Monster: Tale Loch Ness (31 page)

"So I've read. But I can assure you, they are not a Jacobite reincarnation. Neither in principles nor fierceness." She arched her head. "Hey, we were going to have a romantic dinner, and we were not going to talk about Highland Council business, Scottish politics, oil, or Geminii Petroleum. You made me promise over my severe objections, and I'm going to hold you to the promise as well."

Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek, capitulating. The main course arrived. They began to eat.

"Would you be surprised if I told you I'm still uncomfortable with my feelings?" she asked a short time later.

"No. Not really."

"I'm still afraid I made a mistake letting myself get so close to you."

"No mistake. I'm hung up."

"What does that mean?"

"It means—well it's an American way of saying—Damn, I'm not so good at voicing these things. I feel emotion better than I express it."

"When we're alone. Can you?"

"There's a lot better chance." He knew he would have to be the first to say, "I love you." After that, he suspected she would be able to bridge her own psychological dam, the same dam that made her resort to nationalist rhetoric and tales of Scottish history every time she felt herself being overcome with passion and the loss of control.

She touched his lips with the tips of her fingers, then kissed his hand. "Let's wait, then," she said.

Leaving the Culloden House, they drove by the Culloden battlefield graveyard.

She stared at the gravestones; clan names were etched into the rock faces.

"I know you can't feel what I feel when I look at these markers," she began somberly.

"No," he replied. "But I understand."

She squeezed his hand. "I look at the clan names, and I can visualize the men, their faces, the zeal they felt for Bonnie Prince Charles, the zeal they felt for Scotland. I told you they died terribly, but if they had known their sacrifice would one day become a symbol of a free Scotland, they would have felt their deaths worthwhile. I feel very strongly for these men. In fact, when I was young, my father would tell me their story, and I would wish that I had fought and died here. Is that peculiar?"

"Not for a child."

"Sometimes I still dream. Sometimes I think my duty is still martyrdom."

He flinched; the words that sprang from her mouth seemed anachronisms for a twentieth-century woman. Yet there was a lot about Scotland still trapped in the past. "I don't want to hear it. I wouldn't allow it. I'd take you back to the States before I would let that happen."

She stared at him, the moonlight lighting his handsome face. "I couldn't let you do that. I left once. I can never leave again. My father and mother lived and died here. They lie in the ground behind the inn, and I will, too, someday. My soul, the cells in my body, are made of Scottish soil. I can never leave without seeing Scotland free. That is a trust God has given me. A duty. I can never abandon it again. If I did, I would betray everything!"

Left once? Abandoned the trust? What was she talking about? He asked her what she meant. She did not reply.

They headed back toward Inverness.

Reaching the loch, they drove to Drumnadrochit and then, deciding to drop in on Father MacPherson, proceeded to the parish.

The parish parking lot was jammed with cars. The lawns were covered with books, broken pews, glass, all strewn indiscriminately.

Someone had wrecked the church and MacPherson's home next door.

They entered the chapel. The building had been completely ransacked. The huge crucifix, which had hung resplendently behind the altar, had been hurled to the floor; the body of Christ had been shattered. The place was filled with parishioners, sorting through the rubble, moaning, crying. MacPherson was there, too, holding a bible.

They approached.

"What happened, father?" she asked.

MacPherson turned, tears running, lips quivering. "Destroyed!" he screamed. "All of it. By the followers of the beast and the false prophet!"

"Who?" Scotty asked.

"The men from the oil company."

"Are you sure?"

"By God's word, I'm sure. May hell's fire singe me if I'm wrong, I'm sure."

"Did anyone witness this?"

"I do not know. And it does not matter."

"Then—"

The priest turned angrily. "They've watched us. They surveilled us. And, finally, they thought they could subvert the power of God by the use of the sword!"

"Have you called the police?" Mary asked.

"The police?" MacPherson cried. "What good are police? What power can they bring forth against the minions of Satan? No, I have not called the police, and I shall not. I have prayed to the Lord, and he has answered; another manifestation of the false prophet, another drill ship has been brought to the loch. This I shall destroy first. Then I shall march against the armies of the night."

"Father," Scotty said, "I think we should try to discover who did this before something is done that someone will regret."

MacPherson bristled. "You speak a dolt's language. The power of the Lord stands supreme. I need not fear, nor do I fear the folly of man."

MacPherson exited the church, called his parishioners together and mounted a stone, his face as wild as the night.

"Immediately afterward," he exclaimed, his expression a vision of lunacy, "while dismissing the crowds, Jesus insisted that his disciples get into a boat and precede him to the other side of the lake. When he had sent them away, he went up on the mountain by himself to pray, remaining there alone as evening drew on. Meanwhile, the boat—already several hundred yards out from shore—was being tossed about in waves raised by strong headwinds. At about three in the morning, Jesus came walking toward them on the lake. When the disciples saw him standing on the water, they were terrified. 'It is a ghost,' they said, and in their fear they began to cry out. Jesus hastened to reassure them. 'Get hold of yourselves. It is I. Do not be afraid.' Peter spoke up and said, 'Lord, if it is really you, tell me to come to you across the water.' And Jesus said, 'Come.' So Peter got out of the boat and began to walk on the water, too, moving to Jesus. But when he perceived how strong the wind was, becoming frightened, he began to sink and cried out, 'Lord, save me.' Jesus at once stretched out his hand and caught him. 'How little faith you have!' he exclaimed. 'Why do you falter?' Once they had climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Those who were in the boat showed Jesus reverence, declaring: 'Beyond doubt you are the son of God.' "

Scotty turned to Mary MacKenzie. "What the hell is this about?"

"I don't know," she said.

"The Lord has spoken," the priest screamed, waving his arms. "The battle is joined."

"I want to talk to him," Scotty said.

But before he had a chance, the priest was gone. Scotty looked around. He saw MacPherson halfway up a nearby hill.

MacPherson had gone to pray.

Scotty spent the night at the Cam Dearg Inn, then arrived at Geminii base early the next morning and chaired a staff meeting. Afterward, he returned to his office. Dr. Fiammengo called shortly after ten to advise him they had received the bit records as well as the cuttings. When she said the cuttings were excellent, he wasn't surprised. Bill Nunn was a superb geologist, and he'd consistently recovered the best downhole formation samples available from the return flow of mud.

He asked how long they would need to make a correlation study. Not long was her reply.

Scotty checked with Foster about the events in the Loch Meiklie parish. Foster advised he'd heard nothing about it, and doubted anyone at Geminii would have been involved in such a self-defeating enterprise, though certainly, if Scotty wished, he could take any suspicions he had to Whittenfeld.

Coincidentally, Whittenfeld summoned Scotty to his office a short time later. Entering, Scotty sat at the conference table across from Pierre Lefebre. Hugh Sutherland was also in the room.

"Mr. Sutherland crawled out of the woodwork this mornlng and asked to meet with us," Whittenfeld said as he walked from his desk. "He specifically requested that you be here, Scotty. Perhaps he senses your past sympathies for radical causes."

"I doubt it," Scotty said.

Sutherland lit a cigarette, self-rolled, holding it to his wrinkled lips with callused hands. "I would like to make Geminii a right-proper proposition." He glanced surreptitiously at Scotty. "Ay, I would like to see Gemirui and the local population begin a collaboration."

Whittenfeld thoughtfully rubbed his jaw, hiding a smile. "What do you have in mind?"

"I want a statement made by Geminii accepting the fundamental primacy of the Scottish nation. A statement setting new company policy. A commitment by the company to employ Scottish workers on their own soil. A commitment by the company to use their good and powerful offices to plead the Scottish position—Scotland for the Scots—to the British Parliament, the Cabinet, the public. A commitment by the company to work for a more equitable distribution of Scottish oil revenue. A commitment by the company to enter into a partnership relationship with the population and terminate forever the anachronism of slave and master. And I want a commitment by you to run the tartan colors up the
Magellan
's mast!"

"This sounds like a very one-sided collaboration," Whittenfeld declared.

"There are commitments on the other side, too," Sutherland quickly added.

"Why should Geminii do all this?" Whittenfeld asked, moments later.

Sutherland smiled for Scotty's benefit. "Reason dictates it. Mutual respect demands it. It is only just and proper. And last but not least, it is in Geminii's best interests. Pacify the population honorably, the people will work with you, and you will not find your drill ships attacked."

Whittenfeld's temper flared. "Our drill ships will not be attacked again! Do I make myself clear?"

Sutherland raised his hands. "You need not make anything clear to me. I did not attack the
Columbus
, and I don't know who did. But I do know why it was attacked. And I'm giving you the means by which you can prevent further turmoil forever."

"Guns," Lefebre said, interjecting himself into the conversation. "Guns and bullets."

"Guns and bullets silence voices," Sutherland said, "not ideas."

Whittenfeld glanced quickly at the Frenchman; no more violence, the gesture said. "Reason demands I do the opposite of what you suggest, Mr. Sutherland. My franchise issues from the Crown and Parliament. I look to the Department of Energy and the Scottish Office, and both receive their power from the state. The state is not Scotland. It is
England
.
England
controls Parliament and the Cabinet." He shook his head. "So you can't expect me to do the one thing that will certainly provoke English anger, can you?"

"I want you to do what is just, what reason demands."

"Justice and reason are not the real world, Sutherland. The real world is strength and power!"

Sutherland looked at Scotty. "Is that so?"

"Besides," Whittenfeld said, "these things you ask are outside the province of our business. Our job is to find oil, not to lead a political movement."

"Think!" Sutherland challenged. "Reason!"

"If I reason, I throw you out. Because I goddamn well know a known Scottish radical does not come to my office to beg and cajole. I know goddamn well there's something else on his mind."

"You make me out to be deceitful."

"I make you out to be what you are. And I want to know what the hell you really want?"

"I was told reason and mutual respect run the world."

Whittenfeld appraised the Scotsman with precision, then returned to his desk, sat on the edge, and stared. "I see," he said.

Scotty held open the front door of the building. Sutherland was just beyond.

Sutherland smiled. "You challenged me, Mr. Bruce. You challenged me to recognize what isn't, and I don't like to be challenged. So I think I have shown you the truth, though I'm quite sure you knew it already. It's amazing how often even the most experienced of men will dredge up a glimpse of utopia from within."

"So now what? Violence?"

"From me? No. I told you I am too human. Too much the dreamer."

"Then from someone else?"

"Perhaps."

Scotty returned to the office and sat behind his desk. Rubbing his face, he looked out at the loch. Christ, between the fraud of the investigation, the danger to the ship, and the cast of angry characters in Inverness, he could hardly even begin to calculate the different possibilities for disaster.

But then again, he was convinced he didn't have to.

Events would surely take care of themselves.

It was as dark a night as he could remember. A heavy cover of clouds had rolled in early in the evening, blocking out a bare crescent of a moon. Apart from the sonar tug's lights and the
Magellan
's own torches, the loch and surrounding mountainside looked like an endless black funnel.

Entering the geologist's office, Scotty watched Bill Nunn catalogue some cuttings, then wandered outside toward the drill floor and exchanged some drill-bit penetration data with Tony Spinelli and Mike Grabowski. It was just after midnight. According to a new procedure, he would be spending at least two nights a week aboard the drill ship, carefully monitoring operations. This was tour number one.

Leaving Spinelli and Grabowski, he walked to the bow past a heavily armed security guard. The night was cold and windy. The loch current was strong, and whitecaps rose high, their movements a rhythmic assault against the hull.

A strange sensation of light caught his attention. It was situated along the north loch shore beyond Urquhart Castle, about three miles toward the west and partway up the mountainside. He unsuccessfully tried to determine the source. Then he turned away as the light flickered and darted in the direction of the wind.

The station wagon moved slowly down the unlit street, passing merchant vesels moored to empty docks. Hugh Sutherland was seated in the rear. There was another man in front alongside the driver.