Free Athabasca by Alistair MacLean Page B

not my long suit."
    "We're agreed there." They lowered the body to the ground and Dermott tried to unzip the shredded green parka, but it, too, was frozen. There was a slight crackling of ice as he eased the jacket away from the shirt beneath and peered into the gap between the two layers of clothing. He could see some documents, including a buff-colored envelope, tucked away in the inside right pocket. By sliding his hand in flat he tried to extract them with his fore and middle fingers, but because he could achieve so little grip, and because they seemed frozen -- not only together but also to the side of the pocket -- they proved impossible to move. Dermott straightened to an upright kneeling position, looked at the dead man thoughtfully, then up at Bronowski.
    "Could we have the two bodies moved to someplace where they can be thawed out a bit? I can't examine them in this state, nor, by the same token, can the doctors carry out their postmortems."
    "John?" Bronowski looked at Poulson, who nodded, albeit with some reluctance.
    "Another thing," Dermott said. "What's the quickest way of clearing away the snow here from the floor and machinery?"
    "Canvas covers and a couple of hot-air blowers. No time at all. Want me to fix it now? And the two men?"
    "Please. Then there's a question or two I'd like to ask. In your living quarters, perhaps?"
    "Straight across. Be with you in a few minutes."
    Outside, on their way, Mackenzie said, "Your hound-dog instincts have been aroused. What gives?"
    "Dead man back there. Index finger on his right hand is broken."
    "That all? Wouldn't be surprised if half the bones in his body are broken."
    "Could be. But this bone appears to have been broken in a rather peculiar fashion. Be able to tell better, later."
    Bronowski and Poulson joined them around the table of the comfortable kitchen living quarters. Poulson said, "Okay, fixed. Snow in the pump room should be gone in fifteen minutes. About the two engineers -- well, I wouldn't know."
    "Considerably longer," Dermott said. "Thanks. Now, then. Bronowski, Mackenzie and myself think it likely that the murderers were employees of the trans-Alaska pipeline. What would you think of that?"
    Poulson glanced enquiringly at Bronowski, found no inspiration there, looked away and pondered. "It figures," he said at last. "The only living souls for ten thousand square miles around here -- a hundred thousand as far as I know -- are employed by the pipeline. More than that, while any mad bomber could have blown up the pump station, it took an oilman to know where to locate and destroy the bypass control valve."
    "We also theorize that the engineers -- what were their names, by the way?"
    "James and James. Brothers."
    "We think that the bombers gave themselves away in one fashion or another, that the Jameses recognized them and had to be silenced for keeps. But you and your men didn't recognize them. That's for sure?"
    "For sure." Poulson smiled without much humor. "If what you suppose is correct, it's just as well for us that we didn't. But then it's not surprising that we didn't. Don't forget that up here in Number Four we're no better than hermits living on a desert island. The only time we see anybody is when we go on leave every few weeks. Travelling maintenance engineers like the Jameses -- or, come to that, Mr. Bronowski here -- see ten times as many people as we do, and so are likely to recognize ten times as many people. Which makes your idea that it was an inside job all the more likely."
    "You and your men are certain there wasn't the remotest peculiarity about them, either in speech or dress, that struck a chord?"
    "You're flogging a dead horse, Dermott."
    "I suppose. There's a possibility that those saboteurs came by helicopter."
    "Damned if I can see how else they could have come. Mr. Bronowski here thought he saw skid marks. I wasn't sure one way or another. It was a bad night for being sure of anything... dark, with a strong wind and drifting