fuel to last them a month. Winter didn't bother to ask the American whether he had stolen the oil or brought it on the black market. 'Satisfied?' Walgren enquired drily when they were leaving.
^ 'It will do. Get me back to the hotel fast, Mackay should be arriving soon. But keep inside the speed limit…'
^ Which was a bloody contradiction in terms Walgren thought sourly as he gunned the motor and headed back for the highway. And this was one hell of a long day, the American reminded himself, a day which was by no means over. As soon as he had left Winter at his hotel he had to drive out to the airport, wait for the Cessna bringing Mackay and Swan, the radio operator, from the ^ Challenger's ^ berth at Nikisiki, then follow Swan all the way out to his home in the Matanuska valley.
^ 'Swan is the key to this part of the operation – we must be sure he has arrived home safely,' Winter had replied.
^ Winter got out of Walgren's car a short distance from the Westward and walked the rest of the way to the hotel. He had kept the key of his room in his pocket to avoid appearing too often at the reception desk and went straight up in the elevator. Once inside his room he checked his watch and then went over in his mind the present whereabouts of everyone involved.
^ 7pm. Captain Mackay would be landing at the airport in the Cessna in fifteen minutes; Walgren would be waiting there to follow Swan home. As he stripped off to take a shower Winter went on checking in his mind. LeCat would be at his own hotel, ten blocks away, probably in his room nursing a bottle of cognac. Armand Bazin and Pierre Goussin, who would guard the Swans while they were held in the barn, would beat their own hotel, eating dinner provided by room service while they pretended to pore over a pile of papers. No one would leave their hotel tonight -Winter was not risking someone falling on the icy sidewalks and breaking a leg – and Winter would be the only man eating in a restaurant. He turned on the shower. Finally, Kinnaird, the substitute wireless operator, would be keeping under cover at the Madison.
^ Ten thousand pounds. Every man has an amount at the back of his mind which he feels would give him freedom from the cares and worries of the world. For 'Shep' Kinnaird it was ten thousand pounds. Pulling back the curtain of his bedroom at the Madison he peered through the gap. It looked reassuring: a deserted, snowbound street dimly lit by street lamps which would be turned ^ off ^ at ten o'clock, and no car parked where someone might be keeping an eye on the hotel.
^ Kinnaird, thirty-seven years old, twice divorced – neither woman had been able to endure his gambling habits – was the wireless operator Winter had hired for the ^ Pecheur's ^ radio cabin during the smuggling days in the Mediterranean. Prior to that, Kinnaird had been with the Marconi pool of radio operators, working on the Persian Gulf-West Coast run. Now the ten thousand pounds was within his grasp – it was the payment for substituting himself for Swan, the ^ Challenger's ^ regular wireless op.
^ 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,
