Monster: Tale Loch Ness (30 page)

Scotty thought for a moment. "You said Furst smuggled the chewed hull piece ashore?"

"Yes," Dr. Rubinstein said.

"Why?"

"Max Furst had an acute interest in the Loch Ness phenomena. He knew we did, too, and he wished to supply us with the material because he considered it so incriminating. He did it secretly because he was convinced others would not share his enthusiasm, particularly the management at Geminii. Subsequent events, of course, seem to have proven him correct.

"I have some problems with all this," Scotty said, sitting forward. "This thing has been talked about for years, spotted for years. It hasn't lived forever, has it?"

"Of course not," Dr. Fiammengo declared. "But we believe the continuous sightings suggest a simple conclusion. There is more than one, or at least there has been more than one, and there has certainly been a lineage."

"Then why isn't the bottom of the loch littered with bones?"

Dr. Rubinstein explained. "Many species do not die where they spawn. We believe the loch is the creature's spawning ground. The site where the young are born and nurtured, which would explain reported discrepancies in size. We also believe the animals live and die elsewhere, the Arctic Sea, to be exact."

"How the hell do they get from here to there?"

Dr. Rubinstein jabbed at the air. "They swim. And we believe they have a means to navigate from the loch to the sea, and vice versa."

"The loch has no tides. It isn't connected to the sea."

"We disagree. We believe there is a connecting cavern, much of it above sea level. We believe there's an entrance somewhere in the loch walls and that the cavern rises up beneath the surrounding mountains, heads toward the sea, then descends again."

"Do you have proof?"

"No."

"Then how can you be so sure?"

Dr. Rubinstein looked at his associate, who wetted her lips. "Simple," he said.

"Logic," she declared. "A cavern is the only conceivable way an animal could get in and out!"

Scotty broke into an amused grin. "Let's apply logic across the board, doctor. This creature has always been shy and harmless. Why did it attack the ship when it has never attacked anything in the past?"

Dr. Rubinstein smiled confidently. "It's become aggressive because Geminii Petroleum has introduced an object the creature, or no creature before it, has ever experienced: a drill ship, equipped with a drill, which grinds irritatingly right into the floor of the loch."

"You think the drill vibration has attracted this thing?"

"Yes. And angered it. And these conclusions are supported by history. First, as I'm sure you're aware, the last major incidence of sightings occurred in 1933 when a road was blasted around the loch. Certainly, the dynamite explosions and vibrations might have awakened our quiet friend. And secondly, as a petroleum engineer, you're well aware that the drilling vibration attracts fish by the millions. I've even had a chance to study the phenomena in the Gulf of Mexico, and we once found a drill ship's marine riser literally covered with fish, all brought to the spot by the hypnotic drill vibrations."

"Christ!" Scotty declared. "The damn ship was drilling several weeks. Yet this thing of yours appeared only two, maybe three, times. Where was it? Swimming in the sea?"

"Possibly," Dr. Fiammengo said. "But there might be another explanation."

"It may be the frequency!" Dr. Rubinstein declared.

"What frequency?"

"The frequency of the vibration. There might very well be just one vibration pitch that the creature responds to. You do drill with different sizes and types of bits. You do drill through different formations. There are different frequencies attached to each variable. The question is whether we can find a constant."

"That's why we want your help," Dr. Fiammengo pleaded. "You can help us find this constant by getting us copies of the
Columbus
's drilling and bit records as well as cutting correlation logs and any cutting samples from the well you might have had on shore."

"That might be a very difficult thing for me to do."

"I see," Dr. Fiammengo said.

"But not impossible," Scotty added, realizing he had to follow this up. "Assuming I do this, what then?"

Dr. Rubinstein stood, his mood more forceful. "We'd want you to become an ally. I listened to you at the hearings. I saw your reactions. I asked discreet questions about you. I know all about you now. Your NFL experiences. Your engineering career. Your escapades. The
Phoenix
affair. We think you're the right man to help us."

"To do what exactly?" Scotty asked.

Dr. Rubinstein answered coyly. "We suspect Whittenfeld's trying to hide the existence of the creature because he fears the ensuing attention might affect his drilling operations. We're also aware he might have gone to considerable lengths to protect this knowledge. But with you behind us, supporting us, we might be able to convince Whittenfeld that the
Magellan
is in terrible danger. We might also be able to ultimately convince him to allow us to use the drilling sector to establish the creature's existence beyond dispute."

"How the hell will we be able to do that?"

"By threatening to take our information to the authorities!"

"If you're so concerned about the drill ship, why don't you go to the police right now? Why wait?"

"Simple. If the police beneve us and shut down the drill ship, we lose our means to attract and positively identify the creature. We will never really know if we were right. If you go to the police with us, you will roughly wind up in the same predicament you faced after the
Phoenix
affair blew up in your face. But more to the point, if the police don't believe us, if they consider us charlatans, crazy Nessie freaks, then we lose our trump card over Whittenfeld, and you might very well lose another ship."

Scotty stared, thinking; they'd done one hell of a job researching his background.

Dr. Fiammengo pressed. "Will you help us? Help us find this creature? Help us save the drill ship and its men?"

Scotty switched his attention from the woman to the man. "I'll get you the logs and cuttings," he finally said.

Dr. Rubinstein was ebullient. "Now we're cooking." He was quite a character, bitten nails, sloppy attire, and all. "Yes, let's positively establish the existence of the creature, and then, if you want, we can walk into the constabulary headquarters en masse."

"Where can I reach you?" Scotty asked.

"The Claidheamh Mor."

"You'll hear from me tomorrow."

Dr. Rubinstein suggested he and Dr. Fiammengo return to the hotel. Scotty accompanied them out to the van.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Bruce," Dr. Fiammengo said, shaking Scotty's hand.

Dr. Rubinstein joined. "Yes, absolutely. There are genuine prospects for some very exciting scientific findings."

Scotty realized this might be a broad understatement, but he said nothing more as the two researchers climbed into their van and drove down the street.

Déjà vu!

It was almost as if the script had been written by the same supernatural hand. The
Phoenix
! The suspicious death of the project executive. The sudden appearance of the environmentalists along with their damning evidence. His total but careless involvement. Then disaster. And now Loch Ness! The recovery of the suspect hose after the loss of the drill ship. The suspicious death of the divers. The mysterious activities of Whittenfeld and Lefebre. And now the sudden appearance of the concerned scientists along with their own form of damning evidence. Did disaster lay ahead once again? Maybe. But the new crusaders were not asking him to follow them blindly into opposition. They were asking him to help amass unassailable proof. That alone gave them credibility and set them apart from the zealots of
Phoenix
. But damn if he was going to wander blindly into the valley of death again. No, this time, as he had promised himself before, he was going to be very careful.

The following day, he telexed the New York office, asking New York to compile profiles on Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo. Before committing himself to action, he had to determine whether the two researchers were oddballs or

frauds, whether their evidence was fraudulent, too.

A telex returned that night.

It painted a brief but satisfying picture.

It verified Dr. Rubinstein's self-appraisal and that of Dr. Fiammengo. Although it warned that some colleagues regarded Dr. Rubinstein as a bit of a dreamer, he was uniformly considered honest, a genius, an outstanding academician, an aggressive and innovative researcher.

And most importantly, he was highly regarded by NASA.

The telex also briefly addressed the Phenomena Research Institute.

The organization was legitimate. Most of its funding originated from private sources. However, it had also received major grants from several Eastern newspapers, including the
New York Times
, as well as grants from various philanthropic foundations, and it had directed expeditions under institutional auspices, too, notably one for
National Georgraphic
.

Satisfied, Scotty placed the telex in his pocket.

"This building, this estate, is a shrine to many Scotsmen," Mary MacKenzie was saying as she stared past an open bottle of white wine. "Because the most famous battle in Scottish history took place on the Culloden Moor just beyond the grounds." She paused. "But I suppose you've read all about it in your history book."

Scotty embarrassedly cleared his throat as a young waitress placed some rolls on the table. "I haven't gotten quite that far," he said.

"How far have you gotten?"

"Oh, about a page or two beyond the page I was reading when you first saw the book."

"Then you're really moving along. Let me guess. A word a day?"

"The intent is good. You said it."

They both laughed. He kissed her hand, her warm, soft hand. He could read affection in her eyes, feel excitement in her touch, and he was sure she sensed the same in him. Since the first night they'd made love, their emotions had intensified crazily, their inhibitions and distrust consumed by their desire for each other. He'd helped her break down the barriers, and she'd finally permitted herself to go beyond Scotland and politics and love a man. Hell, he knew the conflicts had made it difficult for her, but at the same time he'd had to face his own special obstacle course. He'd had to unbridle his feelings, allow them to seek fulfillment while facing the terrible and intricate realities of Loch Ness. In fact, he was convinced the struggle had prevented him from giving totally, just as he was sure her internal conflicts had inhibited her. The words "I love you" had not been voiced by either, though when their eyes met, a sense of the words was there.

"Tell me about the battle," he said as he glanced around the room.

"Smile for me first," she demanded.

He did; she loved the look of happiness on his face, the warmth of his smile.

"I know you know Scotland and England merged in 1707," she began, "but I suppose you don't know the crowns were united a hundred years before, in 1603."

"Of course I know that!" he declared, grimacing. "Doesn't everyone?"

"When Queen Elizabeth I of England died in 1603," she said, laughing, "James VI of Scotland, a member of the House of Stuart, became James of England as well, inheriting the English throne. You see, his mother, Mary, Queen of Scots, was the great-granddaughter of England's Henry VII, and even though Elizabeth had Mary executed, the line of succession to James remained intact."

"You expect me to follow this?"

"I'hl make it simple. There were two separate countries with the same king! Unfortunately, James and the succeeding House of Stuart kings preferred the court in London to the one in Edinburgh."

"Sounds like a prescription for trouble."

"It was. And things took a turn for the worse in 1688 when James VII was removed from the English throne and William and Mary were brought in from the Netherlands to rule. You see, there were many clansmen in the Highlands who remained loyal to the original Stuart monarchs even though the Stuarts had whisked themselves off to England. These clansmen opposed the usurpers. They were called Jacobites."

The connection was obvious!

"Let me hear more," he said, suddenly very interested.

"I have an audience," she remarked, surprised. "The Jacobites attempted several insurrections prior to the union of states, but all were unsuccessful. James VII died in 1701. His son, James Edward, became pretender, and after the union of states, the Jacobites rose again in 1715. Their rebellion failed. This time, the government in London took steps to ensure such rebellions did not reoccur. Highland estates were forfeited. Hundreds of Jacobites were expelled from the country. An attempt was made to disarm clans disloyal to London, and the use of the native Gaelic language was proscribed."

She looked at him; he was eager for more.

"Everything remained fairly stable until 1744, when Prince Charles, the son of James Edward, returned to Scotland. By this time, the union of the states was very unpopular, and the relations between England and Scotland were at a Iow. Charles was a far more vigorous leader than his father or grandfather, and he was able to rally the Jacobite clans once again. A huge insurrection erupted, and the decisive battle was fought right here at Culloden. The Jacobite army was destroyed. Wounded men were burned alive or chopped to pieces while lying on the battlefield. The government in London moved to eliminate the clans forever. More estates were forfeited. Clan leaders were executed. The possession of arms was banned, and so was the wearing of kilts and tartan colors." She paused; the conclusion was obviously painful. "And the Highland clans never rose again."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"Have you ever heard of the New Jacobites?"

"Yes. It's a radical offshoot of the SNP. One the SNP has disavowed."

"They're operating in Inverness."