Monster: Tale Loch Ness (21 page)

He dropped the charts, walked away from the desk, and poured himself a glass of wine from an open bottle sitting on the coffee table. He sat looking out the window. The news of Barrett's death continued to disturb him. He hadn't known the man, but there was an affinity. They both had been trained in the same discipline. They both had held the same job, and according to Bob Reddington, they both had disliked Pierre Lefebre.

He finished the glass, poured himself another, then stood, turned off the desk lamp, walked to the window, and looked out. The fog was eerie. So, too, had been the news of Barrett's death.

He did not know why.

The Sunday-morning sun caromed sharply off the brightblue water of the Moray Firth, splashing against the jeep's windshield as Scotty maneuvered the vehicle down a narrow macadam road.

Ahead he could see a solitary farmhouse perched on a bluff. Arriving at the farmhouse, he jumped from the jeep, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. As expected, a mounted television camera responded first; then Houghton's secretary appeared, frisked him, and invited him inside.

The farmhouse was rustic, simply furnished, its den equipped with another impressive telephone bank. Apart from Houghton's secretary and an energetic West Highland terrier, however, the place seemed deserted.

"Mr. Houghton is waiting for you on the rear patio," the secretary said, leading Scotty through the living room.

"Have you been in Scotland long?" Scotty asked as he followed.

"No," the secretary replied. "We arrived just two days ago."

They emerged on to a tiled patio; the rim of the sea was just beyond. Houghton was seated, fiddling with a crossword puzzle in
The London Times
. Seeing Scotty, Houghton dropped the newspaper on the patio table and stood.

"Mr. Bruce, my friend," he said, bubbling with energy. "It's so good to have you here."

"It's good to be here," Scotty countered, "though I've got to admit, your call took me by surprise."

"I suspected it would," Houghton said, indicating one of the chairs, which Scotty dutifully occupied. "But since I was to be in the area and since I had uncovered information I thought you might find interesting, I decided I should not let the opportunity go wanting." He sat as well. "And it always pleases me to show off the farm, especially to distinguished visitors such as yourself."

"The house is super and the view—"

"Magnificent?"

"The very word."

Houghton looked out at the huge expanse of water. "The North Sea, Moray Firth. It awes me, Mr. Bruce. It's power. Longevity. History." He gazed away wistfully. "I sometimes can sense the ghosts of Nazi U-boats gliding silently beneath the waves, and I can certainly feel the presence of the Soviets. One need not invoke spirits to be aware of the hammer and sickle. No. Mr. Bruce, these waters are brimming with Russian nuclear submarines." He laughed. "There's a spectacular game of cat and mouse invisibly underway right before us. A game with the most dire of consequences."

Scotty scanned the horizon. "You don't seem overly concerned."

Houghton smirked, then lit a cigarette. "What I seem does not reflect what I am: I am overly concerned. But because I understand the game, I have been able to come to grips with it."

Scotty glanced around the enclave; the borders were sealed by a barbed-wire fence. Curiously, however, there were no guards in sight.

"So," Houghton said, "how are your salvage preparations faring?"

"They've been completed. We've begun the actual work."

"I'm pleased for you."

"You're obviously familiar with the
Columbus
tragedy."

"Yes. The trials and tribulations of Geminii Petroleum have been vigorously heralded by the London press, and, of course, I have my private sources."

"Of course."

"Your method of recovery?"

"Standard stuff. We have bell diving crews on the loch. Hoisting barges. Flotation equipment. We've carefully examined the remains. Parts have proven almost airtight. Others have not. Those that haven't have been sealed, welded shut.

As soon as practicable, we're going to pump small buoyant flotation bags into the hulks, attach hoists to their outer shells, jack the remains to the surface, then drydock and study them carefully."

"Do you suspect sabotage?"

"I don't suspect anything yet. Do you?"

Houghton smiled, blowing a thin mat of smoke between his lips. "How could I?"

Scotty refused to snap at the bait.

"You'll be pleased to know I've made some added progress with Mr. Lefebre," Houghton said. "I acquainted you with Lefebre's background in Algeria, the Congo, and Uganda. I had assumed he had been out of Africa from 1965 to 1971. However, a sabbatical from turmoil would have been most uncharacteristic, so I placed additional inquiries, and I must admit, I found our dossier to be incomplete." He looked for a comment. Scotty said nothing. "I am now certain Lefebre was in Africa operating right under my nose off and on during the entire period. In Biafra, to be exact."

"Nigeria?"

Houghton laughed. "At the time, Biafrans would have bristled at any suggestion they were part of the Federal Republic."

Scotty's curiosity brimmed. "You say you were there?"

"Off and on. And involved enough to have gained a good understanding of the issues."

"I'm not much of an expert on world affairs," Scotty said, "but if I remember correctly, there wasn't much confusion about the issues."

Houghton's expression changed, his eyebrows rising. "Oh? Then perhaps you can enlighten me, Mr. Bruce."

"The government and major tribes were persecuting the Ibo tribesmen, so the Ibo who lived in Eastern Nigeria seceded from the republic, calling themselves the nation of Biafra. The federal government genocidally starved the Ibo into submission. Biafra lost the war. Millions died."

Houghton laughed. "Very good, Mr. Bruce. You are living proof propaganda works. Living proof history remembered by the masses rarely reflects the truth. But there is a truth. Whether you are aware of it or not."

"Are you telling me there was no genocide? No starvation?"

"As to genocide, absolutely not. Yes, the northern Hausa tribe, which lived under federal jurisdiction, hated and slaughtered the lbo. In fact, the prime reason for Biafran secession was the return of the northern Hausa to a share of power in the government after a complicated series of coups and countercoups had forced them into isolation. But there was still no organized federal policy of genocide. Throughout the war, several million Ibo lived under federal jurisdiction. The truth is, genocide was a myth perpetrated by the Biafran hierarchy, notably by their leader, Col. Emeka Ojukwu, to scare the Biafran masses into unyielding and ferocious resistance."

"What about the starvation?"

"There was much. Many Ibo died. But both sides must be blamed. Yes, there was a blockade. Yes, there were federal Nigerians who wanted to starve Biafra into submission. But starvation was also a policy of the Biafran leadership, their only hope for outside recognition. Although Biafra fought heroically, it never really had a chance to win the war militarily. It needed the sympathy of the world to survive. Starving civilians fostered sympathy. So civilians were allowed to starve. Compromise and negotiation were vehemently rejected by Ojukwu. The world's conscience was stoked into action."

"Where does Lefebre fit into the picture?" Scotty. asked.

"Ah," Houghton said. "The infamous Mr. Lefebre." He aligned his mercurial features thoughtfully. "Mercenaries were deeply involved, though at first neither the federal nor Biafran sides were enthusiastic about recruiting them. But expediency gained the upper hand. Though federal forces refused to employ ground-combat mercenaries, they did employ mercenary pilots while quite expectedly denying it. The Biafrans, however, had less to lose, and before long, mercenaries were fighting on the ground. Pierre Lefebre was one of them. However, Lefebre, who led a special guerrilla battalion, immediately clashed with Biafran field officers. He refused to obey their orders. He was also accused of murdering one of his own soldiers and on several occasions, according to eyewitness reports, personally raped and murdered half a dozen Ibo women. In mid-1968, Ojukwu ordered Lefebre the hell out of Biafra. Lefebre immediately disappeared, reappearing two years later in Uganda."

"It's all very interesting," Scotty said, "but I've heard worse about Lefebre."

Houghton smiled. "There was another man in Biafra. A man we are certain was in the oil-refining city of Port Harcourt at precisely the same time as Lefebre. A man named William Whittenfeld."

"Whittenfeld?" Scotty exclaimed, shocked, remembering Whittenfeld had claimed the North Sea to have been his first foreign experience. "What the hell was Whittenfeld doing there?"

"There's oil in Nigeria. Mr. Whittenfeld was employed by a small company named Colorado Standard Petroleum. While the civil war raged over the issue of sovereignty, there was also a war over drilling rights and oil revenues. Prior to the fall of Port Harcourt in May 1968, the Biafran government, needing foreign exchange, decided to lease oil land for exploration. Several companies bid. Colorado Standard won the concessions. However, federal forces overran Port Harcourt soon after. Colorado executives fled. Eventually, the oil leases were given to Royal Dutch Shell and BP."

"Did Whittenfeld meet Lefebre there?"

"Most definitely. Their first meeting took place at a reception held by Ojukwu."

"And after that?"

"I don't know. There are dead spots in the record, but we are working on them for you. I do know there was quite a bit of intrigue centered about the lease decisions, and there's evidence which suggests Mr. Whittenfeld was involved in considerable skullduggery."

"Which might have included Lefebre?"

"I put little stock in coincidence."

They re-entered the building, then walked out to the jeep. "When will I hear from you?" Scotty asked.

"When I have something to tell you," Houghton replied, retreating. "And by the way, I suggest you say nothing to Whittenfeld."

Scotty stared. He wasn't sure what all this information meant. Or where it would lead. However, he guessed it might lead to an understanding of Whittenfeld's need for the Frenchman. Christ, he knew he should let well enough alone. But he also knew he couldn't. He was incurable. He'd go slowly, gather additional information, see what developed.

Climbing into the jeep, he shook himself out of his trance and drove off.

Returning to Inverness, Scotty parked his car along the River Ness and walked toward the docks. The streets were deserted. Though official interest in the salvage operation remained high, the frenetic atmosphere had subsided.

A brisk wind was seeping inland. The shallow river bottom was visible. The Loch Ness monster, if it existed, had never navigated inland by means of the river; it would certainly have run aground long before reaching the loch's deep waters.

As he reached Douglas Row, he eased into a doorway to remain unobserved by three men who climbed into a car outside a corner building. He recognized one of the men, Girard. Judging by their movements, they wished to remain unseen. The car disappeared down a side street.

He entered the corner building and examined the building's directory; the offices of the Transport and General Workers Union were listed.

He climbed to the second floor. The union's office door was open. He entered. The place had been ransacked.

He stepped into Sutherland's private suite; Sutherland's name was on the door. It, too, had been torn to shreds. A file cabinet had been opened and emptied.

Hearing footsteps, he turned.

"Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Bruce?" Hugh Sutherland asked sarcastically.

Sutherland was standing with two burly men.

"Now before you get any ideas," Scotty said, realizing an alarm had been tripped. "I suggest you listen to me."

"That is precisely what I intend to do before I call the police." He looked inside the file cabinet, inspecting a severed pouch. "Where are the papers?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Don't bullshit me."

"I'm not bullshitting you. I didn't break in here, and I didn't take anything. Here, search me! I was walking down the street, and I saw three men run out of the building, climb into a car, and race away."

"Three men? I see. Did you recognize them?"

Scotty hesitated. He'd promised himself he'd go slowly. And this was better left for Geminii internally. "No. But I goddamn well knew something was up. I entered the building and noticed the union listing in the directory. I came up here and found this."

"You're lying!"

"I swear to you!" Christ, once again trouble had found him. First, the beating incident. Now this. It was as if he couldn't avoid disaster.

Sutherland called the police, then turned on Scotty. "You dirty bastards think you own the world. Think you can step over anyone. Well, you're wrong. The one man you're certainly not going to step over is me. I'll see your gizzards rot before that happens." He clenched his fists, almost striking out. "Dirty rotten bastards!"

The police were in the offices a short time later.

Scotty stood on the command barge's bow next to Whittenfeld. The wind was churning between the loch's mountains like desert dervishes. Beyond the barge was the salvage flotilla. Three diving barges were nearby; several sets of divers were currently working on the bottom. Two huge hoisting rigs were anchored, and hoist lines had already been attached to the hulks. The largest ordnances, though, were supply tugs loaded with flotation material; their huge feed lines were visible descending into the water. According to schedule, the divers would soon be attaching the feed lines to the airtight chambers of the
Columbus
and sonar tug. Then pumping would begin.

"Fortunately," Scotty was saying as he stared across the silver-blue waters, "an old man who lived in a garret across from the union offices also saw the three men leave the alley. He corroborated my story. MacGregor bought it."