Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  "The consortium is not a government enterprise."

  "Let's treat it like one."

  "Unfortunately, I can't. Now is there anything else?"

  "The issue of local union workers."

  "I didn't know there was an issue."

  Sutherland grimaeed. "You've imported planeloads of English, German, and American personnel. Utilized the services of very few locals."

  "We've hired the best men available. Unfortunately, we could not find qualified people here."

  "Nonsense."

  'Whis is a nonunion matter. We hire who we want. If they desire to join the local and live by union rules, then that's their business. We respect their decision."

  Sutherland stood and began to pace. "There are experienced men in Scotland. Union men who have learned their trade in the North Sea and elsewhere. Union men who live in this region. Union men who have been overlooked."

  "We have figures," Foster said. "A breakdown on nationality and . . ."

  Sutherland exploded. "I don't care about figures. I care about jobs. Men's lives. Their families' well-being."

  "Let's not get acrimonious, Mr. Sutherland," Whittenfeld cautioned.

  "I'm trying not to."

  "You must understand. I cannot fire good men just to employ locals. Even your union won't stand for that."

  "I agree. But we want you to make a commitment to local employment."

  "I assme this is an unofficial position."

  "Semi."

  "Then I will treat it as such."

  Sutherland leaned close. "What are you going to do about the first three demands?"

  "I'm going to take them under consideration."

  "And then?"

  "I'll repeat myself again. We're going to talk. We're going to find a way to compromise and work together. Hell, Sutherland, this is not us against you. It's a partnership. We're all working toward one thing. The discovery of oil. That one thing will benefit everyone, benefit Scotland. It's our duty to compromise. It's our duty to work together. You let me think about the demands. Then you come over for dinner where you and I can exchange ideas and get to know each other."

  "Forget it."

  "We must allow trust to grow."

  "I will grow to trust you when you agree to the demands."

  Whittenfeld stared, saying nothing. Seconds slowly passed. Then

  Sutherland stood and ambled decisively to the door.

  "I've taken up enough of your time, Mr. Whittenfeld," he said. "You've heard what I have to say. I've heard your reply. Think about the demands. Then let me know. You know where to find me."

  "Of course," Whittenfeld said.

  Sutherland excused himself and walked out of the room.

  "Sutherland sounds more like an SNP politician than a union rep," Whittenfeld said.

  "He may be both," Foster reminded. "Everyone around here talks that way, anyway. Abercrombie did, for one. The Scottish Office does, for two. So do the regional domos."

  Whittenfeld shook his head. "One-third of them believe what they say. The next third say what they say because they think that's what we expect to hear. And the last third talk like nationalists just to impress the other two-thirds with their piety. No, it's not what Sutherland said but how he said it. Something strikes me off key!" He turned to Scotty.

  "I want you to talk to him. See if you can start up a relationship. Maybe reason some sense into his head."

  Scotty walked down the first-floor hall toward the reception desk. Hugh Sutherland was standing by the front door. Scotty had called down from the conference room, asking reception to hold the union rep.

  "You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Bruce?" Sutherland asked as Scotty moved to his side.

  "Just for a moment," Scotty answered. "I know you have things to do, and I have to prepare for a trip to Edinburgh."

  "All right," Sutherland said. "I'm listening, though you had every opportunity to talk in the conference room."

  "I wanted to observe. Hear what you had to say."

  "Admirable."

  "You certainly did not pull any punches."

  "Mr. Bruce, I'm a union rep. My business is to represent the Transport and General workers. Whether I'm liked by Geminii management or not is irrelevant. I say what has to be said. I don't mince words. I do my job."

  "I understand. And since I'm the number-two man here, I would like to understand more."

  "Admirable."

  "I know you rejected contact apart from business, but I'd like to talk to you—at length. I'll be involved in union relations from now on, and it will help if I have a good grip on the issues."

  "I have little time or patience for bullshit."

  "I promise—no bullshit."

  Sutherland stared suspiciously. "All right, Mr. Bruce. You stop by the union offices sometime. Yes, that will be all right."

  Scotty smiled. Sutherland's offer was efficiently stated. He

  understood. He would also take the man up on it.

  "Good day," Sutherland said, exiting.

  "Yes," Scotty replied. "Good day."

  It was eight o'clock. He would have to leave for the airport by eight-thirty to catch the nine-twenty flight to Edinburgh. In between, he would merely have to contend with Mrs. Munro.

  "Now you take my advice, Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro was saying as she carried two of Scotty's bags to the front door. "You watch yourself. Edinburgh is a big city, but London is bigger and more dangerous, too. And I should know since I nearly met my maker there several times."

  Scotty popped out of the den holding an attaché case. "Is that so?"

  "There are no rules, Mr. Bruce. None whatsoever for lorries or cars or anything. There's no place to cross the streets, and I tell you, the English try right hard to hit you on purpose. As God's my judge, it's the truth. And that just doesn't apply to the Scots. It goes for nice plump Americans, too."

  Scotty laughed. "There must be crosswalks, Mrs. Munro."

  "No. They have underground walkways to pass under the streets. But when you're in a hurry, Mr. Bruce, you've got to do it straight. And since I've been with you, I've come to know you like to hurry."

  Scotty whisked into the kitchen, then returned to the den where Mrs. Munro had planted herself.

  "I assure you, I will return in one piece."

  She giggled. "Well, I think I'm not the only one who'd be right glad to see that?"

  "Oh?"

  "The MacKenzie woman called just before you arrived."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I can't remember to tell you everything, Mr. Bruce. Besides, it doesn't matter since she said she couldn't be reached."

  "What else did she say?"

  "She wished you a good trip."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes. That's all. Mr. Bruce, do I detect a little bit of the old romance beginning here?"

  Scotty stuffed some additional papers into the case. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Munro. Miss MacKenzie tolerates me at best."

  Mrs. Munro sat on the arm of the sofa. "Now I'm not so sure, Mr. Bruce. I'm no novice, you know. Though I look like a battleship, I was an attractive lass at one time, with my share of suitors. So I know something about love. I know a woman gets this little sound in her voice when she fancies a man."

  "What sound?"

  "Just a sound. I can't describe it. But I know it when I hear it, and I heard it in MacKenzie's voice."

  Scotty couldn't disguise a smile. "I think you ought to get your ears checked, Mrs. Munro."

  Mrs. Munro was indignant. "I'll have you know I got hearing like radar. And that's 'cause I always treat my ears good and dig out all the wax. Now I heard this sound in the lady's voice, and if you don't believe me or don't care, then that's your problem. And let me tell you something else. Another problem you have. You don't listen to me enough. You buzz around like a bull in a china shop, and you don't take note of all the intelligent things I try to teach you. And you're still a mess. No matter how hard I try, nothing works. I went int
o your closet this morning and looked at how everything was hung, and I nearly got sick. You had the sporran dangling upside down! Now you got to be crazy to treat a good sporran like that!"

  "Now Mrs. Munro—"

  "Don't now me, Mr. Bruce!"

  Scotty's expression deepened; he was suddenly very serious. "You know, Mrs. Munro, when I was growing up back in Colorado, we had a family dog named Fuzzy. In fact, my mother still has Fuzzy's grandson. But Fuzzy was my dog. He'd follow me everywhere. He'd go to school and wait outside until the school day was over. He'd go to football and baseball practice. He'd follow me around the house. Wherever he went, he'd have his big mouth open, barking advice to my teachers through the school windows, to the coaches from the stands, and to my mother from the floor. The damn dog never stayed quiet for a minute. And, believe it or not, the nonstop yakking led to a terrible tragedy."

  "Pray tell me what, Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro said, skeptical already. "I can hardly wait to hear."

  Scotty fudged a scowl. "His tongue fell out. God help me, it's the truth. He yakked so much the muscles holding his tongue disintegrated, and the damn thing fell out."

  "Pshew, Mr. Bruce! Pshew!"

  Scotty quickly looked at his watch, barely able to control his laughter, then grabbed a jacket and hustled toward the door.

  "I'm going to teach you a thing or two when you get back," Mrs. Munro continued. "That's if you get back." She followed him to the hall and watched him grab his luggage. "There you go, running off again and not listening. The plane will wait. There's plenty of time. You just don't like to know someone knows more than you do and—"

  Mrs. Munro stopped. Scotty was gone, the door slammed shut. She moved to the window and watched him get into the jeep. Then, as she turned away, she heard the jeep roar off into the distance.

  "Fool man!" she mumbled.

  Chapter 11

  Scotty arrived in Edinburgh at ten-thirty and spent the night at the George Hotel, a touristy relic to days past, only a short walk to New Andrews House, the modern building housing the Scottish Office.

  He checked out early in the morning, walked around the streets beneath Edinburgh Castle, which was situated high on a domineering hill, then arrived at his destination shortly before ten.

  Several minutes later, he was in Andrew Farquharson's office, an unimpressive cubicle with an impressive city view.

  Farquharson was there, smiling, waving his cane, full of questions and observations. Mr. Droon was with him as well, more subdued than at their earlier meeting. Droon was MacKenzie's alter ego; he could not possibly have accepted the Columbus report at face value. Scotty could only guess that Farquharson had warned Droon to keep his opinions within the confines of their offices.

  They spoke briefly about the Columbus incident. Scotty explained that no additional information had surfaced, though he was careful to avoid any mention of the tracings. The rest of the meeting consisted of small talk. Congratulations were offered for the Beauly find. Then Farquharson mentioned he had read the Geminii file and had agreed with the secretary of state's decision. Finally, Scotty offered to convey Farquharson's pleasure to Whittenfeld, punctuating the offer with a gift, a box of Havana cigars, which Farquharson gladly accepted.

  The meeting was adjourned.

  Scotty flew to London and checked into Grosvenor House, Hyde Park, Mayfair District.

  As soon as he was sequestered in his suite, he called Houghton and spoke to Houghton's secretary once more, confirming the scheduled meeting, eight o'clock precisely, the address provided, 113 Elizabeth Street, Belgravia.

  It was five o'clock. He had several hours to kill. He would take a shower, a shave, and then a short nap, expecting the switchboard operator to call at seven.

  The street was dark, the building's windows boarded. Scotty rang the bell. The door speaker crackled, its mounted television eye focusing. Upon request, he announced his name. The door opened. No one was there.

  He walked down a long, dark hall. Nearing the end, an attractive young woman appeared, identified herself—Mr. Houghton's secretary—then frisked him thoroughly. Dumbfounded, Scotty said nothing.

  They entered a suite.

  The suite's outer office was small. A file cabinet stood in the corner. The walls were white.

  The only visible interior door opened, and a man appeared dressed in a vested suit.

  "Mr. Bruce," he called, rushing to shake Scotty's hand.

  "Mr. Houghton?" Scotty asked, still a bit put off by the reception.

  "Of course, Mr. Houghton," Houghton said, leading Scotty into his office, another spartan room, white as well, with a solitary desk, one couch, and an eye-startling bank of telephones. "Please take a seat and relax." He nodded approvingly as Scotty sat. "Would you like some coffee?"

  "No, thank you," Scotty said.

  Houghton walked behind the desk. "Well, you just tell me if the need arises." He smiled effusively. "Now I hope your trip from Inverness was without incident."

  Scotty examined the man. Houghton was far more pleasant than he had expected. Far more gregarious, too. In fact, Houghton was a rather agreeable, elegant chap, equipped with a proper upper-class English accent, a soothing demeanor, and an engaging personality.

  "The trip was fine," Scotty said, relaxing.

  "Good. I'm happy to hear that. I hope you've taken a liking to the country up there."

  "Yes. Very much so."

  Houghton sat. "I love Scotland myself. In fact, I have a small farm in Nairn, not far from Inverness. I use it as a vacation cottage, though, I'm sorry to say, I don't get up there often. Business consumes far too much of my time."

  Scotty was tempted, but he didn't ask. "I appreciate your meeting with me, Mr. Houghton."

  "Don't mention it. Wessinghage is an old friend. Although I haven't seen him going on about ten years, we still transact business over the phone. A request from Wessinghage is an honored request. Besides, this one was easy."

  "You were able to obtain information on Lefebre?"

  Houghton looked puzzled. "Of course. I had information long before Michael Wessinghage called. Mr. Lefebre is not an unknown quantity."

  Scotty's curiosity began to peak. "Might I smoke?"

  "Of course."

  Scotty lit a cigar while looking about the room.

  "I notice you've noticed," Houghton said. "The place is sparse. Quiet and colorless. But I find it comfortable." He removed his glasses. "Wessinghage told me you were a famous football player."

  "An exaggeration."

  "You're being modest. And evasive with the wrong person. I know everything there is to know about you, Mr. Bruce."

  "How did that come about, Mr. Houghton?"

  "I do not impart information to unknown quantities. Though Wessinghage's word is uniquely trustworthy, my associates still compiled a normal profile. I hope you don't mind, but we try to keep our procedures standardized."

  "We?"

  "Yes. We. I am only the tip of the iceberg. These telephones put me in contact with a great many ears and mouths. I am not as insular as I might appear." He smirked. "I can see you are brimming with curiosity. What does Mr. Houghton do, you are asking yourself. Is he a spy? A secret agent? A master criminal?" He laughed broadly. "None of those, Mr. Bruce."

  Scotty remembered Wessinghage's careful admonition. "I am only concerned about Pierre Lefebre's background."

  Houghton smiled. "I approve your sense of discretion." He rifled through the pages of a dossier. "The life of Mr. Pierre Lefebre."

  Scotty craned his neck; Houghton kept the file out of reach.

  "Why do you wish to know about Lefebre?"

  "I work with him. There's no love lost."

  "I see. But that is rarely the reason for such intense curiosity."

  "I think he's dangerous. I don't understand what he's doing with Geminii. I'm concerned about the future consequences."

  Houghton's expression deepened. "Mr. Lefebre is a very evil man."

  "I'm not surp
rised."

  "And yes, very dangerous, too. More dangerous than you think. You might be better served without the information contained in this dossier."

  "Why is that?"

  "Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Be aware of the real man and you will treat him differently. If Mr. Lefebre were to ever know you possess intimate knowledge of his past, he might become very ill tempered."

  "I appreciate the warning."

  Houghton broke the barest of smiles, glanced at his watch, and rose from his desk chair.

  "It is time for dinner, Mr. Bruce. I have made reservations at the Ritz."

  "At your pleasure," Scotty said, glancing at the lights on the telephone panel that had been silently flashing, nonstop, since he had entered the room.

  Houghton walked to the door. He followed. They entered the outer office. The secretary called a car. They entered the hall, took an elevator to the basement, climbed into a limousine behind a driver and bodyguard, and left the building.

  The limousine slowly moved along London's side streets.

  The Ritz had been superb, dignified, cordial. The food had been equally inviting, but as Scotty had listened to Houghton recite a chronology of Pierre Lefebre's achievements, he had quickly lost his appetite. In fact, by the time the message which prompted their departure had arrived, he'd become positively nauseous.

  The Black Angel of Algeria. The general's master of castration and decapitation. The death man of Katanga. Maimer and crippler of blacks on both sides of the Congolese insurrection. The Frenchman. The Chief of Torture in Idi Amin's State Research Bureau. Bearer of death and pain for thousands of Ugandans. All these evils. All one man. Pierre Lefebre.

  He'd heard it in detail. The events of Lefebre's orphaned childhood. His undistinguished career in the French army. And, of course, the particulars of his long, satanic romance with Africa.

  Some of the facts matched the information Lefebre had provided himself; however, Lefebre had left out most of the interesting particulars.

  What the hell was Lefebre doing at Geminii?

  Unfortunately, Houghton did not have the answers, but he'd promised to uncover them. And Scotty was certain Houghton could turn the trick.

  The limousine crossed the River Thames, scooted through side streets, turned past a fish market, then angled into a dead-end alley and stopped. Houghton ushered Scotty from the car.