Athabasca. Alistair MacLean
contract. Toe the line or you’re fired. A shining example of American democracy at its finest. Well, well.” He glanced briefly at the paper, then at Finlayson. “How did you get hold of this? Classified information, surely?”
“Oddly enough, no. What you would call the public domain. Editorial page, All-Alaska Weekly, July 22, 1977. I don’t question it was classified. How the paper got hold of it, I don’t know.”
“Nice to see a little paper going against the might of a giant company and getting off with it. Restores one’s faith in something or other.”
Finlayson picked up another Photostat. “The same editorial also made a despairing reference to the ‘horrendous negative impact of the pipeline on us’. That’s as true now as it was then. We’ve inherited this horrendous negative impact, and we’re still suffering from it. So there it is. I’m not saying we’re entirely friendless, or that the authorities wouldn’t move in quickly if there were any overt violations of the law. But, because votes are important, those in charge of our destinies rule from behind: they sense the wind of public opinion, then enact acceptable legislation and adopt correspondingly safe attitudes. Whatever happens, they’re not going to antagonise those who keep them in power. They are not, with the public’s eye on both them and us, going to come and hold our hands because of any anonymous threat by some anonymous crackpot.”
Mackenzie said: “So it amounts to this: until actual sabotage occurs, you can expect no outside help. So far as preventative measures are concerned, you’re dependent solely upon Bronowski and his security teams. In effect, you’re on your own.”
“It’s an unhappy thought, but there it is.”
Dermott stood up and walked back and forth. “Accepting this threat as real, who’s behind it and what does he want? Not a crackpot, that’s sure. If it were, say, some environmentalist running amok, he’d go ahead and do his damnedest without any prior warning. No, could be with a view to extortion or blackmail, which do not have to be the same thing: extortion would be for money, blackmail could have many different purposes in mind. Stopping the flow of oil is unlikely to be the primary purpose: more likely, it’ll be a stoppage for another and more important purpose. Money, politics – local or international – power, misguided idealism, genuine idealism or just crackpot irresponsibility. Well, I’m afraid speculation will have to wait on developments. Meantime, Mr Finlayson, I’d like to see Bronowski as soon as possible.”
“I told you, he has business to finish. He’ll be flying up in a few hours.”
“Ask him to fly up now, please.”
“Sorry. Bronowski’s his own man. Overall, he’s answerable to me, but not in field operations. He’d walk out if I tried to usurp his authority. Unless he had the power to act independently, he’d be effectively hamstrung. You don’t hire a dog and bark yourself.”
“I don’t think you quite understand. Mr Mackenzie and I have not only been promised total co-operation: we’ve been empowered to direct security measures if, in our judgment, such extreme measures are dictated by circumstances.”
Finlayson’s Yukon beard still masked his expression, but there was no mistaking the disbelief in his voice. “You mean, take over from Bronowski?”
“If, again in our judgment, he’s good enough, we just sit by the sidelines and advise. If not, we will exercise the authority invested in us.”
“Invested in whom? This is preposterous. I will not, I cannot permit it. You walk in here and imagine – no, no way. I have received no such directive.”
“Then I suggest you seek such a directive, or confirmation of it, immediately.”
“From whom?”
“The grand panjandrums, as you call them.”
“London?” Dermott said nothing. “That’s for Mr Black.”
Dermott remained silent.
“General manager, Alaska.”
Dermott nodded at the three telephones on Finlayson’s desk. “He’s as far away as one of those.”
“He’s out of State. He’s visiting our offices in Seattle, San Francisco and Los Angeles. At what times and in what order I don’t know. I do know he’ll be back in Anchorage at noon tomorrow.”
“Are you telling me that is the soonest you can – or will – contact him?”
“Yes.”
“You could phone those offices.”
“I’ve told you, I don’t know where he’d be. He could be at some other place altogether. Like as not he’s in the air.”
“You could try, couldn’t you?” Finlayson remained silent and Dermott spoke again. “You could call London direct.”
“You don’t know much about the hierarchy in oil companies, do you?”
“No. But I know this.” Now Dermott’s customary geniality was gone. “You’re a considerable disappointment, Finlayson. You are, or very well may be, in serious trouble. In the circumstances, one does not expect an executive in top management to resort to stiff outrage and wounded pride. You’ve got your priorities wrong, my friend – the good of the company comes first, not your feelings or protecting your ass.”
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 of penning 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 towards 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 rightly observe, Jesus! Heaven help the trans-Alaskan 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