Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  "It's all very interesting," Scotty said, "but I've heard worse about Lefebre."

  Houghton smiled. "There was another man in Biafra. A man we are certain was in the oil-refining city of Port Harcourt at precisely the same time as Lefebre. A man named William Whittenfeld."

  "Whittenfeld?" Scotty exclaimed, shocked, remembering Whittenfeld had claimed the North Sea to have been his first foreign experience. "What the hell was Whittenfeld doing there?"

  "There's oil in Nigeria. Mr. Whittenfeld was employed by a small company named Colorado Standard Petroleum. While the civil war raged over the issue of sovereignty, there was also a war over drilling rights and oil revenues. Prior to the fall of Port Harcourt in May 1968, the Biafran government, needing foreign exchange, decided to lease oil land for exploration. Several companies bid. Colorado Standard won the concessions. However, federal forces overran Port Harcourt soon after. Colorado executives fled. Eventually, the oil leases were given to Royal Dutch Shell and BP."

  "Did Whittenfeld meet Lefebre there?"

  "Most definitely. Their first meeting took place at a reception held by Ojukwu."

  "And after that?"

  "I don't know. There are dead spots in the record, but we are working on them for you. I do know there was quite a bit of intrigue centered about the lease decisions, and there's evidence which suggests Mr. Whittenfeld was involved in considerable skullduggery."

  "Which might have included Lefebre?"

  "I put little stock in coincidence."

  They re-entered the building, then walked out to the jeep. "When will I hear from you?" Scotty asked.

  "When I have something to tell you," Houghton replied, retreating. "And by the way, I suggest you say nothing to Whittenfeld."

  Scotty stared. He wasn't sure what all this information meant. Or where it would lead. However, he guessed it might lead to an understanding of Whittenfeld's need for the Frenchman. Christ, he knew he should let well enough alone. But he also knew he couldn't. He was incurable. He'd go slowly, gather additional information, see what developed.

  Climbing into the jeep, he shook himself out of his trance and drove off.

  * * *

  Returning to Inverness, Scotty parked his car along the River Ness and walked toward the docks. The streets were deserted. Though official interest in the salvage operation remained high, the frenetic atmosphere had subsided.

  A brisk wind was seeping inland. The shallow river bottom was visible. The Loch Ness monster, if it existed, had never navigated inland by means of the river; it would certainly have run aground long before reaching the loch's deep waters.

  As he reached Douglas Row, he eased into a doorway to remain unobserved by three men who climbed into a car outside a corner building. He recognized one of the men, Girard. Judging by their movements, they wished to remain unseen. The car disappeared down a side street.

  He entered the corner building and examined the building's directory; the offices of the Transport and General Workers Union were listed.

  He climbed to the second floor. The union's office door was open. He entered. The place had been ransacked.

  He stepped into Sutherland's private suite; Sutherland's name was on the door. It, too, had been torn to shreds. A file cabinet had been opened and emptied.

  Hearing footsteps, he turned.

  "Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Bruce?" Hugh Sutherland asked sarcastically.

  Sutherland was standing with two burly men.

  "Now before you get any ideas," Scotty said, realizing an alarm had been tripped. "I suggest you listen to me."

  "That is precisely what I intend to do before I call the police." He looked inside the file cabinet, inspecting a severed pouch. "Where are the papers?" he asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Don't bullshit me."

  "I'm not bullshitting you. I didn't break in here, and I didn't take anything. Here, search me! I was walking down the street, and I saw three men run out of the building, climb into a car, and race away."

  "Three men? I see. Did you recognize them?"

  Scotty hesitated. He'd promised himself he'd go slowly. And this was better left for Geminii internally. "No. But I goddamn well knew something was up. I entered the building and noticed the union listing in the directory. I came up here and found this."

  "You're lying!"

  "I swear to you!" Christ, once again trouble had found him. First, the beating incident. Now this. It was as if he couldn't avoid disaster.

  Sutherland called the police, then turned on Scotty. "You dirty bastards think you own the world. Think you can step over anyone. Well, you're wrong. The one man you're certainly not going to step over is me. I'll see your gizzards rot before that happens." He clenched his fists, almost striking out. "Dirty rotten bastards!"

  The police were in the offices a short time later.

  Scotty stood on the command barge's bow next to Whittenfeld. The wind was churning between the loch's mountains like desert dervishes. Beyond the barge was the salvage flotilla. Three diving barges were nearby; several sets of divers were currently working on the bottom. Two huge hoisting rigs were anchored, and hoist lines had already been attached to the hulks. The largest ordnances, though, were supply tugs loaded with flotation material; their huge feed lines were visible descending into the water. According to schedule, the divers would soon be attaching the feed lines to the airtight chambers of the Columbus and sonar tug. Then pumping would begin.

  "Fortunately," Scotty was saying as he stared across the silver-blue waters, "an old man who lived in a garret across from the union offices also saw the three men leave the alley. He corroborated my story. MacGregor bought it."

  "How long did they have you there?"

  "Two hours."

  "You didn't tell them about Girard?"

  "No, and the old man was too far away to ever be able to make a positive identification."

  Whittenfeld looked off, his facial expressions registering little. "Good," he finally said. "I appreciate your discretion."

  "Why did the men ransack the offices?"

  "They were looking for information. Lefebre discovered a tie between Sutherland and the Jacobites. I asked him to uncover more."

  "Why didn't we turn the information over to MacGregor?"

  "Because it was sketchy. And because neither MacGregor nor the Special Branch could have followed it up properly."

  Scotty braced himself; the barge was rolling heavily. "Why is that?"

  "Use your head, Scotty. The police are limited in what they can do. They're governed by British common law. They just can't go breaking into private offices digging for information. Their resulting impotence is fairly well documented. They've had little success in opening up the radical movement. Hell, Scotty, we're in no position to wait for the police. Nor can we put the safety and success of the Loch Ness project in their hands. There is a guerrilla war underway. The Columbus might very well have been a victim. And damn, you have to fight guerrillas with guerrilla tactics."

  "We've been breaking the law as a matter of policy," Scotty said angrily.

  "We've had no choice," Whittenfeld countered.

  "Was Lefebre's raid successful?"

  "Yes. There were papers in a pouch which conclusively linked Sutherland to the New Jacobites. I have the material—letters, propaganda documents, what have you. We'll find a way to get the information to the police without incriminating ourselves, then, apart from keeping a sharp watch, we'll leave the rest to them."

  Scotty paced slowly away. Whittenfeld watched him. Scotty returned.

  "How are security decisions made?"

  "Lefebre and I make them."

  "I want to join the deliberations."

  "I'm sorry, but that's impossible."

  "Why?"

  "Lefebre won't tolerate it."

  "Order him to tolerate it."

  Whittenfeld breathed deeply. "I force him to operate in front of a third person—especially you—and
Lefebre will leave. I can't let that happen."

  "And if I leave?"

  "I won't let that happen, either. I will get on my hands and knees and beg before I would let you go."

  Scotty looked out at the flotilla. Scores of men were busily moving about the decks of the tugs and barges.

  "Why did you hire Lefebre?" he asked, finding it hard to envision Whittenfeld on his hands and knees begging him to stay. Hell, he did not see himself as invaluable to Whittenfeld's future; there were always other engineers.

  "I think the answer is obvious. To allow me the freedom to operate without interference. Scotty, Lefebre stands between Geminii—my dreams, everything I live for—and those who would destroy it all."

  "You hired Lefebre from Schlumberger, right?"

  "Yes."

  "You'd never worked with him before?"

  Whittenfeld narrowed his stare. "I'd never even met him before. But I assure you, I interviewed him thoroughly. I knew what I was getting—the positives and the negatives." He patted Scotty's shoulder. "I know you have a problem with Mr. Lefebre. You'll just have to learn to accommodate it."

  Scotty bristled. Should he challenge Whittenfeld about the lie? Invoke the specter of Africa? It would serve no purpose now. He had something more important to challenge. "I'll accommodate Lefebre," he said, realizing he was about to issue the type of challenge he'd sworn to avoid. "But I won't tolerate the bullshit. I won't be involved in security excesses anymore!"

  "I understand your feelings."

  "I want to be part of security deliberations. I want to be able to veto dangerous gambits. I need not meet with Lefebre. You do that. Then you and I can caucus together alone."

  "You've got it."

  "Good!" He was shocked it had been that easy. Appeasement?

  Whittenfeld smiled. "You're a good man, Scotty. An asset. You're a trusted confidant. I want to see you happy, and I tell you, even in the face of all our problems, I'm going to make you happy. Or I'll die trying."

  Scotty looked out at the flotilla. All the ships and barges were in place. The men, too. The derelicts were fully prepared for liftout as well, filled with air sacks, their compartments closed, their structures free from inhibition, and according to to chief salvage engineer, precisely buoyant enough for the dangerous and time-consuming hoist maneuvers.

  Tony Spinelli approached.

  "Everything is ready," he advised.

  "Good," Scotty replied.

  "We just need your order," Spinelli said.

  Whittenfeld's words—"I'll die trying"—rang in his head, just as they had been ringing in the last week during the final stages of the salvage prep.

  "Bring the Columbus up!" he declared.

  Chapter 16

  The sky brooded like a black, heavy sledgehammer as Scotty crossed from the executive office building toward the makeshift plastic bubble that had been erected over the remains of the Columbus and sonar tug. Ignoring the light spray of snow that had already covered the ground, he checked through security. The last three weeks, since he'd seen Houghton, had been living hell. Even though this was the first snow, it had been relentlessly cold, and they'd had more than a winter's share of driving wind already.

  The salvage operation had proceeded remarkably according to plan. He'd expected much worse. The Columbus and tug had settled on a narrow plateau over the wellhead, a precariously short distance away from the loch's deepest trench, which had presented the reality of slides. In addition, the center section of the drill ship had been impaled on the marine riser, and the riser's extraction had created a gauntlet of problems. There was no way to minimize the difficulties they had encountered in deploying the air bags and then raising the remains to the surface. And, of course, they had started operations fully aware they'd had ah open well bore below them.

  He entered the bubble.

  The vision inside was surreal. Before him were three mounted sections of the Columbus and the sonar tug, framed in precisely the position they'd been found on the loch bottom, the tug's bow buried in the drill ship's superstructure. Though severely damaged, the derrick had been replaced over the moon pool. On the ground lay a five-hundred-foot length of marine riser. Portions of broken and melted drill pipe were also arranged nearby. Along the far side of the room were several body bags. The total body count had reached sixty-one. Fifty-one bodies were still missing, presumed lost forever.

  Security inside the building was heavy. The inspection crew, however, was minimally staffed. There were several Geminii structural and mechanical engineers involved as well as two representatives from the Energy Petroleum Directorate and, of course, senior Geminii staff.

  Whittenfeld and Spinelli were perched on one of the inspection platforms. Seeing them, he climbed the access ladder.

  "Are they ready out there, Scotty?" Whittenfeld asked after Scotty had reached their level.

  "Yes. We've cleared out most of the salvage vessels and have keyed in the lead dive support ship. They're about to send down one of the RCV remote eyes. We'll have a good map before the divers go down."

  "I want the best men."

  "You've got them."

  Scotty realized they were slightly behind schedule. The divers should have completed the final recovery phase overa week ago. However, wind conditions had not been accommodating, and after they had hauled the remains of the drill ship and tug to shore, they'd had to place the on-loch operation on hold.

  "How long until we're able to dispatch the recovery teams?" Whittenfeld asked.

  "We need a day or so for planning, and then we can go, although I don't think we should move until after the funeral services—out of respect."

  "We'll wait," Whittenfeld said, then turned to Spinelli. "Show Scotty the newspaper," he added.

  Spinelli held up a newspaper he'd been carrying in his hand. Scotty scanned the front page. There was a lead article on the New Jacobite coalition, which included extensive coverage of Hugh Sutherland's involvement and a statement by the Northern Constabulary that Mr. Sutherland had been called in for questioning.

  "I see the material found its way into the proper hands," Scotty said.

  "The very proper," Whittenfeld observed.

  Scotty glanced at Spinelli. Obviously, Tony Spinelli was aware of what had happened.

  "Will it affect Sutherland's position with the union?" Scotty asked.

  "I'd assume so," Whittenfeld speculated. "I contacted the National and suggested Sutherland is not the proper man for the Inverness post. I can't imagine them not agreeing, especially in the light of the threatening letters we received. However, I haven't gotten an answer yet, though I know the National is squirming. When I hear from them, you'll be the first to know." He paused, looking up at the hulk. "Right now, though, I'm more concerned with Sutherland's Jacobite connections, making sure Sutherland is defused."

  Joined by Energy Department officials, they began to walk along the wooden catwalk, inspecting the hull. The three broken segments of the ship had been superficially joined together. The gas explosions and fire itself had roasted and twisted much of the deck metal, fusing numerous discrete parts into one. Unfortunately, as of yet, they had no firm leads to the cause of the blowout, though they had seen enough to intelligently formulate theories and ask leading questions. Assuming the kill operations had been completed, as the radio transmissions suggested they had been, a loss of mud circulation was suspected. The drill pipe had obviously been blown out of the well. But had it bent prior to its expulsion, thereby stopping the downward flow of mud? And if so, why hadn't the crew foreseen this and closed the preventer? The drill pipe was there, and its inspection had been scheduled. However, the control hoses and blowout preventer were still on the bottom, and until their recovery, a complete investigation and its resulting conclusion were impossible.

  A call from inside the ship captured their attention. One of the inspectors had located another body, pinned by twisted metal. They waited as several acetylene workers cut a hole in the side of
the hull and removed the virtually unrecognizable remains. There was one means to determine its identity, however. The corpse's clothes, and Scotty did not have to look long before he felt as if he would pass out.

  It was Bob Reddington.

  A horrible vision of Reddington's decomposed body hung before his eyes, and as Scotty walked behind the horse-drawn hearse down High Bridge Street. Listening to the clop of hoofs and the grind of wheels, he could not contain a swirling surge of nausea.

  Reddington's coffin was last in the funeral cortege; sixty-one horse-drawn hearses preceded it, along with an empty hearse representing the men whose bodies had not been recovered The entire route was lined with stern-faced Scotsmen. A light snow was falling. However, a weather window, which would allow the final phase of the recovery, was rapidly approaching. Though it was just short of noon. the sky was dark and brooding, and the air was exhaustinelv cold.

  The end of the cortege crossed the River Ness Bridge and

  approached St. Andrew's Cathedral.The crowd grew larger.

  The pace slowed. Scotty dug deep for breath, nodding to Grabowski, Nunn, and Foster, who were standing at the edge of the church lawn. Scotty was crying heavily, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd cried for anything.

  He left the hearse, started up to the cathedral entrance, then stopped. Mary MacKenzie was standing on the church's top step. She was staring at him. She was crying, too.

  He entered the cathedral.

  Someone knocked on the front door.

  "Come in," he called.

  The door opened; he turned in the desk chair.

  "Hello," Mary MacKenzie said as she appeared in the den doorway.

  "Hello," he said, thoroughly taken by surprise.

  "Can I come in?" she asked timidly. "I hope I'm not intruding. I know this has been a difficult day. But—"

  "I'm glad you came," he said, walking around the desk and taking her by the hand. "Why don't you have a seat. Perhaps I can get you something. Some coffee. Or tea. My house-keeper is off today, so it will take me a few minutes."