Reckoning by Ian Barclay

technologists or roughnecks, andsurprisingly few had much knowledge of or even any interest in the geology of oil-bearing rocks—at least not on a level interesting
     to Avedesian. He was wary about talking to the British about any achievement since they liked to accuse Americans of being
     boastful. In Avedesian’s opinion, many of them just spitefully waited for an opportunity to have their prejudices confirmed.
     There was one American in the coffee shop—he had been told that the man was a mud engineer from Wyoming—but as usual this
     man deliberately looked away from him in an unfriendly manner. In the claustrophobic society of an offshore oilfield, it was
     an unwritten rule to leave someone alone who showed signs of wanting to be left alone.
    He bought a coffee and a sticky bun, then joined some British roughnecks he knew. One was going back to the beach next day
     and he was taking football pool entries for the others with him. Avedesian knew better than to interrupt such a sacred ritual
     as this with his own trivial news of undersea oil. He filled out his own coupon—the idea being to forecast the First Division
     soccer games that would end in a tied score next Saturday. It did not occur to him that he might win and that the mention
     of his name in the newspapers would lead a killer to him. However, according to Hank Washington or whatever his real name
     was, the Iranians knew where he was already.
    When the roughnecks broke up to get some rest or go to work, Avedesian bought himself another coffee and returned to the table.
     A sheet of writing paper,folded in half, lay on the table. He hadn’t noticed it before. He picked it up and read the message in hand-printed capitals.
    MEET NOW. 225 FT. LEVEL. DELTA SUPPORTING LEG WITH PUMPS. HURRY. HANK W.
    It took Avedesian a full minute to figure out what this meant. He had forgotten that one of the concrete legs supporting the
     Brent Delta installation on the seafloor contained pumps and other machinery which could be reached at various levels by an
     elevator that descended inside the leg. The other concrete legs contained oil pipes in their hollow interiors. Avedesian folded
     the paper, tucked it in his pocket and hurried to the walkway that connected the flotel with Brent Delta, the only rig that
     had this convenience.
    Having descended several gangways through decks of machinery, Avedesian came to a railed platform at the top of the concrete
     support leg. He wrote his name with a marker pen on a plastic board next to the elevator doors and picked up an emergency
     breathing apparatus. The elevator took its time in coming. Its shaft filled only part of the leg’s interior. The concrete
     walls were three feet thick, and the interior was about fifty feet across. A rope safety net was stretched across the top
     of the leg, and by leaning over the platform’s rail, Avedesian could look down into it. Deafening noise came roaring out of
     it, like a New York City subway tunnel. Waydown he could see lights and machinery on steel decks—and the gray curved concrete interior wall.
    In the elevator, he pressed the lowermost button and, as he descended rapidly, he yawned to relieve the pressure on his eardrums.
     The elevator doors opened and he walked out onto a steel deck on which huge pumps crouched like great cats, some purring,
     others roaring. Avedesian knew they were used to pump oil and natural gas from seafloor reservoirs into the pipeline to the
     beach. This was not his area, and he knew as little about it as most people knew about his specialty.
    White fluorescent tubes glared over the machines, lighting the dank concrete behind them. The 225-foot level was halfway down
     the leg to the seafloor. Immediately beneath this deck were several more, all supporting pumps and connected by gangways.
     The elevator ended here. Beneath the lowest deck, the interior of this great concrete pipe was empty except for pipes and
     cables. Down at the bottom,