Monster: Tale Loch Ness (24 page)

"How far are you from the bell?"

"I've got seventy-five feet of guideline with me."

"The compass heading?"

Furst spit out a figure. Scotty advised Hox!ey to order the crane operator to swing the giant hoist into position and drop a lifting line down to the work site. Hoxley immediately left the cabin. Scotty stayed behind, entered the radio shed, contacted Whittenfeld ship to shore, and informed him they had found a suspicious control hose section.

"Suspicious?" Whittenfeld asked.

Scotty held his breath; he knew it was coming. "The diver says it looks like it's been chewed apart."

Silence!

Then: "Is the transfer ship there?"

"Yes." He could sense Whittenfeld was trembling.

"We're on our way out."

"Right."

"Scotty, I want you to clear the deck of the support vessel."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand, Mr. Bruce. Just do it."

Whittenfeld had never called him Mr. Bruce before. "Of course," he said.

"How many men heard Furst's appraisal?"

"Just me." He'd never heard Whittenfeld's voice so strained.

"Was the hose visible on the television monitor?"

"Not really. Too much silt and grease down there."

"Good. Now clear the deck, Mr. Bruce! And keep your telephone channel to the divers closed!"

Static crackled; the transmission died. Scotty looked at the radio mike, then dropped it on the radio console.

A launch arrived twenty minutes later. Lefebre and Girard boarded the diving support vessel.

"Mr. Whittenfeld could not come out," Lefebre said while approaching Scotty cross-deck. He was chewing a huge wad of tobacco, a habit Houghton had suggested Lefebre had picked up from American mercenaries in the Congo. "He sent me in his stead. With his full proxy."

"What does that mean?"

"That means you will do as I say."

"And if I refuse?"

Lefebre walked toward the crane. "You won't." He pointed toward a boatswain. "Get that man off the deck."

Scotty demurred. "He's needed there. Someone has to guide the hose on to the tender tug."

"Girard will do it. Whittenfeld considers the hose a sensitive matter. He wants no one on board. He has ordered everyone to comply with those wishes. If not voluntarily, then with my assistance. Do I make mvself clear, Bruce?"

Scotty ordered the boatswain off deck. Only the crane operator remained in the vicinity of the lift-up. Scotty grabbed the deck phone and asked Furst if he had rigged the hose. Furst replied affirmatively. Scotty ordered the crane operator to bring the material up.

The hose was out of the water a short time later.

"Get it on to the tender," Lefebre ordered.

The crane operator swung the rigged hose into position over the tender tug, which was also clear of deck hands.

Scotty stared at the swinging hulk of hose, but the hose was too far away for him to make any kind of appraisal.

Girard climbed down onto the tender tug, eased the hose into position on a rack, and disattached the lift line. Then he covered the hose with a tarpaulin.

Scottv. jumped on to the tug. Lefebre stepped into his way.

"Off the tug," Lefebre ordered.

Scotty tried to pass him. "I want to look at that hose."

Lefebre again interceded. "No one looks at the hose. Those are Mr. Whittenfeld's orders."

Scotty stiffened. "I've had just about enough of you, Lefebre."

Lefebre smiled, his tobacco-stained teeth glaring. "I'm afraid that's too bad. Very surprising, too. I've been very nice to you, Bruce. Mr. Whittenfeld has ordered me to treat you gently. I have been doing so. If you find my good nature difficult to handle, I'm afraid you will not like to see my disagreeable side once more. No. You will not like to see that at all, and you will see it sooner than expected if you try to examine the control hose. It is to be covered and transmitted to shore at once. That is my responsibility, monsieur. I will see the responsibility carried out."

"You're a pathetic man, Lefebre."

"Foolish words are a fool's paradise. Now get off this tug."

Scotty walked to the rug's edge, stopping, turning. "Now is not the time or the place."

"For what?" Lefebre asked pointedly.

"To allow you to try and fulfill your deepest desires. To allow you to try and break my neck."

Lefebre sniffed at the cool air. "I told you, I court the day. Pray for it."

"It will come. And I may very well boot your ass back to Africa."

Lefebre's expression changed: he was startled. Had he said too much too soon, Scotty wondered.

The lift line moved over Scotty's head and back to the command vessel. Lefebre took two steps in Scotty's direction. "Get back to your duties, Bruce!" he said.

Scotty felt his entire body freeze. He did not like being ordered around that way. Especially by Lefebre. The restraints popped off. Christ, he'd known he could only rationalize himself into inaction for just so long. He charged at the Frenchman but stopped dead in his tracks. Lefebre had unbuttoned his holster guard and had started to remove his gun. Girard was similarly set, hand on pistol.

Scotty breathed deeply, realized he might very welI get shot, then stepped off the tug.

The crucial exhibit in place, Lefebre ordered the pilot to take the tug to shore. Scotty remained on the diving vessel, supervising the change of diving teams and the return of the blowout preventer and associated guide frame to the surface. Then, after the tender tug had returned, this time without Lefebre, to take the additional material to base, he remained again to command the final phases of the operation.

All the while thinking of the control hose.

And Whittenfeld.

And Pierre Lefebre as well.

Scotty returned to base late that night. Whittenfeld was still in his office. Scotty barged inside.

Whittenfeld was visibly disconcerted, nervous to excess.

"Why wasn't I allowed to see the hose?" Scotty asked angrily.

Whittenfeld's face drew blank. "What are you talking about?"

Scotty reviewed the episode on the barge.

"Lefebre exceeded his authority, Mr. Bruce. I told him to make sure no one on the crew saw the material. He was not supposed to inhibit you."

Was this bullshit? Scotty asked himself. Maybe, maybe not. Although Whittenfeld had kept parts of his past a secret for whatever reason, Whittenfeld had not yet lied to him about anything substantive in Inverness. "Lefebre has a way of exceeding authority," Scotty declared.

"Fortunately, no harm was done. And no guns were actually pointed."

"Can I see the hose?"

"It's gone. I sent it to our Aberdeen research complex this afternoon. It will be analyzed there."

"Furst still insists the hose looked chewed, that something alive chewed it!"

"The hose was severely damaged. Furst's conclusion is off the cuff, an inexpert opinion. Until the hose is analyzed, there's no way to tell what happened."

Scotty stared. Whittenfeld's hands were shaking badly. His skin was anemic, almost white.

"Did you tell Furst to keep his observations to himself due to the sensitivities?" Whittenfeld asked.

"Yes," Scotty replied. "Is the work finished?"

"Almost. We have another dive or two to do."

Whittenfeld stood and held out his arms, almost begging. "Then let's both go home and get some sleep. It's been a long day."

Scotty stood, too. Thoughts were cascading through his head, a review of recent events. "All right," he said reluctantly.

Whittenfeld was obviously barely hanging on to the edge of control. He'd had the shock of his life.

There was no reason to pursue the subject any longer.

The helicopter landed on the Geminii roof.

Scotty stepped out. It was warm, but he welcomed the slumberous air after six blistering days out on the Moray Firth, supervising the inception of a new seismic study.

He breathed deeply, looked around—the bubble and its contents were still there—then walked toward the roof staircase, setting time and place. The last two weeks, starting with the recovery of the control hose section, had tumbled by as if they'd been weighted with barbells. Yet, instead of being easily defined, they'd passed as a peculiar blur, punctuated by a maze of questions.

As soon as Whittenfeld had been notified that the hose section had arrived in Aberdeen and had been placed under lock and key, and when he learned that the final group of divers had been unable to locate any other critical material, he called a staff meeting to discuss the remaining phase of the investigation. Then he followed the hose section east, accompanied by Pierre Lefebre, who had packaged the control hose section himself to ensure its safety.

In retrospect, Whittenfeld's discomfiture, annoying insistence on airtight security, and decision to subject the hose to classified scrutiny away from Inverness had not really surprised Scotty. Again, Whittenfeld's "child" had come under attack, along with the
Columbus
; clearly, the nature of the control hose's damage had visibly unhinged the man. Scotty had no doubt that Whittenfeld had already been painfully trying to come to grips with the inevitable conclusion Scotty had reached from the first—that there was a strong possibility something alive had eaten through the control hose.

Certainly his phone conversations with Whittenfeld had only reinforced his suspicions.

While the final phase of the inspection was winding down and a preliminary report was being written, he'd had several such exchanges, but every time he'd asked about the control hose analyses, Whittenfeld had said only that they were continuing to study the specimen and had not even reached any preliminary conclusions as of yet.

Christ, the charade had been obvious. Whittenfeld's voice, its nervousness, its echo of paranoia, had been unmistakably evasive. So had Whittenfeld's behavior.

The week before, Whittenfeld had scheduled a brief return to Inverness. Scotty had expected to hear something definitive. However, prior to Whittenfeld's arrival, a telex had arrived, sent from Aberdeen, requesting Scotty to proceed out on to the North Sea to hook up with one of the company's North Sea seismic teams. The order had confused him. Although they'd completed the investigation, the last place he'd expected to be sent, or expected to be needed, was the North Sea. Nevertheless, he hadn't questioned Whittenfeld's order and had helicoptered out to the work site the following day.

Between that day and this, Whittenfeld had been in and out of Inverness twice, but though he'd spoken to Whittenfeld three times ship to shore, Whittenfeld had continued to be evasive, paranoid, a bundle of nerves.

Whittenfeld had sent him away for a purpose—he suspected that the man did not want to face him—intending to keep him away until the start of the commission hearings.

The question was why.

Christ, he knew the realities were terrifying. And the ramifications mind boggling. But the inordinate subterfuge had stupefied him. He wasn't about to start wild rumors without proof. And as far as he could tell, Furst and Blasingame had kept their mouths shut as well.

He entered the deserted building. It was Saturday. A lone guard, stationed at the end of the third-floor hall, appeared.

He walked into his office. Mail was stacked. So were phone messages. He examined both stacks and then phoned Tony Spinelli, who informed him he'd just completed a final meeting with the inspection team and that they had reviewed all the documentation intended for the commission tribunal. Scotty asked for copies. Spinelli said copies were already on his desk.

Scotty located the copies and returned to Travis House. Mrs. Munro met him at the door. Giving her the day off, he secluded himself in the den and read the fact sheets, reports, and test data. All checked out. His work was only interrupted by thoughts of Mary MacKenzie, whom he had not seen in quite a while. He did not call her.

Finishing the review just after sundown, he fixed himself something to eat, then decided to go into town. Hell, he'd been on a boat for almost a week. He was in sore need of a pub.

Scotty walked into the pub next door to the railway station, sat at the bar, and ordered a lager. The pub was crowded.

When the lager arrived, he sipped off the head and swiveled around, facing smiles, animated eyes.

Hugh Sutherland was staring at him. Sutherland was seated at a corner table, alone.

Surprised, he bowed; Sutherland ambiguously moved his head.

He walked to the table. "Mind if I sit?"

Sutherland shrugged. "No. But why would you want to?"

"I have no quarrel with you."

"You say that with great pain, Mr. Bruce."

"Not at all. I want to talk."

Sutherland pointed to a facing chair; Scotty slid on to his rump.

Neither moved. Neither spoke. Sutherland's mug sat untouched on the table. Scotty sipped from his.

"You said you want to talk," Sutherland finally said. "So talk."

"I'm thinking of something intelligent to say."

"Try a confession. Try admitting you were involved in the burglary, after all. I invited you to visit our offices. You took me up on the invitation—surreptitiously."

"Sorry. Can't admit that. 'Cause it's not true."

Sutherland smirked, staring ahead. He looked even more .ghastly than Scotty had remembered—his cheeks sunken down to the bone, his forehead roadmapped with crossing veins, his lips chapped, stained with tobacco, covered with remnants of recently used rolling papers.

"I've been gone from Inverness awhile," Scotty declared.

"Good for you," Sutherland countered cheerlessly.

"Before I left, I read the newspapers. I read about you. This New Jacobite group."

"Do you believe everything you read?

"I believe the truth."

Sutherland lit a cigarette. "For what earthly reason should I discuss this with you, Mr. Bruce?"

"There's none."

Sutherland lifted his mug and drank. He wore a gray cardigan. It had several holes, a button missing. "You read some truth. There is an organization called the New Jacobite Coalition. I am a member. I am a radical nationalist." He paused, swallowing heavily. "I am also a member of the Transport Workers. I am a senior rep for them."