Athabasca

Fifteen

The wicked wind hissed through the clump of alders some twenty yards behind the meteorological station. The trees offered little in the way of cover, but it was the best and closest that the men could find. Luckily, the night was moonless: the buildings showed as black lumps in the snowy landscape.

Bulky as bears in their Arctic gear, the raiders silently watched another figure, flattened to the snow, inch his way up toward them, propelled only by elbows and toes. Arrived in the shelter of the trees, John Carmody rose to a kneeling position.

"They're there," he whispered. "Reynolds and the ladies. The ladies are handcuffed together, but they seem all right. Don't look as though they've been maltreated. There are five other men in there, smoking and drinking, but not drinking too much. A little room leads off the big one. Could be there's someone asleep in there, but I don't think so. The door's ajar and the light's on. Any person who wanted to sleep would have switched the light off."

"Well done, boy," said Brady.

"Three other things, sir. At least three of the

men are armed, although none actually had a gun in his hand. The whole group is sitting around the table listening to a radio. They're listening pretty hard, too ― trying to catch something. That made me think there wouldn't be another of them in the small room ― he'd have been out there listening too."

"Could be the two station operators are in there," said Dermott. "Tied up, I mean."

"I thought that too," said Carmody.

"I know what they're listening for," Brady whispered. "News of a certain jet having crashed in Alberta ^this afternoon. What was the third thing you saw?"

"All five men are wearing stocking masks."

Dermott said, "Which they wouldn't bother with if they intended to dispose of the hostages." His husky murmur dropped to a whisper. "Keep low. Keep quiet."

A rectangle of light had appeared at the side of the cabin. A figure walked through the opened doorway and headed toward the smaller building. Moments later lights came on there.

"One of them," Brady said. "Hardly likely to let one of the operators stroll across there and send off an S.O.S. Perfect. Come, George, this is where you earn your congressional medal of honor or whatever."

Brady moved out, traveling quickly and silently, no trace of the comfort-loving fat man left. Arriving at the main cabin door, Brady looked over his shoulder to check the smaller cabin. The light was still on, the door still closed. Brady turned back to the cabin door, gripped the handle, opened the door and walked inside, 38 in hand, closely followed by Dermott and Mackenzie, with their guns leveled. Brady advanced on the four stocking-masked men sitting around the table. Several started up.

"Keep your hands on that table," he said, "if you're not entirely mad. We're just looking for an excuse to shoot you through the head. One of you turn that radio off ― the good news you're waiting for has just arrived."

"Jim! Jim!" Jean Brady was on her feet. "You've come!"

"Of course." Brady's voice held a curious mixture of irritation and smug self-satisfaction. "You thought I wouldn't? Brady Enterprises always delivers." As his wife made to approach him, he raised his left hand. "Just a minute. Don't come too close. These are desperate men. Mr. Reynolds, Stella. Sorry we took so long about this but ― "

"Dad!" Stella was on her 'feet, a desperate urgency in her voice. "Dad, a man ― "

"Drop your guns." The deep voice came from the doorway. "Don't turn around or you're dead."

"Do what the man says." Brady set the example. Within a second the other two guns had clattered to the floor.

"Stay where you are," the same voice ordered. "Billy."

Billy didn't have to be told what to do. His search was quick but thorough. He stepped back and said, "Clean, boss."

"So." The door closed and a burly man appeared before them. Like the others, he was masked. "Sit on that bench there." He waited until they had done so, seated himself by the table and said, "Watch them." Three of his men produced pistols and covered the three seated men. He put away his gun.

"The 'ladies, I must say, seem very disappointed. They shouldn't, really."

Brady looked at them. "What he means is that things could be worse. If his plan had worked, we three would be dead. As it is, Ferguson is critically ill and two others seriously injured." He looked at the leader. "You placed that bomb in the plane?"

"I can't take all the credit. One of my men did." He lit a cigarette and stuck it through a hole in the stocking mask which had been cut out for that purpose. "So now I have Mr. Jim Brady and his two invaluable associates. A full hand, one might say."

Brady said, "Designed to blow our tail off at thirty thousand feet?"

"What else? It would be interesting to know how you're alive."

"We're alive. But one man's probably dying, and two are seriously injured. God, man, what are you ― a psychopathic killer?"

"Not psychopathic. Just a businessman. How come you didn't die?"

"Because we landed before the bomb went off." Brady sounded very tired. "We got a report from a forest ranger saying that an off-white helicopter had been seen in these parts. Nobody paid attention except us ― we knew you had a white helicopter."

"How did you know that?"

"A lot of people saw it around the plant at Athabasca."

"No harm done." He waved a hand. "All the aces in the pack."

"Whoever placed that explosive charge in my plane made a lousy job of securing it," said Brady sarcastically.

"I can vouch for that. He was interrupted."

"The package moved forward and jammed the controls ― the tail ailerons. The pilot had to land ― it was on the way down that we caught a glimpse of your helicopter. We crash-landed on another lake. Pilot told us to get out. He tried to remove the charge, and the two others stayed with him. I guess they felt they had to ― they were cops."

"We know that, too."

"So they were expendable. You had no compunction about murdering them, too?"

"Compunction is not a word in my vocabulary. Why did you come here?"

"For your helicopter, of course. We have to get those injured men to hospital."

"Why hold us up?"

"Don't be so stupid. We can't fly the damn thing."

The leader shrugged. "Sorry about that."

"And of course, you people killed Crawford."

"Crawford?" He turned to another of his men. "Fred, that lad you attended to ― "

"Yeah. That was him."

"And you critically wounded Grigson, Sanmobil's president, and a policeman?"

"Seems to have been an awful lot you didn't prevent."

"And, of course, it was you who blew up the plant and destroyed the dragline. A pity you had to kill and wound so many in the process."

"Look friend, we don't play kiddies' games. Too bad if someone gets in our way. This is a man's world, and we play for keeps."

Brady bowed his head in apparent acceptance, raised his hands to cross them behind his neck. His fingers touched.

What should have been the tinkling of shattered glass was lost in the crash of three shots that sounded almost as one. The masked men with the guns yelled out in agony and stared in shocked disbelief at their shattered shoulders. The door was kicked violently open and Carmody jumped in, machine gun steady in his big hands. He moved a couple of steps forward. Willoughby ran into the cabin carrying a revolver.

Dermott said, "Your words. This is a man's world, and we play for keeps."

Carmody advanced on the masked leader and thrust the barrel of his machine gun hard against the man's teeth. "Your gun. By the barrel. Do you know what is my one ambition in life right now?" The man, apparently, did. Carmody pocketed the gun and turned to the remaining and unwounded member of the quintet, who had his gun on the table before Carmody could even speak to him.

Brady said, "Satisfactory, Mr. Willoughby? The floor is yours."

"An Oscar, Mr. Brady. They sang beautifully." He advanced to the table. "I think you all know who I am?"

Nobody spoke.

"You." He indicated the person who had so hastily placed his gun on the table. "Towels, cotton wool, bandages. Nobody's going to mind very much if your three friends bleed to death, but personally I would sooner see them die legally. After they've been tried, of course. Let's see your faces." He walked around ripping off masks. The first three /aces apparently meant nothing to him. The fourth, belonging to the man he'd just appointed to first aid duty, clearly did.

"Lucky Lorrigan," Willoughby said. "Erstwhile helicopter pilot, more recently a murderer on the run from Calgary. Severely wounded a couple of officers in your breakout, Lucky, didn't you? My, aren't they going to be pleased to see you again!"

He tore the mask from the leader's face. "Well, well, would you believe it? No less than Frederick Napier himself, second senior supervisor in Sanmobil security. You've strayed a bit from home, haven't you, Freddie?

"All five of you are hereby taken into arrest and charged with murder, attempted murder, kidnapping and industrial sabotage. I don't have to remind you about your legal rights, silence, access to lawyers. You've heard it all before. Not that it will do any of you the slightest good. Not after the beautiful way Napier sang."

Brady said, "Would you say he was the best singer of the lot, Mr. Willoughby?"

Willoughby stroked his chin. "A moot point, Mr. Brady." He had no idea what Brady was talking about, but had learned to listen when he suggested something.

Brady said, "You really are extraordinarily naive, Napier. I told you that Mr. Willoughby and his officer were severely injured when our plane crash-landed, yet you seemed hardly surprised to see them here. Perhaps you're just stupid. Perhaps events have moved too fast for your limited intellect. Our plane, of course, did not crash-land. No forest ranger pilot spotted you. We never saw your helicopter on the way to our alleged crash-landing.

"Deerhorn, the lake just over the hill there, was our destination from the time we left Fort McMurray, because we knew exactly where you were. You sing like a lark, Napier. But Brinckman and Jorgensen sing like angels. They're going to turn State's evidence. Should get off with five years."

"Brinckman and Jorgensen!" Napier jumped to his feet then collapsed back in his chair with a whoosh of expelled air as the barrel of Carmody's machine gun caught him in the solar plexus. He sat there gasping for breath. "Brinckman and Jorgensen," he wheezed, and had just started in on a resume of their antecedents when Carmody's gun caught him lightly on the side of the head.

"Ladies present," Carmody said pleasantly.

"State's evidence!" Napier said huskily. "Five years! Good God, man, Brinckman's my boss. Jorgensen's his lieutenant. I'm only number three on the totem pole. Brinckman is the one who fixes everything, arranges everything, gives all the orders. I just do what I'm told. State's evidence! Five years! Brinckman!"

Willoughby said, "Would you swear to that in court?"

"Too damn right, I would! Treacherous bastard!" Napier stared into space, his mouth no more than a compressed white line.

Willoughby said, "And before all those witnesses, too."

Napier shifted his gaze from faraway places to-Willoughby. His expression was one of total incomprehension.

"Mr. Brady was quite right, Napier. You really are a rather simple person, but as a singer you just got raised to the rank of angel. Until this moment we didn't have a single solitary thing we could pin on either of them. Thanks to you, they'll join you behind bars tonight. It should be a fascinating get-together."

The big white helicopter touched down on Deer-horn at five forty-five in the afternoon. Lucky Lorrigan with a muzzle of Carmody's gun screwing into his ear, had flown the seven-minute hop in impeccable style. The two meteorological station operators had been freed and, when told why, had willingly sworn themselves to secrecy for the next twenty-four hours.

Brady was first off the plane, followed by Dermott and the wounded men. A curious reception committee from the Sikorsky, headed by Lieutenant Fraser, was there to greet them.

Fraser said, "That was fast work. Congratulations! No problems?"

"Routine exercise." Brady was a master of the throw-away phrase. "Some for Dr. Kenmore, though. Three silly people got in the way of flying bullets."

Kenmore said, "I'll fix them up, Mr. Brady."

"Thanks. But you look mighty young to me to be an orthopedic surgeon."

"So it's like that?"

"Patch them up as best you can. Nobody's going to take your license away from you if they peg out during the night."

"I understand." The young doctor's eyes widened as the women descended the steps. "Well, well."

"Brady Enterprises," Brady said with a smirk in his voice, "associates only with the best and the most beautiful. Well, Mr. Lowry, we'll have to see about getting back those splendid machines of yours. And now, Lieutenant, if you will excuse me ― a matter of some urgency."

He had taken some few steps toward his aircraft, when the lieutenant overtook him. "It got pretty cold in your plane, Mr. Brady, so I took the liberty of transferring some essential supplies to our nice warm Sikorsky."

Brady turned ninety degrees without breaking stride and headed purposefully toward the Sky-crane. He patted Lieutenant Fraser on the arm.

"Lieutenant, a very promising future lies ahead of you."

Dermott said to Bernie, the Sikorsky radio operator, "Any luck?"

"Got through to all three, sir. Your New York number and one of your Anchorage numbers ― a Mr. Morrison ― said they had no information for you yet and probably wouldn't have for the next twenty-four hours. Your other Anchorage number ― a Dr. Parker ― asked if you would be kind enough to call him back now."

"Would you get him please?"

"No bother." Bernie smiled. "And then you'd like some privacy?"

Brady had been reduced to the discomfort of sitting on a packing box ― admittedly a large one ― in the fore part of the Sikorsky's cavernous hold. He appeared not to be suffering too much. He was speaking to a fully conscious Ferguson.

"You've made it, son. You're damned lucky, but not nearly as lucky as we are, thanks entirely to you. We'll discuss this ― ah ― later, in private. Sorry your eyes are still troubling you."

"Just a damned nuisance, Mr. Brady. Otherwise, I could fly the plane with no trouble."

"You're not flying anything," anywhere," Ken-more said. "It may be two or three days before we can be sure that your eyesight is stabilized. I know a specialist in Edmonton."

"Thank you. How are our wounded heroes, by the way?"

"They'll live."

"Ah, well. We can't have everything."

Two and a half hours later Brady was again presiding over a cheerful company, but this time rather more comfortably ensconced in the best armchair in the Peter Pond Hotel. Doubtless inspired by the thought of the enormous fees he would extort, he was positively Maecenas-like in his hospitality. Reynolds had been joined by his wife. The atmosphere was festive, but Dermott and Mackenzie didn't seem very jovial. Dermott approached the beaming Brady ― he wasn't beaming at anything in particular but was just sitting there, wife's hand in his left, daiquiri in his right ― and said, "Donald and I would like to slip away for a bit, sir. Do you mind?"

"Of course not. Do you need me?"

"Minor matters, only."

"Go right ahead, George." The beam, which had faded slightly, lit up again. Brady would now have the field to himself, and it was possible that his retailing of recent events might vary slightly from the one he would have given if his two lieutenants had been present. He glanced at his watch. "Eight-thirty. Half an hour or so?"

"About that."

On their way out they stopped by Willoughby's chair. Dermott smiled at a rather misty-eyed Mrs. Reynolds, then said to Willoughby, "Brinckman and Jorgensen?"

Willoughby smiled happily. "Are guests of the Canadian Government. Heard fifteen minutes ago. Look, gentlemen, I don't know how to ― "

"Wait." Mackenzie smiled. "We aren't through with you yet."

"Some more matters to be attended to?"

"Not in Alberta. But we have to cast a net again. Can we see you in the morning?"

"When?"

"Late. May we call you?"

Dermott and Mackenzie spent not half an hour but an hour and a half in Dermott's room, talking, planning, and mostly, telephoning. When they returned to the lounge Brady greeted them effusively. He was totally unaware of how much time had elapsed. The number of the company had increased. Dermott and Mackenzie were introduced to a couple who turned out to be the mayor and his wife. Jay Shore had returned from the plant and they were introduced to his wife, too. They were introduced to a charming lady who turned out to be Mrs. Willoughby. After that they were introduced to two other couples whose names they failed to catch. Jim Brady was spreading his wings that night.

Willoughby came up and spoke to them quietly. "Another item, although it's just another unnecessary nail in the coffin. We retrieved the prints from Shore's house and compared them to the ones in the kidnap truck. Two matching sets were found ― Napier and Lucky Lorrigan's."

At eleven o'clock, Dermott and Mackenzie approached Brady again. He was still in sparkling form: his tolerance for rum passed mortal understanding. Dermott said, "Mr. Brady. We're bushed. We're off."

"Off? Bed? I'll be damned." He glanced at his watch. "The night's young." He made a grandiloquent gesture with his arm. "Look at them. Are they thinking of bed?" Jean gave Dermott a rueful smile which indicated that she was thinking of just that herself. "They're happy. They're enjoying themselves. Just look!"

Wearily they looked. No question, Brady had the right of it. They were enjoying themselves, not least young Carmody, who had discreetly withdrawn from the main body of the group to sit in a corner with Stella. -

"We wish you luck. You want us to collapse dramatically in front of all your guests?"

"That's the trouble with you young people of today. No get-up-and-go." When the occasion arose Brady could conveniently forget that his associates and himself were of the same generation. "No stamina. Not fit." He seemed totally unaware of how preposterous he sounded, but they knew he wasn't.

"We'd like to talk to you in the morning."

"You would?" He eyed them both suspiciously. "When?"

"When you're fit, unlimited stamina, the lark singing."

"Damn it all, when?"

"Noon."

Brady relaxed. "In that case, why don't you stay?"

Dermott went and kissed Jean good night, Mackenzie did the same. They made the rounds with good nights and left.

They got to bed just after one in the morning. The previous two hours had been spent on the telephone.

Dermott awoke at seven-thirty. By eight, he was showered, shaved, eating off his breakfast tray and busy on the telephone. At nine he was joined by Mackenzie. At ten they were both closeted with Willoughby. At noon, they joined Brady at his breakfast table and explained what they had in mind. Brady chewed through the last of his ham omelette, which had originally been the size of a soup plate, then shook his head in a decisive fashion.

"It's out of the question. It's all over. Okay, there are a few stray threads in Alaska, but who am I to devote my time to that sort of small potatoes?"

"So it is in order if Donald and I resign?"

Fortunately for Brady he was neither eating nor drinking at the moment, so he had nothing to choke over. "Resign? What the hell do you mean?"

"It's Donald's fault, really. Half Scots, you know. He hates to see good money being thrown away."

"Money being thrown away?" Momentarily, Brady looked almost appalled, but his recovery was swift. "What's this nonsense?"

"How much are you charging Sanmobil for our services?"

"Well, I'm not one to prey on the misfortunes of others. A half million I guess. Plus expenses, of course."

"In that case, I reckon Donald and I would rate a quarter of a million for picking up stray threads and small potatoes." Brady was silent, his eyes fixed on something beyond infinity. "With your name," Dermott persisted, "one can see no reason why the Prudhoe Bay oil companies shouldn't also come up with a half million. Plus, of course, expenses."

Brady brought his gaze back from outer space to the dining-room table. "It's not, as you may think, that I'm not at my best in the morning. It's just that I have so much on my mind. What time is this meeting tonight?"