Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  Reddington and Foster thanked MacKintosh, who offered a few quick words about the dangers of Loch Ness and a peculiar philosophical statement about life and death in the Highlands.

  "Let's head back to Aberdeen," Foster suggested sheepishly after the police officers had disappeared.

  Reddington walked to the shoreline and kneeled. Sniffing the edges of his fingers, he remained trancelike until Foster had moved to his side.

  "What the hell's the matter with you?" Foster asked.

  Reddington held out his hand, extending his fingers. "Smell that?

  Foster sniffed the substance. "Christ!" he said, astonished.

  "Yeah," Reddington declared. "The quake must have opened a fissure."

  Foster changed thoughts to words. "There's oil down there? Under Loch Ness?"

  And Bob Reddington, senior drilling supervisor, Geminii Petroleum International, just stared.

  Chapter I

  The music and words had been filtering through his thoughts ever since he had stepped off British Airways Flight 7425 in Aberdeen. You take the high road and I'll take the Iow road and I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . . . A strange sense of Scottish earthiness or some bizarre notion of history, he guessed, rather than his heritage or an overromantic persona had created a bridge to barely familiar melodies. Oh, sure, Peter Robert Bruce, he'd been told, was a Scottish name, but his father had died when he was three, and if he professed any roots, it would have been to his mother's Irish ancestry. No, there was something about this country that culled emotions, something unaffected by two days of orientation at Geminii Petroleum's Aberdeen complex and by the long hours spent analyzing drilling and geophysical reports. Nor did this something relinquish its hold during the quick flight to Inverness or along the route into the city in a stretch Mercedes limousine to the rented home on a domineering hill. No, it was there, and goddamn, he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

  "I hope you like Travis House," Jerry Foster said as the limousine stopped in front of an old stone mansion overlooking the city. "I took particular care choosing it. In fact, I must have looked at half the vacant mansions in Inverness and even some that were occupied."

  "I don't think the effort was necessary," "Scotty" Bruce replied. "I would have been very comfortable in a sleeping bag."

  "It wasn't an effort. It was a pleasure, Mr. Bruce."

  "Mr. Bruce? Hey, if I'm going to call you Jerry, you're going to call me Scotty."

  Foster smiled broadly while patting down the lapels of an ostentatious plaid suit, unflatteringly styled. "All right, Scotty. But I've got to tell you the formality is part of idol worship. I lived in Los Angeles when you were at USC, and I was a real fan of yours."

  Scotty smirked; the memories were almost petrified. "That was a long time ago."

  Foster puffed his chest as they entered the grounds, proud of his good memory. "You were the best tight end I ever saw. There might be faster ballplayers today but no one who could block like you could."

  Scotty pulled off his Amarillo Stetson. "I hope you're the only football fan in Inverness 'cause I don't want anyone to remind me how old I am."

  Foster laughed, his moustache rising up his cheeks, his pudgy body and rotund face expanding. "Well, there are a lot of football fans, but football is soccer here. They're honkers about it."

  They entered the mansion. Foster led a tour: living room, dining room, kitchen—a housekeeper would be forthcoming—the upstairs bedroom area, and then the den, where they sat and attacked some beers pulled from the refrigerator.

  "I was also in Washington with the State Department when you were traded to the Redskins," Foster began again. "I didn't miss a game. In fact, if you ask me, Scotty, those years with Washington were your best."

  "My coldest, too."

  Foster lit his pipe, impressed with Scotty's appearance. Scotty did not look like the athlete long retired. He was muscular and slim, and his handsome, angular features, aggressive eyes, and inviting smile still carried a message of enthusiasm. "You may wish you were still there once you get a load of the Scottish winter. They say it's warmer than one would expect because of the Gulf Stream, but when those gales come raging in off the North Sea, no one takes much comfort with a few extra degrees of temp. The rain isn't God's gift, either. Oh, yeah, it snows, but the rain's the curse. Drops as big as golf balls and blown horizontally by the wind so they whiz around like artillery shells. It gets so bad you can hardly stand. Everyone winds up slushing around in the mud. It's worse than playing football on a rainy field, and you'd know about that 'cause of the torn knee!"

  Scotty slugged some beer, subconsciously flexing his scarred kneecap. He didn't like memories of the NFL, and he rarely indulged himself, but it was hard to prevent others from doing so. Notoriety always carried a ponderous curse even many years after the fact.

  Foster pulled some papers from his pocket, continuing to speak. "I've got a message for you from Jim Barrett."

  Scotty massaged his burnished cheeks. "I tried to get in to see Barrett in London, but he'd just been flown back to the States."

  Foster shook his head. "The man's fortunate to be alive. I tell you, Scotty, it was one scary night. We were lucky we had a doctor on the plane. Barrett was sitting right next to me when he started to complain about shortness of breath. I told him he'd eaten too much. But when he started to sweat, I knew he was in trouble. It wasn't ten seconds later, he turned blue, his eyes rolled into his head, and he went out like a light. I called for help. A doctor ran over, tore off Barrett's shirt, and went to work, pumping his chest. He said Barrett'd had a coronary and his heart was fibrillating. And he was trying to get it back in rhythm. Yeah, let me tell you, Scotty, Barrett's a lucky man to be alive."

  "How's his condition now?"

  "Not good."

  "You said he had a message."

  Foster didn't flinch. "Yeah. He said; 'Good luck. You'll need it.' "

  "Is that so?"

  "Some say yes. Some say no."

  "What do you say?"

  "Not much. Remember, I'm the press officer. The official PR man. I keep locals at bay, newspaper reporters subdued, and company egos massaged. I try to stay away from controversy. Out of everyone's way. I talk and write and make up little press releases like the one in my hand announcing your arrival, education and work experience listed, plus your membership in the Pro Football Hall of Fame."

  Scotty grimaced. "Do we need the last?"

  "Absolutely. Stateside management demanded it. They like the PR potential."

  Scotty stood and walked around the den, examining bookshelves, then sat down again. "Have you got some time?" he asked.

  "Sure," Foster replied. "And it's at your disposal." He looked at his watch, a relic on a gold chain. "Call it nine-thirty. Mr. Whittenfeld suggested I bring you by just after one. You'll be asked to call him Bill. Just about everyone does. He may be the boss, a high-powered executive and a man not unaware of position and station, but he's human, too. A member of the team. A first-name sort of guy."

  "I see."

  Foster laughed. "You'll like him . . . like him a lot."

  Scotty closed his eyes, thinking. Foster watched, bemused. There was silence. Several minutes passed.

  "Well, if you're at my disposal," Scotty suddenly said, "talk to me."

  "About what?"

  Scotty once more subconsciously flexed his knee. "I've just joined the company. I'm in Scotland for the first time. I don't know anything about anything."

  "You do know I was with Reddington and Kreibel the day Kreibel died?"

  "Call that the beginning," Scotty said. "Start from there."

  Foster poked at the end of his moustache. "I wasn't privy to all the technical stuff. You'd know more about that than I would. Oil wasn't supposed to be here. The oil slick suggested it was. The company obtained a preliminaw exploratory license from the Department of Energy in London and quietly went about its business. Divers dove. Seismic crews doodle bugged the area. When Geminii was
sure everyone had been wrong about the region, it approached Energy, obtaining a license to drill for and produce oil. Then it petitioned the local authorities through the Highland Regional Council for land access and development approval, and that's when the fireworks began." Foster repacked his pipe. "The Department of Energy only licenses the company. The local elected councils must license the land and approve a development plan." He paused thoughtfully. "The company applied for local cert. It presented a comprehensive development statement. The onland application was quickly approved. But the Loch Ness request hit a shit storm. A councilor named MacKenzie from Foyers put up a hell of a fight, forming an opposition group, the Caucus, which recruited environmentalists, the Free Church, and the Scottish Nationalist Party. After the Caucus lost in committee, they tried to stop the initiative in the full council as well. They lost again. But this didn't end the matter. No way. Throughout the entire process of public hearings, the secretary of state for Scotland, who is a member of the British Cabinet, head of the Scottish office, and sort of Scotland's prime minister, could have taken jurisdiction himself. But the loch application was a nasty political issue, and the secretary left it in the Highland Council's lap and would have kept it there had MacKenzie and company let the matter die. They didn't. They put so much pressure on the secretary, he buckled and held a new round of public hearings. Once again, the application was approved, and once more MacKenzie rebelled, bringing suit, claiming the secretary had ignored pertinent testimony. The case was thrown out of court. And that's where we are now. Moving ahead. Slowly. Under the watchful eye of the crazies who opposed the Loch Ness application and who hope something goes wrong so their cause will be vindicated."

  "Is MacKenzie a crazy, too?"

  "No. MacKenzie gathered the army, but MacKenzie led from conviction. All the Caucus members legitimately felt strongly. Most of them live near Loch Ness, and the loch is an emotional issue. It has a national identity, and strong reactions were provoked when the drilling proposal openly discussed oil spills and other catastrophes."

  "There'Il be no spills or catastrophes. Barrett's procedures were very strict. Mine are even stricter."

  Foster threw out his arms. "Hey, Scotty. I'm not suggesting anything. I just said the area is sensitive, certainly more sensitive than the North Sea fields. The North Sea rigs are so far out no one can see a goddamn thing. But Loch Ness isn't very wide, and the Columbus sits right at the mouth of Urquhart Bay. You can't miss her, and no one does. She attracts a big audience, and anyone with binoculars can see just about everything happening on board."

  "What about the Loch Ness monster? Anyone seen it?"

  "No. And no one will. Because there's no such thing. Along with the planning application, the company commissioned an environmental impact report. To compile it, the contractees did a thorough sweep of the loch with side-scan sonar, underwater submersibles, and subsurface television. They even explored the closed cavern where Kreibel died. There's nothing down there except fish, flotsam, the wreck of a World War Two RAF bomber, and a couple of sunken barges. And there have been no sightings, though one newspaper reporter, sympathetic to the Caucus, headlined after seeing the Columbus, 'Nessie has arrived, crew and all.' "

  Scotty was staring, half smiling. "You got any family here?" he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  Foster pulled his wallet, opened it, pointed. "Sure. The girl is Jennie, the boys Michael and Adam. That's the wife. Name's Amy. Unfortunately, we're all buried in those grotesque company apartments. You're a lucky man, Scotty. You live in a palace. The man who designed the company complex was a sadist."

  "There wasn't enough housing?"

  "There was some. But Whittenfeld wanted to bring in a shitload of English workers, so the company felt it advantageous to build. To keep the pressure low. The Scots ain't too fond of the English."

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimed twice. Scotty adjusted his watch.

  "I haven't eaten breakfast yet," he said. "What say we find a place for a snack?"

  "Formal or otherwise?"

  "Otherwise."

  Foster looked relieved. "Good. Because that's all there is!"

  Foster returned Scotty to Travis House at eleven and vowed to reappear at twelve-thirty to ferry Scotty to Geminii's office complex.

  A Brunhilde-sized woman of fifty, carrying a satchel, was perched on the front doorstep.

  "My name's Mrs. Munro," the woman said sternly as the limousine disappeared into the distance. "I'm your new housekeeper, cook, and guard."

  Scotty smiled, approaching. "I didn't expect anyone so soon!" he said, attempting to help the woman with her bag.

  "Never you mind," Mrs. Munro scolded, defending her belongings. "The company didn't hire you a tulip in the spring. I can carry my own things."

  Scotty gaped. "Anything you say, Mrs. Munro. By the way, my name's Scotty Bruce."

  Mrs. Munro looked at the paper in her hand. "Bruce. You're the one. Says so right here. Bruce! District superintendent! Let me say, Mr. Bruce, you've got the right woman at the right time. I specialize in oil. Have had me a dozen or so petroleum executives to look after over the last six years ever since I come down from the north."

  They entered the mansion and walked about the first floor.

  "I've worked for Geminii people all along," Mrs. Munro said, continuing, "and I've built a good reputation. You know, it takes more than hole diggers to make an oil company run. It takes people like me to keep people like you in one piece."

  They moved into the kitchen.

  "Now this is one smart-looking house, Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro declared, diddling with the appliances. "You should only get a chance to see the shack I was born in. It would make you appreciate luxury such as this."

  Scotty showed Mrs. Munro to the housekeeper's quarters. "I hope this will do," he said.

  Mrs. Munro waved her finger in his face. "If it doesn't, you'll hear from me. But it will. 'Cause I don't intend to spend much time in here. I like to keep busy. So just stay clear 'cause I move around right quickly."

  "You have my promise."

  Mrs. Munro dug into her satchel and pulled out a simple little bag with a tasseled flap. "This is a sporran," she said, handing it to Scotty. "It's a gift. Made it myself."

  He examined the piece. "It's very pretty. But what do I do with it?"

  "Use your brain, Mr. Bruce," she scolded. "You wear the sporran around your waist in front of you, hung from a strap over your kilt. You know what a kilt is, don't you?"

  "Sure as hell."

  "Then hell be damned. You know something."

  "Unfortunately," Scotty said, "I don't own a kilt."

  Mrs. Munro seemed aghast. "Then you're going to have to get yourself one. Along with a proper kilt jacket and bonnet. So you can wear the sporran."

  He was flabbergasted.

  "Let me see the bedrooms," Mrs. Munro demanded.

  They walked upstairs, inspecting the master.

  "Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro said, "you might know how to stab a length of drill pipe, but I'll bet you don't know a damn about putting your own clothes away. So you leave it to me. You go be important and save the world from its woes. I'll save you."

  Mrs. Munro led Scotty back downstairs and set him on the lounge in the den.

  "This is a good place for you while I get this house under control," she said, handing him the sporran. "Now will you be in need of dinner?"

  "No. I'll be spending the night on a company installation."

  "Good. Then I'll have plenty of time to devote to the premises. And God be praised, 'cause I can see there's lots of things to do. Now. you hear me, Mr. Bruce. You are not to worry about Travis House. She's well taken care of now. Munro of Ross and Cromarty has arrived."

  Head raised, Mrs. Munro stalked from the room. Scotty watched her ample body move down the hall, then laid his head back on the arm of the lounge and smiled.

  "Christ," he mumbled to himself, yawning. "What a piece of work!"

 
Chapter 2

  The huge sign on the fence surrounding the Geminii company complex at Dores read:

  LOCH NESS CONSORTIUM ENTERPRISES

  OPERATING PARTNER:

  GEMINII PETROLEUM INTERNATIONAL, LTD.

  Next to the sign stood the main gate, overseen by an admitting station. Beyond was a multistoried glass and steel building, fronted by a jammed parking lot. The loch shoreline itself contained a separate enclosure, harboring two large pontoon loading docks. Both were crammed with equipment. A tug was moored. A seismic craft was in transit, several miles away. And there were numerous armed guards. Obviously, someone was very paranoid and unconcerned with local public relations.

  Scotty looked across the road. Fields overrun by sheep extended toward the foothills of the Grampian Mountains. Up the way, he could see the Dores Inn and several small homes.

  He sat back in the limousine. Fortunately, he would never have to ride in the damn thing again. A jeep had been ordered and would be available in the morning.

  "So what do you think?" Jerry Foster asked.

  "Interesting," Scotty replied. "But who the hell are they expecting, the Russians?"

  Foster laughed; the question had unexpectedly amused him. "I don't know," he replied. "Perhaps you should ask Lefebre."

  "Lefebre?"

  "The security chief. As you can see, he believes in George Patton tactics. But I shouldn't prejudice you."

  Foster signaled the chauffeur to proceed. The limousine lurched past the guard post and stopped in front of the executive building's main entrance. Climbing out of the car, they entered the lobby, checked through security, rode an elevator to the third floor, and located William Whittenfeld's suite.

  Whittenfeld's secretary, a young Englishwoman, ushered them into Whittenfeld's private office and told them Whittenfeld had stepped out for a moment but would soon return.