Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  Scotty angrily pointed: he was going to enjoy this. "Now you listen to me, you bastards. The bullshit is finished." He turned directly to Whittenfeld. "If you do not do what Dr. Rubinstein suggests, I'm going to go to Fallworth. I'm going to tell him everything. Then, if that doesn't work, I'm going to go to MacGregor. Then MacKenzie. Then Farquharson. Then the secretary of state for energy and the secretary of state for Scotland. Up to the prime minister if I have to. I'll go to every one of them and tell hem what I know." He paused. "Think about it. Those are your choices. You either do what Dr. Rubinstein suggests or I blow the lid."

  "You don't mean that!" Whittenfeld challenged.

  "You bet your ass I do!" Scotty said, using Dr. Rubinstein's trump, the threat to approach the authorities, "and I want an answer by the morning."

  Scotty informed Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo that Whittenfeld would give them an answer by noon the following day. Then he drove Dr. Rubinstein back to the hotel and took Dr. Fiammengo with him into town for lunch. Finding a seat in a window booth at one of Inverness's "otherwise" Scottish coffee houses, Dr. Fiammengo placed a looseleaf folder on the table.

  "See if you can recognize one of these," she suggested.

  He flipped pages, staring at artists' renditions of prehistoric animals.

  "Some nasty-looking critters," he observed.

  She watched. A waitress delivered some coffee and two cheese-filled potato skins, a Scottish speciality.

  "There's been a lot of conjecture about just what this creature might be," she said matter-of-factly. "Some have suggested it's an invertebrate, some form of giant annelid worm. Others, a mammalian species, highly evolved. Amphibians and fish have received some support, and so have reptiles."

  "What do you think it is?" he asked, staring at her. As attractive as Dr. Fiammengo was, there was something coldly scientific about the way she spoke and gestured; she did not have Mary MacKenzie's warmth and smile or even her visible depth of emotional commitment.

  "I lean toward the reptilian theory. Eyewitness reports would support some form of aquatic dinosaur, in particular, the Plesiasaur, which grew to enormous size and roamed the seas millions of years ago. And we have the reptile-like mucous sample. But, of course, there are strong arguments against!"

  "Like what?"

  "It is presumed dinosaurs were cold-blooded like modem reptiles and therefore would prefer warm water over cold, certainly water warmer than the loch. And Plesiasaurs, like other reptiles, breathed air. Now we're going to have a hard time accepting a creature which only breathes air bemuse such a creature would be a very visible landmark."

  "It could have evolved to breathe in water. Like an amphibian. Couldn't it?"

  "Maybe. But amphibians can't breathe in both environments simultaneously. When an amphibian is young, it breathes in water through gills, but when it comes on to land, it loses the gills and solely utilizes lungs."

  "Maybe this one has learned a different trick."

  "Maybe."

  He continued to span the pages. Suddenly, he stopped. She leaned over. His facial expression changed rapidly; he was disturbed.

  "This is it—almost."

  She turned the book around. On the page was a giant black dinosaur with a long neck, a huge bulbous body, and four immense flippers.

  "You've chosen a Plesiasaur," she said excitedly.

  "I did?"

  "Yes. But you said almost "

  "Yes. I saw the body. The rear flippers, too. But I also saw two huge arms, tipped by enormous claws."

  "Where?"

  He pointed to the picture. "Where the front flippers are shown here."

  She looked up, puzzled. "It's possible," she said, reflecting. "Anything's possible. But this creature certainly would have to be a very evolved organism. Your description suggests it. The mucous samples we studied do, too. If it can breathe underwater, it is one hell of an incredible thing."

  "Are we dreaming all this, lady?" he asked.

  "No," she answered.

  "Sometimes I wonder. And when I wonder, I confront logic again."

  "Specifically?"

  "If this creature's a dinosaur, how and why did it survive its brethren?"

  "I don't know, and we may never know."

  He digested the disclaimer, grabbed the book, studied the picture and the proportkms. "Incredible," he said in conclusion. "Just incredible."

  Chapter 25

  Whittenfeld called the following morning and informed Scotty he could not make a decision without additional documentation on the background of Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo.

  Scotty protested. Whittenfeld demurred. They were not about to embark on a Sunday school picnic. Dr. Rubinstein's proposed gambit was beyond the ken of a novice. Before he would give the project a "go," he wanted to be damn sure Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo were the genuine articles.

  And he wanted the additional information quickly.

  Scotty agreed, strangely pleased by Whittenfeld's intransigence. He, too, was concerned. He now had no doubt about Dr. Rubinstein's and Dr. Fiammengo's honesty, but he wanted to be doubly sure about their abilities, too.

  He informed Dr. Rubinstein there would be a slight delay, then placed additional inquiries with New York. Three members of the New York security office were placed on the matter full time, told to complete dossiers on both principals within two days.

  Business completed, he drove the jeep to the Highland Regional Council offices and picked up Mary MacKenzie. They shared a lager at a pub in town. The day before, they had spoken at length about Father MacPherson's death. She still seemed as upset about it now as she'd been then. He mentioned his conversation with Superintendent MacGregor, then informed her he'd let the cat out of the bag about their relationship. She said she didn't care. She also said she wanted to visit the parish.

  They motored to Loch Meiklie, arriving after the sun had set. The church was dark and intimidating. The silence was deafening, almost supernatural. It was as if MacPherson's death had placed a shroud over the building, burying it.

  The impression disturbed him; he cursed it away.

  Her footsteps rang clearly as she approached the altar. He watched her kneel and pray. The sound of crickets suddenly intruded. Life was reborn. She stood erect, her expression contradictory, remorseful, yet strong. Then she raised her hands and recalled MacPherson's vision—the beast, the false prophet, the rider on the white horse—recalled it as if she had been meant to take up the standard.

  "Why did you say all that?" he asked after they had returned to the jeep.

  "I felt it appropriate."

  "Out of respect?"

  "Yes. But there's another reason. I think Father MacPherson was right."

  "About the Loch Ness monster?"

  "No. About good and evil."

  He said nothing. Based on what he knew, he also felt that MacPherson, in a very real way, had been right.

  He drove the jeep back on to the road.

  They ate dinner together at the inn. They did not mention MacPherson again. In fact, as soon as they had left the parish, Mary MacKenzie's entire mood had changed. She was now smiling, upbeat. It was as if the visit to Loch Meiklie had purged emotions.

  After dinner, she conscripted him for service in the pub and then, after closing, retired with him to the inn's drawing room along with a bottle of wine.

  The room was attractive, its decor subdued, mixing tones of brown and beige. The furniture was old, the atmosphere intimate.

  "Can I ask a question," he asked after they had settled in.

  "Of course."

  He poured two glasses of wine.

  "Remember the day of the Columbus funeral service? Remember our conversation, how I'd guessed you'd had a bad emotional experience and that's why you'd closed yourself off."

  "Yes."

  "I never asked for specifics."

  "I know."

  "I'm asking now."

  "Why?"

  "Because I care about you.
Because I'm not as uninterested as I made myself out to be. Because I'm human."

  "There was no experience," she said, touching his hand, running her nails softly along the inside of his fingers very sensually.

  "At least not with a man."

  "Then with what?"

  "A city—London—a country, England."

  "I don't understand."

  "Sometimes, when I think back on it, I don't, either."

  "You were in London at the time?"

  "Yes. I was a student at the London School of Economics, I felt the experience would be good for me, that a taste of England would expand my horizons. And my father was there quite a bit—a member of parliament."

  "What happened?"

  "Culture shock! Mr. Bruce, whether you know it or not, we Highlanders are very provincial people. London was a revelation. I was just twenty-two years old and had grown up with very narrow ideas. I was raised in a provincial nationalist home with a very rigid outlook. London and the ideas I found there were very different."

  "You began to understand the English."

  She seemed embarrassed. "Yes, but London seduced me. The night life seduced me. The good times seduced me. To this day, I don't know how it happened."

  "It happens to young women all the time."

  "But it shouldn't have happened to me. I was too committed. Too dedicated."

  "Did your father find out?"

  "Yes. He was hurt and angry. He was convinced I had desecrated the spirit of our nation, desecrated our dead. We argued incessantly. I was temporarily insane. But I woke up with a jolt. I came out of a restaurant one night with some friends. A young couple was waiting for a taxi. They were wearing tartan colors. They were attacked by an English street gang because of the colors. I tried to stop the brutality. Others did, too. It was terrible, a nightmare. The young boy died in my arms."

  "And you blamed the English?"

  "No. Of course not. Just like I wouldn't blame the Scots if some Scottish ruffians killed an English tourist. But I was jolted nevertheless, reminded of what I am, what Scotland is, what I had subconsciously chosen to forget."

  "And you reacquired your burden?"

  "Yes."

  He laughed to himself. "Then it wasn't a man, a boy friend." This then was the betrayal of trust she'd spoken of at Culloden.

  She grinned teasingly. "Oh, I've had boy friends. You know that. It just wasn't a boy friend until you. You've caused me to let some of the burden slide again. That frightens me."

  His face registered recognition.

  "You were seduced by a country. I was consumed by ideals."

  "Your causes. The pursuit of the truth."

  "And a headlong rush to disaster."

  He sat quietly, thinking, then took her step by step through the Phoenix incident. He was convinced he had to provide her with the last piece in the complex puzzle that was his life. Sooner or later, she would learn the truth about Loch Ness, learn that he had kept critical information from her. The Phoenix incident might help her to understand and accept his actions, and so might the eventual revelation about the death of Max Furst. He was convinced she'd instantly attempt to short-circuit the loch project if she knew the truth. He was also convinced she might then be in terrible danger. If Whittenfeld and Lefebre had disposed of Max Furst, they would certainly be capable of eliminating her—or him, for that matter. No, if and when the time came for action outside the company, he would approach a broad spectrum of governing authorities. No matter that Mary MacKenzie might hate his guts afterward; she was going to be the last one to know. She was not going to become a footnote on one of Lefebre's casualty lists!

  She embraced him as soon as he had finished the recitation. "We all make mistakes," she said.

  "Not all of us," he replied. "Some of us are just destined."

  The New York-compiled dossiers arrived the following day. They were painstakingly complete.

  Scotty delivered them to Whittenfeld, who reluctantly authorized the project and then informed Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo. The researchers were elated. They instructed Geminii procurement to obtain the chert-silica blocks and set out to assemble the drill apparatus in a basement lab provided by the company. When the blocks arrived three days later, the apparatus had already been completed.

  It took thirty-six hours to prepare for the actual recordings. Dr. Rubinstein estimated the entire process would last two days.

  The recording sessions began.

  Scotty entered the lab during an early recess and invited Dr. Fiammengo to the executive lounge for coffee.

  "Tell me more about Dr. Rubinstein," he said. "Tell me how you met."

  "I was doing graduate work at Harvard. He was on the faculty. He was giving a lecture series on unexplained phenomena. I caught his second session on UFOs."

  "Does he believe in them?"

  "Yes."

  "UFOs and the Loch Ness monster. What about the Abominable Snowman?"

  "He's skeptical there. But on most things Dr. Rubinstein has a very open mind. He accepts possibilities until they are conclusively disproven. He is a very thorough man."

  "A nervous man as well."

  "Call him energetic. He has more than enough energy for ten men. And he's an achiever. That's what attracted me to him. Immediately. And that's what attracted us to you. Your activist past. You are a doer, too."

  They finished their coffee and left the lounge. Dr. Fiammengo returned to the lab.

  Later that day, both researchers joined Scotty in his office.

  "I would like to procure this vehicle for the enterprise," Dr. Rubinstein began after placing a submersible spec on Scotty's desk. "The submersible is the MV-7. I've carefully studied the alternatives and our requirements, and I'm convinced it's the best vehicle I can obtain for the price and the job."

  Dr. Rubinstein handed Scotty a booklet. Scotty scanned it.

  "Impressive," Scotty said.

  "I have used the vehicle before," Dr. Rubinstein declared. "It is reliable and very advanced."

  "The crew?"

  "The best. The pilot is a Liverpudlian named Malcolm Conner. The engineer and copilot is a Dutchman named Johannes Aard. I know them both. They are crack."

  "Who owns the sub?"

  "London Surveying and Marine."

  "I assume it's available."

  "Yes."

  "Have you spoken to them?"

  "Yes."

  "When can it be here?"

  "They promised they can fly it in within twenty-four hours of commission."

  "Get it!"

  Two days later, Dr. Rubinstein completed the recording procedures. The submersible arrived at the airport, and Scotty ordered it helicoptered into the loch. Then he and Dr. Rubinstein welcomed the submersible team to Geminii base.

  Johannes Aard and Malcolm Conner were the most conspicious members of the group. They were outgoing, garrulous, confident, radiating the aura of men who knew what they were about, adventurers, daredevils.

  Scotty liked them immediately.

  He also liked Conner's ribald sense of humor as well as the information he read off their resumes.

  "So what is this all about?" Aard asked, burying his words in a jarring Dutch accent.

  "You'll find it interesting," Dr. Rubinstein predicted.

  "The company doesn't know why the submersible was chartered."

  "That was intentional."

  "They told us," Malcolm Conner added, "that if we don't like the assignment, we can turn it down."

  "That was the deal," Scotty explained.

  "Then let us hear," Aard said, draping his body over a chair and stroking his beard.

  "This conversation is confidential," Dr. Rubinstein advised them.

  "Of course," Conner assured.

  Dr. Rubinstein explained the nature of the assignment. Aard and Conner were astonished.

  Dr. Rubinstein asked if they would accept.

  Aard and Conner just stared.

  * * *


  Submersible planning commenced. Apart from the two operators, the submersible team was kept in the dark about the ultimate objectives.

  A command barge was floated and placed on line. Several planning sessions were conducted. Captain Harrigan was included, though he was given only a minimum of information.

  One week after Whittenfeld had given his authorization, they were ready. Scotty notified Whittenfeld, whom he had barely seen in the intervening days, of the status.

  Whittenfeld gave final clearance.

  Scotty informed all the participants.

  They would begin operations the following morning.

  Scotty paced down the street. Travis House stood in the background. Rarely had he ever felt so unhinged.

  The moon was out, and the sky was clear. Weather service had predicted a perfect day for the first dive.

  He looked at his watch. It was time to go to bed, but he was too keyed up.

  He returned to Travis House, said good night to Mrs. Munro, then retired to his room and called the Cam Dearg Inn.

  Mary MacKenzie answered; she was in the Cam Dearg pub, working.

  "I love you," he finally said, tearing down the last remaining emotional block between them.

  A long pause intervened.

  Then she said, "I love you, too. Very much."

  Chapter 26

  The day was perfect, the loch's surface uncharacteristically quiet.

  The command barge and the twelve-ton, thirty-foot-long, deep-water probe were the only vessels in the active drilling sector apart from the drill ship and lead sonar tug. For purposes of secrecy, the two support sonar tugs had been docked.

  They were nearly ready. Soon the submersible would start its engines and descend to one hundred and fifty feet. Then the Magellan's crew would stop the rotary system, the submersible would begin to broadcast the lab recordings, and if anything alive appeared, it would be photographed by the submersible's ejectable cameras as well as by surface-supported camera equipment previously lowered into the loch.

  The plan seemed perfect.

  "They're ready in the probe," Dr. Fiammengo called as she entered the cabin.

  "Good," Dr. Rubinstein observed. He was perched in a chair behind the console, his bald spot concealed by a woolen ski hat. "Turn on the surface camera."