Reckoning by Ian Barclay

in Charley Woodgate’s farmhouse near Frederick, Maryland. Their cups were refilled.
    “I remember seeing him around on board the flotel. He was pretending to be an American, and since I didn’t want any detailed
     talk about my own background, I avoided talking with him. I guess he was doing the same thing with me. At some point he musthave guessed that I was there to cover Avedesian. After that, he had all the more reason to stay away from me.”
    “At least now you’re not operating in a vacuum,” Charley said. “You know who your adversary is. How sure are you about this,
     Malleson?”
    “As much as I can be. His physical description fits Dockrell. He was successfully pretending to be American, he’s available
     to anyone with money to pay. And he’s good. Sorry to say this, Richard, but he beat you. No one else has quite the same profile
     as this. If it’s not Dockrell, it’s his twin brother.”
    “I know the Scotland Yard detectives spent some time questioning him,” Dartley said. “They were kind of suspicious of me too,
     especially since I had spent so much time with Avedesian. But I was in a chopper coming from Brent Alpha to the flotel, when
     Avedesian was killed, so they couldn’t get too inquisitive with me. They probably had to let Dockrell go when the coroner
     told them he was looking for a verdict of death by misadventure—that’s when they’re not sure what happened. The detectives
     knew they had no case. There was nothing they could do. Like you said, Herbert, Dockrell is very good. He beat me, I admit
     it.”
    “He’ll be watching for you next time, Richard,” Charley warned. “He may be out to hit you before he tries for the next oilman
     on his list. You better get him before he gets you.”
    Dartley didn’t look too worried. “I wonder if he wouldn’t prefer to snuff them all right under my nose just to show me how
     good he really is.”
    “I’d play it safe and shoot you first,” Charley said.
    “You’re not a triggerman, Charley,” Dartley murmured with a grim smile. “That’s why you say that. Dockrell is the sort who
     will rub my nose in it if he thinks he will be able to. That’s what’s going to make it easier for me to take him.”
    “Abdel Saleh,” Charley said ruminatively. “So far he’s up to Abdel Sa. L is next. Who’s that, Herbert?”
    “Of the three remaining, only one has a first or last name beginning with L. That’s Peter Ligeti. As you know, he resigned
     from Global Hydrocarbons when it became evident that he was in danger. So far as the oil business is concerned, he has disappeared.”
    “Do I detect a trace of smugness in your voice, Herbert?” Charley asked. “Do you know something that no one else knows?”
    Malleson was almost purring with satisfaction. “You may not have to worry about Dockrell ever finding Ligeti, Richard.”
    “If you did, he will,” Dartley said shortly, irritated by Malleson’s self-satisfaction.
    “I did. I don’t think Dockrell will, although Ligeti is still using his real name. He was involved in a minor traffic accident,
     a fender bender, in Charleston, South Carolina, last month. The other driver was unlicensed and uninsured, and the cops nabbed
     him for that and took Ligeti’s name and address as part of the procedure. They took his birthdate, Social Security number
     and Pennsylvania driver’s license number also, so there’s nodoubt this is your man. It’s amazing what computers can find if you cast the net wide enough.”
    Douglas Dockrell had taken his time about contacting the Iranian Embassy in London. The Scotland Yard detectives had been
     nosy about him, and when he left the offshore oilfield for Aberdeen, they had politely requested that he keep in touch with
     them “to aid in their enquiries.” Having told them he would be in Aberdeen for a week, he a took a train down to London immediately
     and stayed put for a few days before phoning for Mr. Rajavi at the Iranian