finlayson smiled. “I imagine Sam’s principal criterion is whether the man can shoot straight.”

  “Security’s a mental thing, not physical. You said ‘almost all’.”

  “He’s brought in two first-class security agents from outside. One’s stationed at Fairbanks, the other at Valdez.”

  “Who says they’re first class?”

  “Sam. He hand-picked them.” Finlayson rubbed his drying beard in what could have been a gesture of irritation. “You know, Mr Dermott, friendly, even genial you may be, but I have the odd impression that I’m being third-degreed.”

  “Rubbish. If that were happening, you’d know all about it, because I’d be asking you questions about yourself. I’ve no intention of doing so, now or in the future.”

  “You wouldn’t be having a dossier on me, would you?”

  “Tuesday, September 5, 1939, was the day and date you entered your secondary school in Dundee, Scotland.”

  “Jesus!”

  “What’s so sensitive about the Fairbanks area? Why strengthen your defences there particularly?”

  Finlayson shifted in his seat. “No hard and fast reason, really.”

  “Never mind whether it’s hard and fast. The reason?”

  Finlayson drew in his breath as if he were about to sigh, then seemed to change his mind. “Bit silly, really. You know how whisperings can generate a hoodoo. People on the line are a bit scared of that sector. You’ll know that the pipeline has three mountain ranges to traverse on its 800-mile run south to the terminal at Valdez. So, pump stations, twelve in all. Pump Station No. 8 is close to Fairbanks. It blew up in the summer of ’77. Completely destroyed.”

  “Fatalities?”

  “Yes.”

  “Explanations given for this blow-up?”

  “Of course.”

  “Satisfactory?”

  “The pipeline construction company—Alyeska—were satisfied.”

  “But not everyone?”

  “The public was sceptical. State and Federal agencies withheld comment.”

  “What reason did Alyeska give?”

  “Mechanical and electrical malfunction.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “The explanation was generally accepted?”

  “The explanation was widely disbelieved.”

  “Sabotage, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. I was here at the time. I’ve never even seen Pump Station No. 8. Been rebuilt, of course.”

  Dermott sighed. “This is where I should be showing some slight traces of exasperation. Don’t believe in committing yourself, do you, Mr Finlayson? Still, you’d probably make a good security agent. I don’t suppose you’d like to venture an opinion as to whether there was a cover-up or not?”

  “My opinion hardly matters. What matters, I suppose, is that the Alaskan press was damned certain there was, and said so loud and clear. The fact that the papers appeared unconcerned about the possibility of libel action could be regarded as significant. They would have welcomed a public enquiry: one assumes that Alyeska would not have.”

  “Why were the newspapers stirred up—or is that an unnecessary question?”

  “What incensed the press was that they were prevented for many hours from reaching the scene of the accident. What doubly incensed them was that they were prevented not by peace officers of the State but by Alyeska’s private guards, who, incredibly, took it upon themselves to close State roads. Even their local PR man agreed that this amounted to illegal restraint.”

  “Anybody sue?”

  “No court action resulted.”

  “Why?”

  When Finlayson shrugged, Dermott went on: “Could it have been because Alyeska is the biggest employer in the State, because the lifeblood of so many companies depends on their contracts with Alyeska? In other words, big money talking big?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Any minute now I’ll be signing you up for Jim Brady. What did
the press say?”

  “Because they’d been prevented for a whole day from getting to the scene of the accident, they believed Alyeska employees had been working feverishly during that time to clean up and minimise the effects of the accident, to remove the evidence of a major spillage and to conceal the fact that their fail-safe system had failed dangerously. Alyeska had also—the press said—covered up the worst effects of the fire damage.”

  “Might they also have removed or covered up incriminating evidence pointing to sabotage?”

  “No guessing games for me.”

  “All right. Do you or Bronowski know of any disaffected elements in Fairbanks?”

  “Depends what you mean by disaffected. If you mean environmentalists opposed to the construction of the pipeline, yes. Hundreds, and very strongly opposed.”

  “But they’re open about it, I assume—always give their full names and addresses when writing to the papers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Besides, environmentalists tend to be sensitive and nonviolent people who work within the confines of the law.”

  “About any other disaffected types, I wouldn’t know. There are fifteen thousand people in Fairbanks, and it would be optimistic to expect they’re all as pure as the driven snow.”

  “What did Bronowski think of the incident?”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked…”

  “He was in New York at the time. He hadn’t even joined the company then.”

  “A relative newcomer, then?”

  “Yes. In your book, I suppose that automatically makes him a villain. If you wish to go ahead and waste your time investigating his antecedents, by all means do so, but I could save you time and effort by telling you that we had him checked, double-checked and triple-checked by three separate topflight agencies. The New York Police Department gave him a clean bill of health. His record and that of his company are—were—impeccable.”