Monster: Tale Loch Ness (3 page)

"Is MacKenzie a crazy, too?"

"No. MacKenzie gathered the army, but MacKenzie led from conviction. All the Caucus members legitimately felt strongly. Most of them live near Loch Ness, and the loch is an emotional issue. It has a national identity, and strong reactions were provoked when the drilling proposal openly discussed oil spills and other catastrophes."

"There'Il be no spills or catastrophes. Barrett's procedures were very strict. Mine are even stricter."

Foster threw out his arms. "Hey, Scotty. I'm not suggesting anything. I just said the area is sensitive, certainly more sensitive than the North Sea fields. The North Sea rigs are so far out no one can see a goddamn thing. But Loch Ness isn't very wide, and the
Columbus
sits right at the mouth of Urquhart Bay. You can't miss her, and no one does. She attracts a big audience, and anyone with binoculars can see just about everything happening on board."

"What about the Loch Ness monster? Anyone seen it?"

"No. And no one will. Because there's no such thing. Along with the planning application, the company commissioned an environmental impact report. To compile it, the contractees did a thorough sweep of the loch with side-scan sonar, underwater submersibles, and subsurface television. They even explored the closed cavern where Kreibel died. There's nothing down there except fish, flotsam, the wreck of a World War Two RAF bomber, and a couple of sunken barges. And there have been no sightings, though one newspaper reporter, sympathetic to the Caucus, headlined after seeing the
Columbus
, 'Nessie has arrived, crew and all.' "

Scotty was staring, half smiling. "You got any family here?" he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

Foster pulled his wallet, opened it, pointed. "Sure. The girl is Jennie, the boys Michael and Adam. That's the wife. Name's Amy. Unfortunately, we're all buried in those grotesque company apartments. You're a lucky man, Scotty. You live in a palace. The man who designed the company complex was a sadist."

"There wasn't enough housing?"

"There was some. But Whittenfeld wanted to bring in a shitload of English workers, so the company felt it advantageous to build. To keep the pressure low. The Scots ain't too fond of the English."

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed twice. Scotty adjusted his watch.

"I haven't eaten breakfast yet," he said. "What say we find a place for a snack?"

"Formal or otherwise?"

"Otherwise."

Foster looked relieved. "Good. Because that's all there is!"

Foster returned Scotty to Travis House at eleven and vowed to reappear at twelve-thirty to ferry Scotty to Geminii's office complex.

A Brunhilde-sized woman of fifty, carrying a satchel, was perched on the front doorstep.

"My name's Mrs. Munro," the woman said sternly as the limousine disappeared into the distance. "I'm your new housekeeper, cook, and guard."

Scotty smiled, approaching. "I didn't expect anyone so soon!" he said, attempting to help the woman with her bag.

"Never you mind," Mrs. Munro scolded, defending her belongings. "The company didn't hire you a tulip in the spring. I can carry my own things."

Scotty gaped. "Anything you say, Mrs. Munro. By the way, my name's Scotty Bruce."

Mrs. Munro looked at the paper in her hand. "Bruce. You're the one. Says so right here. Bruce! District superintendent! Let me say, Mr. Bruce, you've got the right woman at the right time. I specialize in oil. Have had me a dozen or so petroleum executives to look after over the last six years ever since I come down from the north."

They entered the mansion and walked about the first floor.

"I've worked for Geminii people all along," Mrs. Munro said, continuing, "and I've built a good reputation. You know, it takes more than hole diggers to make an oil company run. It takes people like me to keep people like you in one piece."

They moved into the kitchen.

"Now this is one smart-looking house, Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro declared, diddling with the appliances. "You should only get a chance to see the shack I was born in. It would make you appreciate luxury such as this."

Scotty showed Mrs. Munro to the housekeeper's quarters. "I hope this will do," he said.

Mrs. Munro waved her finger in his face. "If it doesn't, you'll hear from me. But it will. 'Cause I don't intend to spend much time in here. I like to keep busy. So just stay clear 'cause I move around right quickly."

"You have my promise."

Mrs. Munro dug into her satchel and pulled out a simple little bag with a tasseled flap. "This is a sporran," she said, handing it to Scotty. "It's a gift. Made it myself."

He examined the piece. "It's very pretty. But what do I do with it?"

"Use your brain, Mr. Bruce," she scolded. "You wear the sporran around your waist in front of you, hung from a strap over your kilt. You know what a kilt is, don't you?"

"Sure as hell."

"Then hell be damned. You know something."

"Unfortunately," Scotty said, "I don't own a kilt."

Mrs. Munro seemed aghast. "Then you're going to have to get yourself one. Along with a proper kilt jacket and bonnet. So you can wear the sporran."

He was flabbergasted.

"Let me see the bedrooms," Mrs. Munro demanded.

They walked upstairs, inspecting the master.

"Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro said, "you might know how to stab a length of drill pipe, but I'll bet you don't know a damn about putting your own clothes away. So you leave it to me. You go be important and save the world from its woes. I'll save you."

Mrs. Munro led Scotty back downstairs and set him on the lounge in the den.

"This is a good place for you while I get this house under control," she said, handing him the sporran. "Now will you be in need of dinner?"

"No. I'll be spending the night on a company installation."

"Good. Then I'll have plenty of time to devote to the premises. And God be praised, 'cause I can see there's lots of things to do. Now. you hear me, Mr. Bruce. You are not to worry about Travis House. She's well taken care of now. Munro of Ross and Cromarty has arrived."

Head raised, Mrs. Munro stalked from the room. Scotty watched her ample body move down the hall, then laid his head back on the arm of the lounge and smiled.

"Christ," he mumbled to himself, yawning. "What a piece of work!"

The huge sign on the fence surrounding the Geminii company complex at Dores read:

Next to the sign stood the main gate, overseen by an admitting station. Beyond was a multistoried glass and steel building, fronted by a jammed parking lot. The loch shoreline itself contained a separate enclosure, harboring two large pontoon loading docks. Both were crammed with equipment. A tug was moored. A seismic craft was in transit, several miles away. And there were numerous armed guards. Obviously, someone was very paranoid and unconcerned with local public relations.

Scotty looked across the road. Fields overrun by sheep extended toward the foothills of the Grampian Mountains. Up the way, he could see the Dores Inn and several small homes.

He sat back in the limousine. Fortunately, he would never have to ride in the damn thing again. A jeep had been ordered and would be available in the morning.

"So what do you think?" Jerry Foster asked.

"Interesting," Scotty replied. "But who the hell are they expecting, the Russians?"

Foster laughed; the question had unexpectedly amused him. "I don't know," he replied. "Perhaps you should ask Lefebre."

"Lefebre?"

"The security chief. As you can see, he believes in George Patton tactics. But I shouldn't prejudice you."

Foster signaled the chauffeur to proceed. The limousine lurched past the guard post and stopped in front of the executive building's main entrance. Climbing out of the car, they entered the lobby, checked through security, rode an elevator to the third floor, and located William Whittenfeld's suite.

Whittenfeld's secretary, a young Englishwoman, ushered them into Whittenfeld's private office and told them Whittenfeld had stepped out for a moment but would soon return.

The office was luxurious, bordered by a huge picture window and furnished with opulent couches, lamps, rugs, a conference table, and a magnificent antique desk. It was neat, clean, almost too perfect.

"Impressed?" Foster asked.

Scotty surveyed the room. "I think Mr. Whittenfeld has a keen sense of what he likes."

Several minutes later, Whittenfeld returned and excitedly closed the office door. "Peter Bruce!" he cried, his deceptively slim body held posture perfect. "Welcome to Scotland." He took off his blazer and draped it carefully over a chair. "And Christ, I'm embarrassed. You get here and I'm nowhere to be found. Problems always seem to pop up when you want them the least. Forgive me. The interruption was unavoidable." He glanced at Foster. "Fortunately, you had Jerry Foster with you, so I know you weren't left flopping about. Foster can make time hustle like the wind."

"It's my job," Foster said.

"Can I call you Scotty?" Whittenfeld asked, shaking Scotty's hand.

"Of course," Scotty replied.

"And you call me Bill, or 'hey' if the occasion demands." He laughed, very self-assured. "Foster get you settled?"

"He couldn't have been more conscientious. The house is perfect."

"Did he also give you the grand VIP tour of the base?"

"We didn't have a chance," Foster advised. "We came right up."

Whittenfeld smiled. "Precision timing."

Foster nodded graciously. "I'll be in my office, Scotty. If you need anything, you just let me know." He inched toward the door. "It was a pleasure."

Foster disappeared. Whittenfeld offered Scotty a cigar, which Scotty accepted.

"Scotty!" Whittenfeld declared, his manner of speech, narrow Nordic features and graying temples amtuating a visible air of authority. "It's a goddamn thrill to have you here. Really a thrill. Though, of course, we all miss Jim Barrett." He paused, thinking. "Barrett was one hell of an engineer, a gentleman, too."

"So I've heard."

"And he was an integral component in the inception of the project."

"From day one?"

"Day two. I supervised the initial exploratory work alone. I brought in Barrett after the ball had started to roll, and I couldn't have chosen a better man. Hell, he deserved to be here. Deserved to receive the proper credit, to see results. Damn heart attack! He is as responsible as anyone for our progress. Not only did he design the drilling program, but without him we wouldn't have been able to get the
Columbus
into the loch."

"You barged the ship through the Caledonian Canal, didn't you?'

"Yes, but that was no easy exercise. The old locks were falling apart, and the chamber's beams were too narrow. We would have had to chop the
Columbus
into a million pieces. I asked Barrett to get us off the hook, so his team lengthened the lock chambers and widened the beams. In order to keep commercial navigation alive, they built the new system right over the old and then tore out the inner structure." He smiled thoughtfully, winding his Piaget watch, everything about him reeking elegance. "The entire region came out to watch the
Columbus
, split in thirds, in transit. It was a social and media event, the biggest noise heard around here since St. Columba announced the presence of a monster."

"I've seen the canal sections in miniature. They have the mockup in London."

Whittenfeld nodded. "A monument to Barrett's inventiveness and our perseverance." He had just passed fifty, the lines on his face appropriate for the age. "When Barrett went down, there was panic in New York and London. Fortunately, Bob Reddington recommended you. And after I had researched your background, I bought the recommendation too. I flew to the States and told them to stop jerking off. Get me a good man. Get me Scotty Bruce. Of course, I wasn't too sure they'd be able to lure you, but when the home office told me you'd expressed interest in abandoning private consultancy, I nearly jumped up to the top of Carn a Bhodaich across the loch."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Scotty said, puffing his cigar.

Whittenfeld walked to the window, staring at the finger of water stretching into the distance. "There it is! Loch Ness. The big prize. Sitting and waiting. Waiting to get angry. I know it looks like a docile child, but that's just a perverted little game it plays. Beneath the child is a vile little bitch with a nasty temper. Like a sorcerer, it can invoke the wrath of hell, and when it does, it is none too pleasant. The wind funnels between the mountains. The water surface waves to enormous proportions. The sky hangs heavy, black, brooding. I've seen it from here, and I've witnessed it aboard the
Columbus
. And I've seen the fear it instills."

Scotty listened, watched, fascinated.

"But what intrigues me most," Whittenfeld continued, "is what lies beneath. A colossal anomaly. A freak of nature. A renegade oil field." He held up several maps. "Look at these seismics and isopachs. Every day the project starts to look better. And every day the company's opponents look more and more like babbling fools." He laughed. "Mr. Bruce, the world is very illogical, its population almost devoured by its own stupidity and ignorance. Fortunately, there are enlightened men determined to see the battle through against onerous odds!"

Scotty just stared. "If I'm to get started tomorrow," he suddenly said, "I'd like to get a feel of the place, walk around, meet the staff."

Whittenfeld laughed. "The profile is accurate. Scotty Bruce: a man of action, few words. That's good. Your impatience with profundity will dewind me!" He walked to a free wall and pulled down a chart. "This is base personnel. I'm at the top. You're underneath. You have a chief district engineer, his staff, a district geologist, and the normal administrative personnel." He pointed at another graphic. "Here's the operational profile for the
Columbus
. Below is security. That's about it. You're familiar with general organizational procedures. Now you just need to meet the faces."