He dismissed everyone except Scotty and told Scotty about a meeting he'd arranged with the planning committee of the
Highland Regional Council. Having already forwarded copies of the report to committee members as well, he asked Scotty to take the meeting and answer any questions that might be forthcoming.
The planning committee convened the following morning. Scotty fielded questions, again avoiding incriminating accusations. Specifically, the committee asked why the company had not requested the assistance of the Northern Constabulary. There was no permanent damage, he replied. No fatalities. And the company had stiffened its security to ensure there would be no repetition. In fact, he said, the entire affair had been put to bed, and the meeting with the committee had been called solely as a courtesy.
Most of the committee members were satisfied. However, he wasn't sure how Mary MacKenzie had reacted. She'd said absolutely nothing.
The meeting adjourned.
He left the council building and waited in the parking lot. MacKenzie appeared several minutes later and walked briskly to her car. He approached.
"I'd like to speak to you." he said.
"I'm late for an appointment."
"Mrs. MacKenzie," he said, "this is important."
"It's miss," she snapped.
"All right. Miss. But what I have to say is still important."
She looked at her watch.
"I won't keep you long," he said.
She slid into her car, opened the shotgun door, and waved him inside.
"Did you read the report?" he asked, moving next to her.
"Of course I read the report," she said. "I read it twice."
"I should have known. You had all those comments. Observations."
She glanced at him, fire in her eyes. "I said nothing, Mr. Bruce, because there was nothing to say. I read the report. I heard your arguments. I listened to the conclusions."
"And?"
"They're absurd! Is that clear?"
He held up his hands, nonplussed. "Don't get angry at me. I'm only doing my job."
"And I'm doing mine. Which means I have to represent the people of this region. And protect their lives, their homes. I have to sift through lies and see the forest for the trees. And what I see I don't like."
"Neither do I," he shot back. "I see a closed-minded woman with predetermined opinions, little or no courtesy, and no patience."
She cranked her head toward him. "I've been listening to Geminii for years. Till it's almost choked me. I'm no novice at this."
"I didn't say you were."
"I was on the ship. I was there! Something disastrous happened. Something occurred that endangered us all!"
"I don't deny that. No one does. But you've been given all the facts. The results of the investigation."
"And am I supposed to accept them as the gospel?"
"Yes."
"Then you take me for a fool, Mr. Bruce."
He breathed deeply, frustrated. "I conducted the investigation, Miss MacKenzie."
"I see," she said, glaring wickedly. "Does that entitle you to some kind of award?"
"No!" he challenged. "But it entitles me to defend the truth. And the report reflects the truth."
She laughed. "We were all told Geminii had just hired a saint. You, Mr. Bruce! The conscience of the world. The essence of integrity. But don't delude yourself. Don't think I attribute more to your panderings than I would to the word of any other employee of Geminii. You are an employee of Geminii, aren't you? District supervisor, if I'm correct. A senior executive?"
He sat back. Thoughtful. Did everyone know about his background? "Yes. I work for Geminii. Yes, I'm district supervisor."
She looked him square in the eyes. "Mr. Bruce, let me ask you an honest question. Do you really believe someone operating a submersible vehicle attacked the Columbus?"
"The evidence suggests so."
"I haven't seen any evidence. I've just heard what representatives of Geminii said they found."
"That's what we found!"
"All right. That's what you found. But even looking at this so-called evidence, these findings made by divers. A manned submersible? Attacking a giant ship? You must be senile."
"It's possible."
"Who, Mr. Bruce? Who?"
"What do you mean, 'who'?"
"Who was in the submersible? Who organized this attack? Tell me who."
"That's the exact question Whittenfeld asked me. I couldn't give him an answer, and I can't give you one. I just joined the company. I wasn't here during license application. I wasn't here at the start of active exploration. I don't know the players, so I couldn't possibly make a guess at who might have tried to sabotage the Columbus."
"Sabotage is a very serious charge, Mr. Bruce."
"Yes. Especially when lives might have been lost."
She smiled archly, paused. "Now, Mr. Bruce, you can't tell me no one at the company named names. Identified parties who might have engineered such an attack!"
"There were suggestions."
"Well, then. You didn't tell the council this."
"It's not the type of speculation one indulges in publicly."
She looked around. "We're not in public."
He glanced at her severely. She was almost too attractive to be so goddamned stubborn and contentious, too feminine and sensual to be a clarion for local public outrage. "It's common knowledge there were opponents to the company's application."
"Like?"
"Environmentalists."
"I'm an environmentalist, Mr. Bruce."
"The Scottish Nationalist Party."
"I'm one of them, too."
"The unions fought aspects of the plan that called for the importation of English and American workers."
"I'm a union sympathizer. You know, Mr. Bruce. It seems you're pointing a finger in my direction. Or in the direction of my close associates."
"I'm doing nothing of the kind."
"Then what are you doing?"
He didn't respond.
She stiffened, angrily twisting her features. "No submersible attacked the Columbus. And that leaves one of two alternatives. Something did go wrong beyond the control of the crew. Something that endangered everyone. Or the event was planned. Planned and executed by Geminii executives."
"Are you crazy?" he asked, dumbfounded.
"No," she said calmly. "Not in the least. It makes a hell of a lot of sense. Whittenfeld invites us all on board. The breakdown is engineered. Everyone is taken off the ship. A report is issued. Saboteurs are blamed. But there are no saboteurs. Nevertheless, these imaginary saboteurs serve a very useful purpose. The specter of sabotage allows the company to close down access. Increase security. Keep everyone away. Keep oversight at a minimum. That's the way oil companies like to work, isn't it?"
"No."
"Spare me, Mr. Bruce. Because there's more. There's something else this supposed conspiracy serves to do. It serves to protect Geminii Petroleum."
"How's that?"
"In case something does go wrong internally. Something beyond the control of the company. A breakdown. A disaster. Anything. The company can blame it on sabotage. Plain and simple. Blame it on sabotage and no one will question whether the company should be allowed to continue operations. Have everyone out chasing ghosts and the company itself is free from scrutiny!"
"You're crazy."
"You've said that already."
"Look. I can see you and I have to have a long talk."
She leaned across and snapped down the handle of the door. "We've had a long talk, Mr. Bruce. Good day."
"Please . . ."
"Good day," she repeated, interrupting.
Scotty climbed out of the seat. MacKenzie turned on the engine, revved it momentarily, maneuvered the car out of the parking lot, then sped away.
Scotty closed the front door to Travis House, walked down the hall, and entered the den. Mrs. Munro was puttering about with a feather duster.
&nb
sp; "Home early, aren't you, Mr. Bruce?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"You wouldn't be wanting me to fix up some food for you, would you now?"
"No."
"That's good. Very good. I only have two hands, and the dust is creeping over this place like the moor fog at night."
He bobbed into the kitchen, built an impressive turkey sandwich, then returned to the den, sitting down on the lounge.
"If you sit there, Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro said, waving feathers, "you're going to have a side order of dust."
"I'll cover up when you roam by."
He sipped his beer as Mrs. Munro whizzed past him, her plain drape of a dress catching nearly every article in the room.
"Do you know anything about the Scottish Nationalist Party?" he asked moments later.
Mrs. Munro stopped dusting and turned, a gaping expression on her face. "Now that's some question, Mr. Bruce. I'm Scottish. Was born and raised here. My poor dead husband, too. I'd be a boob if I didn't know about the Scottish Nationalists."
"That's fine, Mrs. Munro. Then perhaps you can give me some insight."
"The Scottish Nationalist Party is a political party," she said a trifle condescendingly, as if she had found his ignorance pathetic. "Just like Labour, the Tory Conservatives, and the Liberals."
"Are you a member?"
"No, but I'm a Nationalist. Everyone in Scotland is a Nationalist."
"What does the party stand for?"
"What do you think it stands for, Mr. Bruce? An independent Scotland! Scotland for the Scots!"
"Makes sense."
"Darn right it makes sense."
Having finished his sandwich, he laid his plate on the coffee table. "How do these Nationalists feel about the oil companies?"
"They don't like them much."
"Why is that?"
" 'Cause the oil companies bespoil the land. 'Cause they bring in foreign workers when it's the Scottish worker who should be in employ, and they take out Scottish oil and give it to the British government, which is controlled by the English. We get no benefit. Or almost none. The government in London bleeds Scotland dry, and when there's no oil left, it will let Scotland rot in the sun!"
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
Mrs. Munro was indignant. "Get a history book, Mr. Bruce. Read it! Then tell me whether I should believe it or not."
"Would you think the Nationalists disliked the oil companies enough to try to sabotage their installations?"
"I wouldn't know anything about that kind of thing, Mr. Bruce. I wouldn't even try to make a guess."
"I have one more question."
Mrs. Munro breathed deeply.
"What is that, sir?"
"Do you think the Loch Ness monster is a member of the Scottish Nationalist Party?"
Mrs. Munro stopped in her tracks and shook her head incredulously. "Geminii hired me out to a crazy man. A loon. Mr. Bruce! Monsters don't join political parties. They don't vote. Even if they exist, they don't do such things."
"Does it exist?" What a ridiculous question, he thought. Thank God Red hadn't heard it!
"I don't know."
"You must have an opinion."
"I believe in goblins. There are goblins in the mountains."
"That's very interesting. But I'm not asking about goblins. Just monsters. Does it exist?"
She stared. Then nodded.
"Thank you, Mrs. Munro," he said, walking out of the room.
Chapter 6
The limousine glided quietly along the two-lane highway, heading east out of Inverness.
William Whittenfeld sat in the back seat reviewing the contents of a folder—a pair of lists that Pierre Lefebre had given him that afternoon. A security man was perched next to the driver. A tape cassette played softly.
Whittenfeld examined one list, then the other. The first contained the names of company opponents, the second the names of radical Scottish nationalist groups. In addition, there were detailed notes and recommendations as well as a special document, denoted important, describing the modus operandi of a group known to the authorities as the New Jacobite Coalition, a virulent nationalist organization that had broken away from the Scottish Nationalist Party several years before.
Geminii had received three threatening letters from New Jacobite operatives within the last week, and although the Jacobites had historically confined their activities to the southern cantons of Scotland, the letters clearly indicated that the coalition had arrived in Inverness in force. An inquiry by Lefebre had uncovered evidence indicating that Jacobite operatives worked almost exclusively under the protective umbrellas of existing organizations—trade unions, merchant associations, business groups, and the like—but so far Lefebre had been unable to pinpoint the identity of any operatives, let alone the man who had written the letters. And a question certainly remained whether or not this group was involved in the Columbus conspiracy at all since Lefebre had uncovered no information as of yet creating an inference one way or the other.
The group deserved watching.
The limousine turned off the main road. Nearby, he could see the lights of the Inverness Airport. Beyond was the Inverness Firth. Ahead, the Culloden Moor.
Whittenfeld placed the folder in an attaché case as the limousine swept between gate posts. Beyond the posts stood the Culloden House. It had two stories, about fifty rooms, and was brightly lit by floodlights.
The limousine stopped in front of the main entrance, behind Scotty's jeep. Whittenfeld stepped out. Above him loomed the mansion's stone walls. There were numerous windows, turrets and parapets, too, as well as oblique turns of the architecture that hid clandestine stairways and nooks.
He climbed the main staircase and looked through the front door's glass partition. He could see the bar. Scotty Bruce was there, waiting. He looked at his watch. He was twenty minutes late. He did not like tardiness. Especially his own!
Quickly, he opened the door and entered.
* * *
"I've listened," Whittenfeld was saying as they attacked their main courses and sipped from partially filled glasses of Mouton Cadet. "I've heard it all. I've heard the scuttlebutt. That I'm consumed by Loch Ness . . . the prospect of finding oil . . . a bonanza. That the whole thing has become a fixation."
Scotty looked around the dining room. It was elegant. All the tables were filled, conversations subdued.
"Has it?" he asked.
Whittenfeld eased a grin. "Perhaps. But I don't find an intense commitment unwarranted. Loch Ness is important. To the world. To Geminii." He looked out the dining-room window. "And to me."
"That's understandable," Scotty said, staring at his host, who was dressed in an elegantly tailored black suit, white shirt, and black tie. "You did say you were here from day one.
"From day one and before," Whittenfeld declared. "I was comanaging director of the Dundee field when the Loch Ness oil slick was discovered. Sure, the Dundee field was special. You see, the North Sea represented my first opportunity to work outside the United States. But this loch thing; this was something else. It was . . . well . . . exciting. An incredible opportunity. Something a man waits for all his life. Though the company was skeptical, I grabbed for it, urged them to pursue. I led the first seismic crews and geology contingents. Hell, Scotty, I got my hands dirty. I was there with the doodle buggers, laying seismic cables. I rode the seismic launches. I spent nights awake, reading charts, knocking possibilities around." A look of pride crossed his face. "Damn, I was the one who cracked the puzzle. I pinpointed the anomalies. I explained the unexplainable!" He pounded the table. "My guts are riding with success. No, I will never allow the Loch Ness enterprise to fail. I won't allow it."
Scotty looked at Whittenfeld's eyes. He'd seen the look many times before. Obsession. But there was more. Contention. Whittenfeld was something other than just a company manager. He was a challenger who might very well have come to hate his opponent.
"I don't think yo
u will fail here," he said.
"Is that a compliment?" Whittenfeld asked.
"Absolutely."
"I want you to feel like I do. I want you to be committed. To this place. To the loch. To the battle. The loch has thrown down a gauntlet. It has dared us to beat it. It is a vile little bitch!" He laughed smugly. "You know, I remember the licensing hearings. There was such a hue and cry from the hearing committee once its members had learned you can start a well in one place and directionally bend it to drill into a producing horizon many miles away. Why put a ship on the loch? they cried. Why drill down through the water? Why endanger Ness?" He shook his head. "I explained the facts of life. That you can only bend a well a few degrees at a time and that if a producing reservoir is too near the surface, you cannot directionally drill into it because you cannot drill deep enough to bring enough bend into play. And that the Loch Ness field fit the negative criteria precisely since it lay only four thousand feet below the surface. And I remember then thinking about just how clever this renegade was. To have insulated itself so well!"
Scotty sat back. "To state the obvious, the loch is definitely an emotional thing to you," he said.
"Yes. I'll confess. It is."
"I have to confess, too. I don't think I'll ever be able to generate the same kind of involvement."
Whittenfeld lifted his glass, bowed his head, sipped, then stared. "You will," he said. "If I have anything to say about it, you will!"
They finished dinner by nine o'clock, entered the lounge, and ordered two glasses of anisette.
"I respect devotion," Whittenfeld was saying. "I covet enthusiasm. I expect everyone on the Geminii payroll to work as hard as I do. But I don't mind eccentricity. In fact, Scotty, a little eccentricity is good. It makes men more creative. It makes them more valuable." He laughed. "But look who I'm talking to about eccentricity. Scotty Bruce. Famous football player. My God, you must have seen your share of talented eccentrics. From what I've read—and I'm not one for athletics, mind you—professional sports are filled with them."
"They're about," Scotty admitted as he popped some pretzels into his mouth. He glanced at his watch; it was almost ten o'clock. He looked through the parlor door into the hall. The place was very old, and there was a musty smell in the air, a peculiar sensation of history. If he'd never seen a candidate for haunting before, he'd seen one now. "But you have to be a little off the wall to pound your brains into the dust day in and day out, to beat your body black and blue, to literally risk your life."
Monster: Tale Loch Ness Page 6
