Monster: Tale Loch Ness (16 page)

The meeting was adjourned.

Scotty flew to London and checked into Grosvenor House, Hyde Park, Mayfair District.

As soon as he was sequestered in his suite, he called Houghton and spoke to Houghton's secretary once more, confirming the scheduled meeting, eight o'clock precisely, the address provided, 113 Elizabeth Street, Belgravia.

It was five o'clock. He had several hours to kill. He would take a shower, a shave, and then a short nap, expecting the switchboard operator to call at seven.

The street was dark, the building's windows boarded. Scotty rang the bell. The door speaker crackled, its mounted television eye focusing. Upon request, he announced his name. The door opened. No one was there.

He walked down a long, dark hall. Nearing the end, an attractive young woman appeared, identified herself—Mr. Houghton's secretary—then frisked him thoroughly. Dumbfounded, Scotty said nothing.

They entered a suite.

The suite's outer office was small. A file cabinet stood in the corner. The walls were white.

The only visible interior door opened, and a man appeared dressed in a vested suit.

"Mr. Bruce," he called, rushing to shake Scotty's hand.

"Mr. Houghton?" Scotty asked, still a bit put off by the reception.

"Of course, Mr. Houghton," Houghton said, leading Scotty into his office, another spartan room, white as well, with a solitary desk, one couch, and an eye-startling bank of telephones. "Please take a seat and relax." He nodded approvingly as Scotty sat. "Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you," Scotty said.

Houghton walked behind the desk. "Well, you just tell me if the need arises." He smiled effusively. "Now I hope your trip from Inverness was without incident."

Scotty examined the man. Houghton was far more pleasant than he had expected. Far more gregarious, too. In fact, Houghton was a rather agreeable, elegant chap, equipped with a proper upper-class English accent, a soothing demeanor, and an engaging personality.

"The trip was fine," Scotty said, relaxing.

"Good. I'm happy to hear that. I hope you've taken a liking to the country up there."

"Yes. Very much so."

Houghton sat. "I love Scotland myself. In fact, I have a small farm in Nairn, not far from Inverness. I use it as a vacation cottage, though, I'm sorry to say, I don't get up there often. Business consumes far too much of my time."

Scotty was tempted, but he didn't ask. "I appreciate your meeting with me, Mr. Houghton."

"Don't mention it. Wessinghage is an old friend. Although I haven't seen him going on about ten years, we still transact business over the phone. A request from Wessinghage is an honored request. Besides, this one was easy."

"You were able to obtain information on Lefebre?"

Houghton looked puzzled. "Of course. I had information long before Michael Wessinghage called. Mr. Lefebre is not an unknown quantity."

Scotty's curiosity began to peak. "Might I smoke?"

"Of course."

Scotty lit a cigar while looking about the room.

"I notice you've noticed," Houghton said. "The place is sparse. Quiet and colorless. But I find it comfortable." He removed his glasses. "Wessinghage told me you were a famous football player."

"An exaggeration."

"You're being modest. And evasive with the wrong person. I know everything there is to know about you, Mr. Bruce."

"How did that come about, Mr. Houghton?"

"I do not impart information to unknown quantities. Though Wessinghage's word is uniquely trustworthy, my associates still compiled a normal profile. I hope you don't mind, but we try to keep our procedures standardized."

"We?"

"Yes. We. I am only the tip of the iceberg. These telephones put me in contact with a great many ears and mouths. I am not as insular as I might appear." He smirked. "I can see you are brimming with curiosity. What does Mr. Houghton do, you are asking yourself. Is he a spy? A secret agent? A master criminal?" He laughed broadly. "None of those, Mr. Bruce."

Scotty remembered Wessinghage's careful admonition. "I am only concerned about Pierre Lefebre's background."

Houghton smiled. "I approve your sense of discretion." He rifled through the pages of a dossier. "The life of Mr. Pierre Lefebre."

Scotty craned his neck; Houghton kept the file out of reach.

"Why do you wish to know about Lefebre?"

"I work with him. There's no love lost."

"I see. But that is rarely the reason for such intense curiosity."

"I think he's dangerous. I don't understand what he's doing with Geminii. I'm concerned about the future consequences."

Houghton's expression deepened. "Mr. Lefebre is a very evil man."

"I'm not surprised."

"And yes, very dangerous, too. More dangerous than you think. You might be better served without the information contained in this dossier."

"Why is that?"

"Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Be aware of the real man and you will treat him differently. If Mr. Lefebre were to ever know you possess intimate knowledge of his past, he might become very ill tempered."

"I appreciate the warning."

Houghton broke the barest of smiles, glanced at his watch, and rose from his desk chair.

"It is time for dinner, Mr. Bruce. I have made reservations at the Ritz."

"At your pleasure," Scotty said, glancing at the lights on the telephone panel that had been silently flashing, nonstop, since he had entered the room.

Houghton walked to the door. He followed. They entered the outer office. The secretary called a car. They entered the hall, took an elevator to the basement, climbed into a limousine behind a driver and bodyguard, and left the building.

The limousine slowly moved along London's side streets.

The Ritz had been superb, dignified, cordial. The food had been equally inviting, but as Scotty had listened to Houghton recite a chronology of Pierre Lefebre's achievements, he had quickly lost his appetite. In fact, by the time the message which prompted their departure had arrived, he'd become positively nauseous.

The Black Angel of Algeria. The general's master of castration and decapitation. The death man of Katanga. Maimer and crippler of blacks on both sides of the Congolese insurrection. The Frenchman. The Chief of Torture in Idi Amin's State Research Bureau. Bearer of death and pain for thousands of Ugandans. All these evils. All one man. Pierre Lefebre.

He'd heard it in detail. The events of Lefebre's orphaned childhood. His undistinguished career in the French army. And, of course, the particulars of his long, satanic romance with Africa.

Some of the facts matched the information Lefebre had provided himself; however, Lefebre had left out most of the interesting particulars.

What the hell was Lefebre doing at Geminii?

Unfortunately, Houghton did not have the answers, but he'd promised to uncover them. And Scotty was certain Houghton could turn the trick.

The limousine crossed the River Thames, scooted through side streets, turned past a fish market, then angled into a dead-end alley and stopped. Houghton ushered Scotty from the car.

"I thought some first-hand knowledge would be proper punctuation," he explained.

"An eyewitness?"

"Unfortunately so."

Houghton pulled back a dangling door and stepped into a small room lit with a solitary lantern. Scotty followed. Inside the room was a cot. On the cot, a black man, both his legs mangled.

"How are you, Kabugo?" Houghton asked, slipping the man a roll of sterling.

"Very good," Kabugo said, gutturally forming words by forcing air from his throat.

Houghton turned to Scotty. "You will have to be patient with Mr. Kabugo. He does not have the services of a tongue. It was summarily removed with a machete. But he has learned to overcome his disability through practice and the rejection of pain."

Kabugo smiled, then laughed. He had a patch over his eye. No right ear. No teeth. A massive scar crossing his face.

"Sit," Kabugo said, pointing to a pair of crates.

Houghton and Scotty sat down, their feet immersed in dust. Scotty lit a cigar, Houghton a cigarette, poised at the end of a holder.

"Mr. Bruce would like to know something about Pierre Lefebre," Houghton said.

Kabugo's smile turned to a scowl. "May he die. Die in pain."

Houghton glanced at Scotty. "There are many who have wished the same end for Lefebre." He gestured to Kabugo.

"Mr. Bruce would like to know specifics."

"Mr. Bruce wish to hear of the devil?"

"Yes, he wishes."

Kabugo's eyes blazed. "I only meet Lefebre once, but the name Lefebre known in Kampala like the name devil. Most evil man. But no one ever see. Head of torture at State Research Bureau."

"Go on," Scotty said, after Kabugo had paused, searching through memories.

Kabugo coughed consumptively. "Uganda bad place once Amin throw out Obote. Many die. Many tortured. But wife and I poor persons, no politic, so we never think there be a problem. But Amin a Moslem. And for Catholics like we, Amin no good." He lit a hand-rolled cigarette that soon emitted a distinctive odor—hash. "One day we at Makerere Church of Christ singing, and Amin's soldiers under orders from General Adrisis enter, searching for Pastor Musotebi. But Musotebi no there, being somewhere near Namasaga at time. Soldiers have arrest order charging Musotebi with treason. They ask us where pastor be, but we no say. So soldiers take us to basement of Research Bureau, the place of the dead." His speech became stuporous. "Nubians come and beat us with sticks. When no one tell where the pastor be, we be forced to lie face down on ground until we hear voice of Frenchman Lefebre. Frenchman say he want to release married couples and all those who be that should raise hands. I try to stop wife, but she raise hand, and then Lefebre pick us out and have us taken to a little room where we be tied to the wall. For whole day we hang, then Lefebre, the Satan, come in, smiling. He say I am to tell him whereabouts of pastor, but I no do. So Frenchman Lefebre, he beat me all over legs with lead bar while he laugh. He break legs, but I still no tell him nothing. Lefebre he come and go, and each time he come, he beat me more and cut my face with knife. Finally, he say, if I no tell him, he kill wife. I tell him pastor in Namasaga. Lefebre leave, then come back next day to tell me I lie." He stopped, choking, tears beginning to come down his cheeks. "Then he kill wife."

"Tell him how, Kabugo," Houghton prompted gently.

Kabugo wiped the tears from his face. "He dig out her heart and leave it at my feet."

Scotty nearly threw up. Unable to believe. Unable to fathom how such a thing could take place in this day and age.

"Tell him the rest, Kabugo," Houghton ordered.

Kabugo cleared his throat, trying to force more strength into the muscles. "Lefebre make me hang there another day with dead wife on floor; then he come back and tell me I am to be let go. But I am to be punished for lying." He began to cry again. Houghton soothed him, urging him on. "Lefebre, he cut out my eye, cut off my ear, then cut out my tongue. Lefebre leave. Nubians come and take me to Kampala hospital. And I no ever see Lefebre again."

"I can't—" Scotty tried to say, looking at Kabugo, trying to impart some sympathy.

Houghton stood. "Kabugo doesn't need sympathy. Sympathy does not buy food."

Squeamishly, Scotty handed the cripple a ten-pound note.

"You be a kind man," Kabugo said, rocking back against the wall.

The conversation ended abruptly; Houghton and Scotty returned to the limousine. Houghton ordered the driver to proceed to Grosvenor House. Scotty remained quiet, reflective, confused. As the car neared Park Lane, though, he turned to Houghton.

"Can I believe all this?" he asked.

"Of course," Houghton replied.

"Will you get me the remainder of the information?"

"It may take time, but I will get it."

Scotty glanced out the window as the driver pulled the limousine up to the hotel. "One more question, if I may."

"Of Course."

"Why is Lefebre loose?"

"There is a price on his head in Algeria and Uganda."

"No. I mean why isn't he in jail here?"

"He'd done nothing wrong."

"He's killed, tortured, maimed."

"In Africa."

"Africa exists. Africa has laws."

"Lefebre is in Great Britain. He has done nothing wrong here. Broken no laws. And as far as this society is concerned, he is thoroughly welcome."

Scotty stared. Houghton smiled. Houghton was a thorough professional.

He and Houghton shook hands.

"Thanks," Scotty declared, easing out of the car.

"You will hear from me," Houghton said in reply.

Scotty stepped back from the curb. Houghton bowed.

The limousine disappeared.

The Monday-morning session was the last on his schedule. He arrived early at company headquarters, the home base for Geminii's European and African business ventures, and left shortly before two, early afternoon. In the interim, he met with senior executives, discussing the exciting discoveries in Inverness. He truly admired the London contingent. They were professional, considerate, likable. And that was doubly true for John Fallworth, the managing director of Geminii International Limited, a man widely respected not only in the oil business but in the general community as well. Unfortunately, Scotty was ill at ease most of the time, painfully trying to refrain from asking any pointed questions about Lefebre. Of course, questions would have been ill advised. He was new to the company, and his relationship with Fallworth was still embryonic. As Houghton had said so pointedly, Pierre Lefebre had done nothing wrong in Great Britain, and for all he knew, Lefebre's background was known to top-level management, albeit the gruesome details submerged by time and distance.

He lunched with Fallworth and several other executives, spent most of the time dodging questions about the National Football League—most of the men were American—then returned to the hotel midafternoon, rested until five, and caught the company limousine to Heathrow.

He disembarked his British Airways' flight to Inverness shortly after nine o'clock. It was dark and cold at the airport, and his jeep, which he'd left in the terminal parking lot, was nearly frosted over. As he climbed inside, his thoughts rambling, he was unable to forget Kabugo.