Reckoning by Ian Barclay Read Free Book Online

without going into London, and flew on to Aberdeen, high on Scotland’s eastern coast.
     He’d flown overnight from Washington, D.C., getting into Heathrow at nine a.m. local time. Here at Dyce Airport in Aberdeen,
     it was eleven and he still had a ways to go. He looked around for the Shell representative who was supposed to meet him. The
     place was crowded with men in down jackets, jeans and work boots, lugging duffel bags. The man he was supposed to meet had
     said he would be the only one there in a pinstripe suit reading
The Economist
. In spite of the crowds, Dartley found him easily enough. He was also the only one there with a furled umbrella and black
     derby or bowler hat.
    “Penrod’s the name,” he said jovially, shaking Dartley’s hand. “Jeremy Penrod. So pleased to meet you.”
    Dartley nodded. “What’s my name?”
    Penrod took an envelope from inside his jacket. “Everything’s in here. We’re going to call you Hank Washington. I hope that’s
     all right with you. Does it sound American enough?”
    Dartley smiled.
    “One group felt you should be called Bud or Lou,” Penrod went on, “but I thought ‘Hank’ was going far enough. Anyway I’m glad
     that’s settled. Hank, call me Jeremy. I’ll accompany you as far as the Shetlands, which will give us time for a little discussion.”
     He glanced at his watch. “We should really get going, if you’re not too tired.”
    Dartley smiled again. Did Penrod know that this man he was fussing over and giving a ridiculous name was a hired assassin?
     Probably not, Dartley decided. Dartley did not know what cover story Shell had been given about him—presumably he was supposed
     to assume a completely defensive rather than offensive role, since he had not been allowed to bring any weapons, not even
     Mace. He would be careful about what he said. Outside the windows, choppers were taking off in rapid succession.
    “Most of them are heading for the oilfields off this coast. You go to the Brent field, between the Shetland Islands and Norway,
     quite a way north of here.”
    They took off in an old two-engine turbo prop. As the plane lifted above the cloud cover and they lost sight of the land and
     sea beneath, Penrod got down to business.
    “Frankly we are not too happy with all this. We offered Mr. Avedesian a paid leave of absence, which he refused to accept.”
    “I guess he feels safer on a rig in the middle of theNorth Sea than he would on the mainland,” Dartley said.
    “He’d be wrong. Hank, I don’t think you fully realize the scale of operations on the offshore-rigs. Thousands of men work
     there. Hundreds come and go every day. Technicians, specialists, management, civil service inspectors, foreign observers,
     reporters, roughnecks, tool pushers, you name it, come and go by the hour from all over the world. If something happened,
     we could certainly trace back and find out who was not a genuine expert, but we can’t act in a preventive way by stopping
     or slowing the flood of visitors. They can’t be left sitting in Aberdeen or on the Shetlands while we check into their backgrounds.
     So long as their papers seem in order, they come aboard and it’s business as usual.”
    “The oil must flow.”
    “That’s right,” Penrod said, cheerful that Dartley was going to be reasonable about it. “Now, I’m not going out there with
     you, because it might bring too much attention to you. It will do no harm for us to be seen together at Aberdeen and on the
     Shetlands. I’m known as a head office man, and they think you’re an efficiency expert we’ve brought over from America. That’s
     not going to make you very popular, I’m afraid. Anyone who sees us together now will presume that I’m giving you a list of
     complaints—although the truth is, we’re very happy with how things are going at Brent.”
    “Avedesian knows I’m coming?”
    Penrod nodded. “No resistance. I’ve never met the chap and we’re all a little