Monster: Tale Loch Ness (41 page)

Scotty pointed to an enclosure. "We'll be alone in there."

They entered a work room.

"Take a seat, Mr. Bruce," MacGregor suggested, sitting himself. "There are several open matters we must address. The attack on the drill ship. The death of Father MacPherson. The murder of Hugh Sutherland. And, unfortunately, the assassination of your house woman."

"I was the intended victim!"

MacGregor just stared. "We are no closer to uncovering the identity of the party or parties who attached the drill ship. As I told Mr. Whittenfeld yesterday and repeated to Mr. Lefebre just moments ago, that has not been for want of effort. We've worked closely with the Special Branch and the Grampian Police in Aberdeen, particularly the Grampian units assigned to offshore matters. And I'm afraid Scotland Yard, working on the national level, hasn't fared much better, even with the assistance of M15." He shot a quick smile. "What bothers all of us is the departure from pattern."

"What do you mean?"

"In the past, the radical groups have been very vocal after attacks, claiming responsibility, blaring the trumpet. But they've been right quiet about the
Columbus
thing. Not a word. Not a claim. Ay, it's very strange indeed."

"What ghoul would want to lay claim to the destruction of the
Columbus
?"

"Don't play the fool, Mr. Bruce. You're intelligent enough to realize that it would have made no sense for a radical group to have destroyed the ship without claiming responsibility and the resulting political capital."

"Perhaps there are new motives. And I wouldn't overlook the possibility of industrial espionage."

"We haven't."

MacGregor took out a notebook, opened to the first page, and laid the book down. There were a series of notations. He checked one.

"The death of Father MacPherson. You are exonerated. The
Magellan
's crew vehemently supports your position. We also spoke to members of the Waterway Authority, and they assured us the current on the night in question could well have overturned the raft."

Current?
Scotty thought to himself, realizing a quick reference to the real reason might bring all the activity under the bubble to a jolting halt.

MacGregor applied another check to the book. "The murder of Hugh Sutherland."

"I didn't do it. And you know it."

MacGregor smiled. "You are exonerated there as well."

Scotty was taken by surprise.

"I received a call from Mary MacKenzie this morning," MacGregor said, continuing. "She was distraught. She said she'd made a difficult decision, one which ran counter to your wishes. She admitted being with you at the time of the murder. I asked if there'd been other witnesses. She said there hadn't because the two of you had been in bed together."

Scotty's face flushed. "She's lying. To protect me."

"You needn't protest. Councilwoman MacKenzie has never told a lie in her life. And I promise you, her reputation won't be impugned either as a woman or as a public official." MacGregor added another check to his book. "The murder of Mrs. Munro," he said. "We're now fairly well convinced the Jacobites were behind the attack, and the new evidence supports it."

"What evidence?"

"We traced the purchase of the bomb's fuse mechanism to Strathclyde, which is the clandestine home base of the New Jacobite movement."

"Then I'm no longer under suspicion."

"Not on these matters; though, of course, you were never under suspicion vis-à-vis the drill ship and your house woman."

Scotty asked if there was anything else. MacGregor said no. They left the enclosure and walked back toward the entrance.

"Thank you for your time once again," were the Superintendent's final abrupt words.

Scotty returned to Travis House a short time later and found a limousine parked in the driveway. The driver handed him a note. After reading it, Scotty climbed into the limo's rear seat.

The limousine drove across the Black Isle Bridge and deposited Scotty in front of a small pub in Cromarty, which faced the Highland Fabricator's Nigg construction complex about a mile and a half away across the Cromarty Firth.

John Leslie Houghton was seated at a small outdoor table sipping tea, his face turned into the sun; he wore an exquisitely tailored white suit and hat.

"You continue to surprise me," Scotty said, joining him at the table. That was an understatement. He'd virtually forgotten Houghton's existence, let alone his request for Houghton's further assistance.

Houghton smiled, placing a cigarette in his holder. "Diligence is uncommon to you?" he asked.

"Not usually."

"Then you shouldn't be surprised by mine. I made a commitment to you. My undertakings are always completed. Besides, I've taken a liking to you, Mr. Bruce, and have developed a degree of sympathy for your situation."

A waitress appeared; Scotty ordered a lager, which was promptly delivered.

"Why are we here?"

"Cromarty is a good place for discretion. Besides, I had some business at Nigg." Houghton glanced off. "Incredible, isn't it?"

The huge construction complex, characterized by enormous gantries from which thousand-foot-high platforms could be assembled, looked like something from the future. Though no assembly work was underway at the moment, the sight of a platform sliding down the launch ramp into the firth was easily imaginable.

"I suppose you wanted to see me for a reason," Scotty said.

"Yes," Houghton declared. "I've set the last pieces of the puzzle into place. I thought you'd be interested."

"Of course, I am," Scotty said, though he no longer knew why; echoes of the past seemed academic right now.

"If you remember, Mr. Bruce," Houghton began, "the Biafran civil war broke out in June 1967, and Port Harcourt was overrun in May 1968. A year's period. However, the war didn't reach Biafran soil until November '67. Although there was an unease in Biafra about the effects of the blockade during the first six months, there was a simultaneous mood of confidence. In Enugu, the capital, and in Port Harcourt, the oil city, there was a bustle of activity. Armies were being assembled. A sense of nationhood was about. And, of course, Lieutenant Colonel Ojukwu's presence was everywhere, his voice ringing out over every radio. Ojukwu was a talker. His speeches could go on for hours. He could incite the crowd. Ojukwu was Biafra!"

"And Whittenfeld was there."

"As I told you, the Biafrans were leasing new drilling territories. Whittenfeld, who was the senior Colorado representative, became involved, emotionally so. He felt Biafra was his break, the key to his future. Succeed in Biafra and he could name his price. The lease parcels became living things to him. According to other oil executives, he became obsessed with them."

Scotty squirmed. It sounded familiar.

"Whittenfeld commuted between Port Harcourt, the oil fields, and Enugu. He got to know Ojukwu. Other Biafran officials, too. He also met Lefebre. They got along famously., Whittenfeld was fascinated by Lefebre's past and present. Lefebre was intrigued by oil, most probably because he had a

thing for money."

"Who did Whittenfeld answer to?"

"Colorado had a regional office in London as well as a home office in Denver, the U.S.A. However, Whittenfeld was in complete charge in Biafra, assisted by a man named Charles Bagley, who unfortunately met an untimely death."

"How?" Scotty asked, interrupting.

"The head of the concession administration was a man named Christopher Mbanjoku. Mbanjoku was a fierce Biafran nationalist. However, he also had sticky fingers. Whittenfeld attempted to reach Mbanjoku through intermediaries. The connection was made. A bribe was offered. Charles Bagley warned Whittenfeld the bribe attempt could prove to be counterproductive if the Biafran regime learned of it and asked Whittenfeld to withdraw the offer. Whittenfeld refused. Bagley threatened to notify London. Bagley was found dead two days later."

"How'd he die?"

"He had a severe heart attack."

"He died of natural causes?"

"No," Houghton said, lighting a new cigarette and smiling through a veil of smoke. "Lefebre murdered Bagley, fulfilling a contract."

"You said Bagley died of a heart attack."

"There is a drug known to Yoruba tribesmen in western Nigeria called manijuju. It is a coronary artery vasoconstrictor. It cuts off blood flow to the heart muscles. Lefebre fed the drug to Bagley. Bagley died four hours later."

Scotty stared, stunned. All he could think about was Jim Barrett, the incredible parallels. "Could a doctor detect the drug in a heart attack victim?" he asked.

"A medical examiner could in an autopsy, though it would not be easy."

Scotty finished his mug of lager. Houghton could tell Scotty was disturbed, but he continued.

"There is more," he said. "The bribe was paid. The bids were entered. However, before the bids were opened, a government official named Anthony Arisika, who had been charged by Ojukwu to stamp out corruption, received a call from a man named Martin Pettibone, the managing director of a competing oil company, Oxford Gas and Oil. Pettibone told Arisika about the bribes. Arisika confronted Mbanjoku. Mbanjoku denied the charges and asked to meet with Pettibone. A meeting was arranged. Arisika and Pettibone entered a room at the Presidential Hotel where they were to wait for Mbanjoku. Mbanjoku never arrived. Someone else did. Arisika and Pettibone were murdered. The murder was never solved."

"What happened to the bids?" Scotty asked, feeling a chill of terror.

"The bids were opened secretly. Colorado was awarded the concessions. Unfortunately, the federal army intervened."

"I assume Lefebre killed Arisika and Pettibone," Scotty said.

"Yes. Mbanjoku told Whittenfeld about the meeting. He asked Whittenfeld to do something or else both of them would be finished. Whittenfeld located Lefebre, paid him a large sum of money, and gave him the assignment. Lefebre, ever efficient, carried it out."

Scotty now realized why Whittenfeld had kept his presence in Africa a secret.

"Both men are murderers," Houghton said as he crushed out his cigarette. "But you are dealing with two very different animals. Lefebre is a killer. Pure and simple. He was trained to kill without emotion. He is a machine of death. His foible is that he has learned to enjoy killing. Lefebre is a simple man to understand. However, Whittenfeld is far more complicated. He is not a true killer. I doubt he would ever kill a person himself. In fact, his orders to Lefebre were always 'Do something.' The words
kill
or
eliminate
were never used. Whittenfeild is very pathologic, very disturbed. His insecurities have always manifested themselves in a quest for success, and though he is a respected manager, he has never achieved the personal success he's craved. And every project, at least by what I know of Biafra, has become an obsession. In Biafra, he talked about fathering the concessions. Of discovering the best parcels. They were his 'children.' He was their father. Their defender, Mr. Bruce. A man will protect his offspring with his life—not only defend them but do so without fear of injury. Such a man, or such a father, will abandon rationality, do anything to preserve what he loves. This I suspect is Whittenfeld, and if that is so, Whittenfeld is a very dangerous man, more dangerous than Lefebre."

"Why?"

"Because he is unpredictable, capable of anything, rational behavior or irrational."

Scotty stared. "Loch Ness is a mirror image of Biafra."

"How so?"

Scotty described the death of Jim Barrett. The death of the two divers. The murder of Hugh Sutherland. The murder of Mrs. Munro. Whittenfeld's repetitive references to his "child."

"It fits the profile," Houghton said.

"Could you verify my suspicions, perhaps get me proof?" Scotty asked, determined to keep Houghton involved, convinced there was a role for Houghton to play in the ultimate denouement of the drama, especially since he suspected that Whittenfeld might move to silence him permanently once the trap caper had been completed.

Houghton remained silent for a long time, eying Nigg askance. "I had thought my work for you was done."

"Had thought?"

Houghton's expression was oblique. "As I said, Mr. Bruce, I like you, and I appreciate your predicament. You will hear from me."

Scotty thanked the man. Moments later, Scotty was back in the limousine, heading toward home.

The air was still. The sky was clear, a joy. Scotty felt relaxed at the stick of the helicopter. Mary MacKenzie was comfortable, too.

The view from three thousand feet was magnificent. She indicated landmarks, prominent geographical points.

He flew the chopper over the Black Isle, headed back to Cannich, and then turned to Loch Ness, flying out of the mountains over Urquhart Bay.

Below them, Geminii workers had already started to disassemble the bubble. The trap itself was visible in the Urquhart Bay marina. Mary MacKenzie knew all about it; she'd been part of the council committee that had reluctantly approved Geminii's proposal to build it.

She continued to describe the surrounding countryside, avoiding any mention of the trap. He tried to listen, but his thoughts were focused on the dizzying sequence of past events and those that were about to occur.

Since the start of the trap project, Scotty had spent most of his waking hours inside the bubble. He'd seen Mary MacKenzie only twice. Work had monopolized his time, he had explained. However, the work excuse had been merely that, an excuse, and he knew she knew it. He suspected she thought a problem had arisen between them; he damn well hoped it wasn't more than that. He had intentionally distanced himself from her physically while at the same time trying to keep their relationship alive by phone, sure the less time they spent together, the less she'd be endangered. If she knew the truth, there would be no way he would be able to convince her to remain quiet or leave Inverness. Rather, she would undoubtedly stick her neck right in the guillotine.

He lowered the chopper. The trap was truly amazing. But what fascinated him nearly as much was what Whittenfeld had told Fallworth, the cover. He'd spoken to Fallworth several times since the night he'd refused to answer the phone, and even when prompted, Fallworth had avoided any detailed discussion concerning the trap. It was as if between him and Fallworth, the subject was taboo.