"What's that about?" Scotty asked.
"Beats me," Reddington replied.
Scotty listened. A car drove slowly away. Another followed, marking time. Interesting, he thought. All of it. Interesting.
It was darker than hell as Scotty and Reddington emerged from the pub door and climbed into the jeep. A strong wind blew off the firths, carrying a night howl along. The lights of several boats were visible. Clachnaharry Road was dead.
Scotty primed the jeep to life and edged it on to the road.
"You know," Reddington said as Scotty steered the jeep toward Inverness, "this was where we stayed after Rolf Kreibel died. It's hard to believe it was so long ago."
"Ain't that the truth."
"I wonder if Kreibel's watching from somewhere, if he knows what his death brought about."
Scotty smiled as he turned the jeep around a bend; the lights of the city had still not appeared. "We'll never know."
"You don't think a séance would be worthwhile?"
" 'Fraid not."
Reddington slapped his knees. "Well, I bet we haven't seen the last of Kreibel. He was a money-hungry bastard. If we hit oil under the loch, he'll come back and lay claim."
They both began to laugh. Suddenly, a Renault shot out of a side street ahead of them.
"Slow down, you asshole," Reddington screamed, waving his fist.
Another car, a Volkswagen, careened out of the tributary. Scotty turned the jeep's wheel quickly. The Volkswagen rammed into their side, tearing off the jeep's front fender. Scotty's head crashed against the steering wheel. The jeep skidded into a ditch. The Volkswagen roared off.
"Lefebre's sons a bitches!" Reddington screamed.
"Fuckers tore off the damn fender," Scotty fumed, dabbing at his bleeding lip.
Reddington jumped out of the jeep and started to push. Scotty pounded the accelerator.
They were back on the road in less than a minute.
"I want to find them!" Scotty said. "And I don't want to wait until tomorrow. Damn fuckers ruined my car!"
They drove along, seeing nothing. However, as they neared the edge of Inverness, Reddington jerked Scotty's arm. "There!" he cried, pointing.
On top of a bare bluff were two cars, the Renault and Volkswagen.
Scotty gunned the jeep up the hillock into a clearing. The car's headlights framed three men. The bald man from the Clachnaharry was on the ground, his face covered with blood. The two security officers were standing over him, beating him with crow bars.
"Get off him," Scotty yelled as he and Reddington jumped from the jeep.
The security men bolted toward the Volkswagen. Scotty tackled one. The other made it inside the car. As Scotty wrestled with the first, Reddington rushed to the injured man, who was nearly unconscious. Suddenly, the first security officer kicked Scotty in the head, broke from him, and jumped inside the Volkswagen, too. The driver gunned the engine. Scotty grabbed the Volkswagen's rear-view mirror; it ripped off in his hands. The Volkswagen spat dirt and pebbles into the air, then tore down the hill.
Gasping, Scotty ran to Reddington's side. "How is he?"
"Not good."
"Damn!"
They carried the man to the jeep.
"We'd better get him over to the hospital," Reddington advised.
Scotty nodded. "Whittenfeld and I are going to have a talk about this!"
They stared down the hill. A billow of dust was rising into the night sky. The car was gone.
Whittenfeld looked down the conference table, shaking his head.
"Was the man able to talk?" he asked.
"Not last night," Scotty replied. "But he was able to speak this morning."
"What did he say?"
"He said he'd been attacked by two men he didn't know but who'd been following him off and on for twenty-four hours. They forced his car off the road. Then they accused him of sabotage and beat him, warning him they would continue to beat him until he talked."
"Have the police been called in?"
"No. I also don't think they will be. The man said he didn't want more trouble. He didn't want to be killed. He just wanted to be left alone."
"What's the man's name?"
"Reynolds."
"And his occupation?"
"Laborer. And a part-time volunteer organizer for the Scottish Nationalist Party."
"Fanatics," Whittenfeld said. "How can you be sure the attackers were Lefebre's people if the man couldn't identify them?"
"Red identified them. He recognized them at the Clachnaharry Inn. He pointed them out to me."
The office door opened. Lefebre entered and sat next to Scotty. He was chewing a wad of tobacco.
"Monsieur Bruce," he said sympathetically, "I'm sorry about your car and your lip."
"Both can be fixed," Scotty declared.
"Yes," Lefebre said, smiling. "Of course."
"Well?" Whittenfeld asked.
"They were my men," Lefebre admitted. "I checked with Special." He turned to Scotty. "Monsieur Bruce, my friend. I'm sorry about the entire incident. Very sorry."
"So am I."
Lefebre looked back to Whittenfeld. "It was Girard and Lennox. Two good men. Company men. Men with character and self-control."
"Self-control?" Scotty declared, shocked. "Character?" He laughed wryly. "They're punks and cowards."
"My men are not punks and cowards, Monsieur Bruce," Lefebre said calmly. "And they had every right to do what they did."
"Is that so?" Scotty asked.
"Lefebre!" Whittenfeld said. "I told you no violence."
"Monsieur Whittenfeld, the man Girard and Lennox were beating tried to run them down with his car outside the Clachnaharry Inn after they had asked him some questions
about the Columbus. Obviously, the man had something to hide. Girard and Lennox followed the man and stopped him to ask additional questions. They still had no intention of hurting the man until the man pulled a knife."
"I heard the cars leave the inn," Scotty protested. "They drove off slowly. There was no commotion. And I didn't see any knife on the bluff."
"That's because you didn't look, my friend. My men said the man had a kni'fe. And my men don't lie. Certainly not to me."
"Then why'd they run from us?"
"They couldn't tell who you were in the darkness."
Scotty gestured to Whittenfeld. "This is the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard!"
Lefebre's entire expression changed. His face turned red. His eyes flared open. "Are you calling me a liar, Monsieur Bruce?"
Scotty stood and looked to Whittenfeld again. "They were beating the man for information. Trying to uncover a lead. Acting under Lefebre's orders. Christ, if I hadn't followed the security men because of the accident, God only knows what would have happened. God only knows the problems we'd have right now. Bill, we can't operate this way. No company can!"
"I see the six-guns have already been brought out of mothballs," Whittenfeld said sympathetically. "And the gun fighter is back. Scotty, I know you're upset. Understandably so. I'm upset, too, and would be furious beyond control except that Lefebre said the men were only protecting themselves."
"I checked security," Scotty said. "Lefebre's orders did not exclude the use of force."
"Monsieur Whittenfeld," Lefebre said, standing. "I swear to you . . ."
Scotty grabbed Lefebre's arm and whirled him around; he could feel Lefebre's body react angrily, almost unnaturally to the touch; he could also see the most sudden and intense look of insanity he'd ever seen on a man's face. "You're lying," he snapped.
The Frenchman spat a wad of tobacco into his face.
"Lefebre!" Whittenfeld cried.
Scotty grabbed Lefebre by the collar, a reflex. "Your animals could have killed that man. They could have murdered an innocent human being!"
"Stop it!" Whittenfeld ordered.
Lefebre's eyes blazed; a strange smirk crossed his lips. He punched Scotty in the throat. Scotty fell back on the conference table, chok
ing. Lefebre pinned Scotty down, then pulled Scotty's head back into a neck-snapping position. Scotty fought to breathe. Lefebre's hands shook, his face twitched, his eyes rolled with lunacy. And tobacco-stained spittle drooled out of his mouth on to the table.
Whittenfeld rushed over and tried to pull Lefebre off.
"I should break your neck," Lefebre growled through gritted, rotted teeth. "And I will if you ever so much as touch me again. Nobody touches me. At any time. For any reason. Ever! Understand?"
"Goddamnit," Whittenfeld roared, trying unsuccessfully to subdue the Frenchman.
Fighting to breathe, Scotty couldn't reply.
Lefebre dug his nails into Scotty's face. "Understand?" he screamed.
Scotty mumbled, nodded, spat up blood.
Lefebre's whole body rocked; he pressed his hold. Whittenfeld pulled harder, his strength nearly exhausted.
Then, suddenly, Lefebre stood and backed away from the table.
Whittenfeld wiped the sweat from his face. Nearly paralyzed, Scotty coughed in spasms. Lefebre dispassionately looked into space.
Whittenfeld wanted to speak but couldn't. He was shaking too hard.
Nobody moved. Nobody talked.
Lefebre calmly walked out of the room as if nothing had happened.
Whittenfeld, still shaken, appeared in Scotty's office several hours later.
"How are you?" Whittenfeld asked.
"I'm all right," Scotty replied.
"I want to apologize to you for Lefebre's actions," Whittenfeld declared. "They were vile, disgusting. And since Lefebre's not the type of man to make apologies, I've come myself. Lefebre's ears are still ringing. He will keep his revolting temper under control. No ifs, ands, or buts. I swear to you, if I didn't know him better, if he had not had such a good record with Schlumberger in Paris, if he had been less of a faithful employee here, I would have fired him on the spot. Scotty, what can I say? Lefebre's explosive, unpredictable, headstrong, eccentric. He has a horrible temper, though I never saw it explode like it did today. But I need him. He's a trustworthy man. Effective. And he lives for Geminii."
"I understand," Scotty said stone faced. He understood the nature of the ridiculous self-serving rationalization. He'd heard them before. What's a fight when placed against the overall good of the company. Christ, he was boiling! He did not like being beaten and nearly strangled! He damn well knew that if Lefebre tried again, it would be the Frenchman whose neck would wind up in a sling. But he also knew the realities; he would have to try to avoid another confrontation with Lefebre no matter how strong the impulse to lay one back on the bastard. Although he was determined to pull Lefebre's company dossier and examine the lunatic's background, he was going to have to try to leave it at that. Hell, he'd just gotten here and had just assumed his post. There was the Columbus incident. His own previous history. Another confrontation with the Frenchman was the last thing he needed right now. He would try to keep his fists to himself no matter how hard it would be to do!
"Scotty. I appreciate your restraint," Whittenfeld continued. "And again, you have my promise. There will be no other incidents. Between Lefebre ,and you. Or Lefebre and anyone else for that matter."
"Good," Scotty declared. He prayed Whittenfeld was right.
"For your information, we did a further check on Mr. Reynolds. He has two arrests for assault on the police blotter. And an unsavory background, to boot. He might very well have attacked Girard and Lennox. As for Lefebre's people in general, I've issued a very restrictive authorization. They will continue to investigate the Columbus incident, searching for the guilty parties. But there will be no violence of any kind." He patted Scotty on the shoulder. "I detest violent incidents. I promise you there will be no more."
"I appreciate the consideration," Scotty said. He held up a telegram. "This just arrived. The sonar tug will be here on Monday and will be deployed Thursday."
"I'll want to inspect the vessel before it goes on line."
"Of course."
"I'll also want the Columbus and loch security forces to begin duties simultaneously. Please advise Lefebre."
Scotty massaged his throat—it was covered with bruises—then nodded. "No problem," he said.
Whittenfeld smiled and stepped out the door.
"I'll see you later" were his final words.
Scotty sat at the den desk, shrouded in darkness. It was midnight. He was tired. He'd returned from dinner two hours before. Since then, he'd been frozen in place, sifting through an avalanche of thoughts.
There were several documents on the desk. Lefebre's company resume and security clearance. A telex from Schlumberger Corp., Paris. A telex from the Marseilles police.
Early that afternoon, he'd pulled Lefebre's records. He'd been determined not to look for trouble. But trouble had already found him.
The resume and security clearances did not match the information contained in the telexes. Lefebre had worked for Schlumberger Corporation, but he'd not been a model employee. Twice he'd been implicated in brutal security excesses. Another time he'd nearly beaten a company superior to death during an argument. Several times he'd been suspended from duty but rehired. He'd also been with the Marseilles police, but the resume had listed a tenure of ten years, while the telex had only reported two terms of one year each, six years apart. Eight years of Lefebre's life were missing, and Scotty had never known a security clearance to be so inaccurate.
Lefebre was hiding something, and based on Whittenfeld's attitude, he suspected Whittenfeld might well be aware of it. Although he kept telling himself to hold to his promise and mind his own business, he damn well was going to make a quiet exception in this case.
Pierre Lefebre. The son of a bitch.
Yes, he'd challenged the Frenchman but certainly his action didn't warrant the response, Lefebre's attack had been the knee jerk of a madman, the reflex of a man out of control, a man on whose shoulders rested the safety of the project and every individual involved.
Was he the only one in Inverness who understood the danger this man presented?
Chapter 8
Scotty leaned over the ship's rail, watching whitecaps surge across the water toward Urquhart Bay. The surface conditions were a shade toward the perilous for most loch vessels, and so there were few in sight. However, the sonar tug had arrived and was lingering nearby, waiting for Whittenfeld's appearance.
Scotty had risen early, feeling even angrier than he'd felt before going to bed, an anger fed by the prior evening's smoldering solitude and a telex received at Travis House that morning from the London office that had announced it knew of no information concerning Pierre Lefebre apart from the material contained in Lefebre's resume and clearances. Completing breakfast, Scotty had retired to the den to place the same transatlantic call he'd unsuccessfully tried to place the night before to Michael Wessinghage, State Department, Washington Intelligence Bureau, an old friend. This time; however, Wessinghage had been in his office.
Their conversation had been short. He hadn't asked for much. Only a rundown on a man known to him as Pierre Lefebre, a Frenchman. Certainly, if anyone could pinpoint Lefebre, it was Wessinghage. However, even Wessinghage could only make a commitment to diligent effort, promising to call as soon as he'd located anything of interest.
Leaving the house, he'd picked up Tony Spinelli and had toured the three exploratory on-land well sites. The Black Isle hole, located on the Black Isle, a peninsula north of Inverness, had just been spudded. Highland B, situated across the firth, was a third of the way along, and Beauly Highpoint was almost at depth and, unlike the other two locations, a beehive of excitement because preliminary core tests had indicated they might very well be on the verge of a significant hydrocarbon find.
Subsequent to a conference with British Midland field executives at Beauly—Midland had won the drilling concession for all three wells—he'd returned with Spinelli to the base and had helicoptered out to the Columbus.
Bob Reddington, who'd been standing qui
etly alongside, moved closer. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Nothing," Scotty replied, deciding not to mention his continuing inquiries even to Reddington. "I don't want more trouble here. If the situation had been different, if Whittenfeld hadn't been there . . . God knows what might have happened."
"Damn thing is incredible!"
"What do you know about Lefebre?"
"Not much. Whittenfeld brought him in last year with little fanfare. He's apparently done a good job. And he's never attacked anyone that I'm aware of. Oh, sure, there've been some problems. Barrett didn't like the excess security. He unsuccessfully lobbied Whittenfeld to curtail it. And consequently argued heatedly with Lefebre, who did not appreciate Barrett's interference. But this kind of thing? Never."
They descended into the drill ship to the second deck and inspected the condition of equipment at the heart: the mud pumps, the liquid mud containers, and cement pods. Satisfied, they checked the electric and engineering workshops, moved forward into the moon pool, then returned to the main deck and entered the superintendent's offices.
A summons from Grabowski drew them topside moments later.
Several members of the crew and staff were gathered on the forward helipad, babbling excitedly, pressing in on one of the helipad workers, identified by Grabowski as a crewman named Simpkins.
"What's this all about?" Reddington asked, trying to still the commotion.
Simpkins jostled excitedly in place. "I saw it, sir. Damn, and may God strike me if I didn't see the monster."
Scotty glanced at Reddington, smiled, then placed his arm
around Mr. Simpkins's shoulder. "The Loch Ness monster?"
"Yes, sir. One and the same."
"You sure you ain't been drinking?" Reddington asked, once again hushing the group.
"On the ship! No way. I haven't been hallucinating, either. No. I was standing right here washing some petrol off the deck. I looked out at the south shore, and there it was."
"What exactly did you see?" Scotty asked.
"A hump."
"What kind of hump?"
"A hump hump, Mr. Bruce. What other kind of hump is there?"
Scotty stifled a laugh. "It was just floating in the water?"
Monster: Tale Loch Ness Page 8
