^ Less than a mile away inside the Westward Hotel, Captain James Mackay, fifty-five year old master of the ^ Challenger, ^ was sitting down to a late dinner in the rooftop restaurant. A heavily-built, florid-faced man who was surprisingly quick on his feet, Mackay had been on the shuttle run between Alaska and San Francisco for five months. It was a shade too straightforward for his liking: Nikisiki is approximately two thousand miles from San Francisco and the ^ Challenger, ^ travelling at an average speed of seventeen knots, made the trip to the oil terminal of Oleum on the east side of San Francisco Bay in a little over four days.
^ She discharged her precious Alaskan oil in twelve hours and then headed back for Nikisiki. It took a day and a quarter to take on more oil at Cook Inlet – the time in dock could have been shortened but Mackay, mindful of hurricanes in these waters, insisted on meticulous maintenance – and then she started south again for Oleum. So one trip occupied ten days. And it never stopped, the shuttle run. And this, Mackay thought as he studied the menu, was oil from the little known Cook Inlet field. What the hell would it be like when they opened up North Slope?
^ 'T-bone steak and French fries and a glass of beer,' Mackay ordered. He always studied the menu and then always ordered the same food. A widower for ten years, Mackay was a creature of habit, always coming to this same hotel to sleep overnight, always leaving it at 4pm the following day to return to his ship. The vessel then sailed for California at midnight. 'Follow a routine,' Mackay was fond of telling his crew, 'then you'll never forget anything important…'
^ He looked round the almost empty restaurant while he waited for his steak. Four tables away, a tall, thin man wearing horn-rim glasses sat absorbed in his newspaper. When his meal came Mackay ate it quickly – a shipboard habit – and he hardly noticed the man in horn-rim glasses leaving the restaurant just before he finished his own dinner.
^ In the lobby below Winter was studying some brochures when Mackay stepped out of the elevator and went into the bar. Again, part of the routine Walgren had described: after dinner Mackay always had a second beer in the bar before going up to his room early. The photograph of Mackay sent by Walgren to Cosgrove Manor had been a good likeness.
^ Winter wondered how Walgren had taken the picture without being seen, then he strolled over to the entrance to the bar, taking off his horn-rims and tucking them inside his pocket. Mackay was sitting with his back to him, reading a magazine. The barman behind the counter looked straight at Winter, who glanced away as though he had changed his mind and went across to a telephone booth.
^ Phoning Bazin's hotel at the number Walgren had given him, Winter waited to be put through. It was the last thing he had to attend to tonight. Bazin came on the line, confirmed cautiously that he was ready, which meant he was familiar with the Nikisiki oil terminal Walgren had driven him to in the afternoon, that Walgren had handed over to him what he would use – a thermite bomb.
8
^ At 3pm on Thursday January 16 Winter turned into the drive leading to the Swan homestead and drove slowly through the darkness toward the house; no rush, nothing to disturb the Swans if they noticed the car coming. Snow crust crackled under the wheels.
^ LeCat sat beside him, Pierre Goussin rode in the back, and when he reached the house he drove round the side where the parked vehicle would be hidden from the Thompson home in the distance. His headlights swept over a blue Rambler standing in front of the house with the power cable plugged into it; Walgren had told Winter that Swan drove a Rambler.
^ Winter left the car quickly, walked round to the front door, his right hand inside his sheepskin, gripping the Skorpion pistol in its holster. The unexpected happened immediately. The porch light came on and Swan, due to leave at 3.30pm, opened the front door before Winter could press the bell. He was wearing a British Gannex raincoat and carrying a bag.
^ 'Don't get excited and no one will get hurt.' Winter pointed the pistol at Swan's chest. 'We just want to use your phone and then we'll leave you in a locked room…' He was speaking rapidly, weighing up the slim, thirty-year-old who faced him, guessing his reactions, warning him with the gun, reassuring him with the reference to a phone call.
^ LeCat had pushed behind him, disappearing into the house as Winter went on talking, holding his attention. 'Let's go inside and find out… No! Don't hurry – no need for a nasty accident…' Winter followed him across a hall and into a large, L-shaped living-room. A dark-haired woman in her thirties had her hand up to her throat, her eyes wide with fear as LeCat held one arm round her back and a knife close to her breast. He pressed the knife tip to her throat as Swan started across the room and then stopped. 'Keep away or she's dead,' LeCat warned.
^ 'Take the knife away from her throat. That's better…' Winter could have knocked the Frenchman down. The stupid cretin! He could have caused a bloodbath. There was an atmosphere of shock, disbelief in the living-room which Winter had foreseen and was determined to exploit. To counter LeCat's blunder the Englishman became crisp, businesslike. Placing a hand on Swan's shoulder, he pressed him down into a chair; a man sitting down feels less aggressive, is less likely to do something violent. 'Let Mrs Swan sit down,' he told LeCat, 'and stop manhandling her…'
^ 'We're expecting friends any minute,' Swan warned. 'They could walk through that front door…'
^ 'Which is why you're dressed to go out,' Winter interjected coldly. 'You were leaving to go back to your ship, the ^ Challenger, ^ so stop making up fairy tales…' He had Swan's measure now: a quick-witted, determined man, he would try to outwit them, given half a chance. At the moment he was in a state of deep shock; pale-faced, he couldn't keep his eyes off his wife who was sitting down, hands clasped in her lap.
^ 'What do you want?' Mrs Swan asked quietly. She had, Winter realised, recovered her self-possession. Even quicker than her husband, she had asked the key question. What do you want?
^ 'Your husband's job for a week.' To create a calmer atmosphere Winter himself sat down in one of the Scandinavian-style chairs as Goussin came in from the rear of the house. 'All clear at the back? Good. Now, Swan, you mean nothing to us dead or alive -and heroes make widows in this awful world we live in. I want you to phone Captain Mackay at the Westward Hotel in Anchorage. Tell him you're sick – that you've caught a bad dose of flu. Tell him you have found a replacement wireless operator from the Marconi pool who is on holiday in Palmer. He's visiting his sister who is married to an American. Kinnaird is the replacement's name – he's taking your place on the next trip the ^ Challenger ^ makes to San Francisco.'
^ 'What happens to us?' Swan asked. He was still pale but his voice was steady.
^ 'You'll be kept in a place about fifty miles from here under guard for a week. By that time the ^ Challenger ^ will have reached San Francisco. Then you will be freed.'
^ 'Yes, he will,' Winter interrupted sharply. 'Within sixty minutes he'll be leaving the Westward to go back to his ship. When he hears you're sick he'll be appalled – when you tell him you've found a replacement he'll be relieved, more than ready to accept Kinnaird on your say-so. Do you want me to repeat what you have to say to him?'
^ 'No,' Swan looked anxious and uncertain. 'What happens if I.. .' He glanced at his wife and stopped. He looked at LeCat who was standing behind his wife's chair. He had been going to say what happens if I refuse, then he decided he didn't want his wife to hear the answer.
^ 'Charlie…' Julie leaned forward, her clasped hands bloodless with tension. 'Do as he says.' She looked at Winter. 'The man behind me won't be staying with us, will he?'
^ 'No,' said Winter, his face expressionless. 'I do have some feelings…'
^ 'Go over by the window,' Winter told LeCat. He pointed his pistol at Swan while he spoke to Julie. 'Tell him, Mrs Swan, not to try and warn Mackay about what is happening – for the sake of everyone…'