producing countries' organisation. At that meeting he would persuade or compel all of them to cut off the oil flow to the West. If any country refused, the Arab terrorist dynamite teams would move in, destroying that country's oil- fields. Someone tapped nervously on the door. 'Come in,' Tafak called out.
^ It was 5.30pm on Friday evening when Sullivan walked back into the bar at the Westward. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks. 'Yes, sir!' The barman looked at Sullivan. 'You've changed your suit. Like I said, I notice things…'
^ 'Test the memory.' Sullivan laid the photo of Winter on the counter, the profile shot where he had painted out the moustache Winter had worn while visiting Paul Hahnemann. He picked up his drink and sipped it while the barman made a performance out of studying the print.
^ 'He's never been in my bar. I'll stake my job on it. Not while I was on duty…'
^ 'Disappointed?' The barman grinned at Sullivan who shrugged his shoulders. It had been a very long shot indeed. 'Not in my bar,' the American emphasised. 'But two nights ago he was standing in that entrance over there. He looked in, changed his mind and disappeared. Mackay was in here at the time, having a beer. Be about nine in the evening.'
^ Sullivan nearly choked on his drink. 'You're sure? Yes, of course you are,' he added hastily. 'Was he staying here?'
^ 'No idea. He never came back. Wednesday night it was. You could enquire at reception…'
^ Sullivan drank the rest of his large, neat Scotch in one gulp and didn't feel a thing. Winter was in Alaska.
^ Sleep was the last thing Sullivan thought of during the next few hours as he stirred up half Anchorage, asking questions, showing the photograph, checking, checking, checking… The night clerk at the Westward recognised the picture, confirmed that Winter had stayed there one night, the same night Mackay had stayed at the hotel, that he had registered in the name of Robert Forrest, that meals had been sent up to his room – the duplicate copy of the bill was full of information. Winter had booked out the following day, Thursday January 16, the same day the ^ Challenger ^ had sailed from Nikisiki at ten in the evening.
^ Chief of Police Jo Mulligan of Anchorage took Sullivan's information very seriously when he saw the Lloyd's of London identification. Within one hour – close to midnight – an all points bulletin was circulating throughout the whole of Alaska with Robert Forrest's name and description and reproductions of the photograph Sullivan had supplied. And Sullivan himself was driven in a patrol car to the oil terminal at Nikisiki. He arrived there at two in the morning, hardly able to keep his eyes open.
^ It was something that Winter, believing there was no photo of himself on record, could never have foreseen – that a photograph taken secretly in a German shipbuilder's office in faraway Hamburg would be transported by a persistent British investigator to Alaska, that it would be identified by a barman whose conceit and hobby was his ability to remember people he saw for only a few seconds.
^ And Chief of Police Mulligan acted with vigour because he immediately linked Winter's record and presence in Alaska with the firebomb attack on the oil terminal. Who knew – Mulligan might be the first policeman in the world to get a lead on the international terrorist gang or gangs which were blowing up pipelines and oil refineries all the way from California to central Europe? He went to the International airport himself.
^ Sullivan found nothing at the oil terminal. No one had seen Winter in that sensitive area. The departure of the ^ Challenger ^ had been perfectly normal. 'Sure,' the terminal superintendent informed Sullivan, 'the ship left two hours ahead of schedule with two tanks unfilled. But Mackay registered his early departure in advance – he was worried about the fire spreading to the jetties. And no one gets aboard that ship without Mackay knowing about it – he's one hell of a careful guy. There's a seaman at the foot of the gangway until they haul it aboard.'
^ Dropping from lack of sleep, Sullivan was driven back in the patrol car to the Westward where he flopped into bed at six in the morning and slept through the day. He was consuming a large steak, washed down with a gallon of strong coffee, when the call came through from police headquarters at seven in the evening. Mulligan had found something.
^ 'Thursday, close to midnight, Robert Forrest took the night flight for Seattle. He moved out just as you were moving in, Sullivan. The airport girl who recognised his picture came back on duty an hour ago; hence the delay. Want some more coffee?'
^ Jo Mulligan was a round-bodied man of fifty, hard-looking and with his still-dark hair cut short to the scalp. A smile rarely crossed his face and he talked quickly. Sullivan liked his businesslike approach to life.
^ 'So, we've lost him,' he said as the chief of police poured more coffee. 'It's curious, you know – he spends twenty-four hours here and he's away.'
^ 'Long enough to detonate that bomb inside the terminal. He could have organised that North Slope pipeline bust we had a couple of months back. My guess is he comes in at the critical moment, sees that the bombs detonate, then moves out. And my further guess is he's on his way now to another prime piece of oil property.'Mulligan leaned back in his swivel chair.'Maybe Texas. There are some nice targets for him in Texas. We're extending the all points bulletin to cover the whole of the States – the FBI are in on this thing now.'
^ 'So you don't think that tanker – the ^ Challenger – ^ is involved?'
^ 'No!' Mulligan was emphatic. 'They're not hitting tankers. Yet. These bastards are going for gut – the refineries processing the oil we so desperately need, the pipelines which carry the juice through our industrial veins. Those A-rabs are out to bring western civilisation toppling – so long as Israel exists. The extremists have got the whole Middle East oil bowl in the palm of their hands.' Mulligan sighed. 'We should have seen it coming after 1973. We should have seen it coming…'
^ The machine landed with a heavy bump, roared forward, its engines filling the interior with vibration. It seemed to be going too fast, to be heading for disaster, and the view beyond the window was a blur. Sullivan pushed a magazine into the pocket of the seat in front of him and relaxed as the Boeing 707 slowed. For the first time in his life he was in Seattle.
^ It was just after two o'clock in the afternoon of Sunday January 19 when he alighted from the plane. FBI agents Peters and Carmady were waiting for the flight and took him into a private room. They listened to his story without too much enthusiasm when he talked about the ^ Challenger, ^ it seemed to the Englishman; perhaps it was because they were so polite.
^ 'You can forget the tanker,' Peters advised. 'This man is sabotaging refineries. After he came off the plane last Friday he spent several hours at the Washington Plaza Hotel here. A reception clerk who booked him in recognised your photograph. And we found a cab driver who dropped him at the bus terminal later. Then he vanished.'
^ 'We'll go on trying,' Peters said reassuringly. 'Interpol have nothing on him – and our Washington records don't have him, But one day, somewhere, he has to surface…'
^ When they had gone Sullivan sat in the airport coffee shop drinking more coffee. The trail had gone dead, and now he was inclined to agree with Mulligan and the FBI agent that the tanker was not involved. When he had finished his coffee he would put in a phone call to Harper, telling him he was catching the Pan Am evening flight back to London.
^ Staring through the window he was looking north-west where the sun was filtering through a heavy overcast. Somewhere in that direction, about five hundred miles away, the ^ Challenger ^ was proceeding southwards on another uneventful voyage.
11
^ Lot. 47.50 N Lon. 132.45 W1300 hours.
^ The US Coast Guard helicopter was coming in at no more than a hundred feet above the grey waves. On the starboard wing deck of ^ Challenger ^ Captain Mackay focused his glasses and the machine crisped into his vision, filling the lenses, showing the insignia on its pale grey fuselage. ^ No. 5421. USCG. ^ First Officer Bennett ran out from the navigating bridge on to the wing deck.
^ 'Emergency, sir. That chopper is in trouble. Message just came in from her – permission to land before she crashes…'
^ Inside Mackay's glasses the machine blurred as it passed through a patch of mist, then its silhouette was crisp again. It was impossible to see inside the control cabin. A puff of black smoke was rising from the silhouette
