Monster: Tale Loch Ness (9 page)

Scotty stared, thinking, sensing. Then he raised his glass, too. "Yes," he said, "absolutely."

The limousine pulled down a residential street about a mile from Travis House and stopped in front of Whittenfeld's home, a three-storied mansion similar in style to the Culloden House. Moments later, Scotty's jeep screeched up as well. Whittenfeld stepped out of the limo, Scotty from the four-wheeler.

Scotty looked around. The neighborhood was affluent. The streets were dimly lit. There were no moving cars. However, he could see a car parked near the corner with two men inside. He could also see a man in the shadows nearby. He pointed them out to Whittenfeld, who said they were security, cogs in Lefebre's normal arrangements. He dropped the subject.

"There was no way I was going to let you get away without showing you the collection," Whittenfeld declared as they entered the house.

"Believe me," Scotty said, "it's my privilege."

Whittenfeid turned up the parlor lights and pointed to the large interior wall. "My pride and joy."

Scotty moved close. There were six huge framed maps of Scotland and about a dozen smaller cartographs of the Inverness region.

Whittenfeld indicated the legend boxes on the map corners. "These are the cartouches. They give you title, scale, the map maker's name, and other pieces of background, and as you can also see, they give a good indication of the crafts. man's sense of art." He pointed to a particular map. "For example, this projection of Scotland was drawn by French maritime cartographers from the Dépôt de Marine. It was printed in 1757." He moved to the side of another. "This was drawn by Gerhard Mercator in 1575. It's one of the earliest maps of the Inverness region as well as one of the best. It's nearly priceless. You might have heard of Mercator."

"The Mercator projection?"

"Right."

Scotty admired the exhibits as Whittenfeld pontificated. He was impressed; Whittenfeld knew his subject. He was also enthralled. If the man's obsession with Loch Ness and Inverness had not been clear before, it certainly was now.

Whittenfeld pointed to one last cartograph, a tracing of Great Britain.

"Great Britain!" he declared admiringly. "A torch of enlightenment in a barren world. Scotty, Great Britain is England. It is England that has given Britain greatness. It is England that has engendered, the whole with nobility and might. You know Scotland and England merged in 1707. And I tell you, England's gift of partnership was the greatest gift one nation ever bestowed on another. England gave Scotland its history, its knowledge, its power, its grace. Every Scot alive should thank God the English saw fit to join hands and bring Scotland up to glory."

Scotty sat on the couch. Next to the couch was a table. On the table, a picture.

"Your son?" Scotty asked.

"Yes," Whittenfeld replied. "He was fifteen when the photo was taken. He died at seventeen in an auto accident."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It happened a long time ago."

Scotty could tell Whittenfeld did not want to discuss it.

"Any other children?"

"No."

"A wife?"

Whittenfeld's expression froze. "No."

Scotty could not only tell this subject was taboo as well but could see it had invoked the same reaction of hatred and distaste he'd seen during Whittenfeld's "vile bitch" speech several days before.

After a drink, Whittenfeld walked Scotty to the door. "You're welcome here anytime," Whittenfeld said as he shook Scotty's hand. "Call. Come over. We'll talk about football, maps, whatever. You make yourself seen. You're one of the family now."

"I appreciate the invitation," Scotty said.

"See you in the morning," Whittenfeld declared.

"Right."

Whittenfeld closed the door. Scotty returned to the jeep, looking for the security man who'd been standing on the street. The man was gone. However, the occupied car still remained. Scotty started the jeep, pulled slowly past the car, and looked inside. Two men looked back, their faces obscured by the darkness.

Strange.

The following day, a staff meeting was called for ten. Scotty arrived five minutes early. However, by ten-fifteen, Whittenfeld, Lefebre, Foster, Spinelli, the company's labor relations officer, a starched Englishman named Fullerheim, and the local representative of the Transport and General Workers Union, Malcolm Abercrombie, had joined him in the first-floor conference room.

Abercrombie was a dignified-looking Scotsman, overweight and red cheeked, who appeared out of place as a union rep.

He began the meeting by vehemently denouncing the company's plan to place visibly armed guards aboard the drill ship.

Whittenfeld listened attentively, then explained the company's position and launched into an impassioned monologue about Loch Ness, oil, union responsibilities, and union interests.

Scotty felt the emotion, the intensity, noting that Whittenfeld had a flair for alliteration and prose.

He also gazed through the window, observing the compound's perimeter fences. There were guards everywhere, but base security had not really been increased since the
Columbus
incident. It had been excessive from the beginning—the same number of men, the same preparedness.

There were also men outside the perimeter fences—unemployed workers—men who he'd seen gathering near the base intermittently since the day he'd arrived. Foster had said local displeasure among the unskilled work force was a price they had to continually pay for importing the best men available from abroad.

Whittenfeld finished his speech. A minute of silence followed. Abercrombie once again stated the union's position, but less adamantly. Whittenfeld cajoled, complimented, and massaged.

Abercrombie caved.

Abercrombie did not have a stiff enough backbone to compete with a William Whittenfeld.

In fact, Scotty doubted there were many men who could. Ever.

While drinking coffee in the executive lounge after the Abercrombie meeting, Lefebre treated Scotty to additional erudition, in particular, a discourse on selected subjects in anthropology. Besides literature, Lefebre, it seemed, had a deep interest in primate history, and based on his discussion of
Australopithecine
man,
Pithecanthropus
, and
Homo Neanderthalensis
, an extensive knowledge as well.

They also spoke about Lefebre's approach to uncovering the identify of the suspected saboteurs—private interviews, meetings with known contacts, discussions with paid informants.

Scotty did not ask about the excessive security.

Lefebre asked if Scotty had any particular interests; petroleum was Scotty's reply.

Coffee finished, Lefebre invited Scotty to his office.

"Here," Lefebre said, handing Scotty the ivory elephant. Scotty examined the sculpture. "What do I do with it?"

"You take it. It's yours."

"I don't understand."

"It's a gift. You like it. I appreciated your compliment. I have other figures. And can carve more."

"I don't . . ."

Lefebre interrupted. "I appreciate your appreciation. And art is to be shared."

Scotty gestured appreciatively. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it," Lefebre declared.

Scotty returned to his office and inspected the room. The desk? The window sill? The shelves?

Yes, the shelf opposite the desk wall.

A perfect place for the elephant.

He placed it between two volumes of technical literature.

The view across the pub room of the Clachnaharry Inn was mired in a haze of smoke. It was nearly ten o'clock in the evening. Scotty and Bob Reddington had been there since eight, Scotty drinking lager, Reddington downing heavier Scottish beer.

"Scotty," Reddington said, slurring his words, "it's hard to believe it was so long ago. 'Cause I can see it as if it were yesterday, Joe Dumbrowski. Straight from the coal fields of Pennsylvania. I'll never forget the first day he came in. Will you?"

"I wasn't there," Scotty said.

"Why not?"

Scotty's thoughts seemed far away. "I don't know, Red. An exam or something."

"You missed practice 'cause of an exam?"

"Guess so."

"Too bad," Reddington said, slapping Scotty across the back. " 'Cause when Dumbrowski walked into the training room, we nearly shit. Who in the hell expected a four-hundred-pound load of a defensive tackle, especially with all the emphasis coach had placed on speed. Speed? Dumbrowski couldn't have outraced a boulder. And he had on those overalIs of his that looked like a tent for the caliph of Baghdad. Remember those?"

"Sure as hell," Scotty said.

"Fosberg, the equipment man, tried to fit Dumbrowski into some gear," Reddington said a bit wistfully. "And that was something to see. Did I ever tell you this story before?"

"Nope."

"Did anyone?"

Scotty ordered another round of beer and lager, then latedly said "no" again.

Reddington wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flight jacket. "They got him into a helmet but couldn't get the helmet off because his nose was stuck between the rungs of the face guard." He laughed, burped, and laughed again. "Then Fosberg put him into pants. Dumbrowski sat; the pants ripped right off. Coach ordered the field tarpaulin cut to size. You sure no one ever told you this?"

Scotty looked at the faces in the room. Narrow. Weather-beaten. Tinged with alcoholic redness, filled with toothless smiles. "I told you, Red," he said. "I never heard this before."

"Right," Reddington said, straightening up. "Well, to get Dumbrowski into a pair of cleats, they cut out the toes. Pads didn't fit, so they tore up one of the trainer's mats and tied the rubber around Dumbrowski's shoulders and neck. Poor Dumbrowski. Every time he hit the tackling dummy, he nearly bounced out of the stadium. The funniest thing, though, was when coach tried to show Dumbrowski the proper technique to ward off a cross-block."

"What happened?"

"Dumbrowski fell on him, that's what. Coach turned blue. If they hadn't gotten Dumbrowski off, coach would've asphyxiated."

Scotty laughed, though he still seemed very distant. "Dumbrowski might have been doing us a favor."

"You didn't like coach?"

Scotty shrugged and drank some beer. "I didn't hate him. But I didn't love him, either. He was a little too much of a sadist. Too much of a taunt. Hell, I didn't mind when he got on me, but I didn't particularly enjoy seeing him rip into the fifth stringers to satisfy his lusts."

"Well, he's on the rag, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard he's on the bread line. Unemployed."

"Busted?"

Reddington nodded, then took a letter from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Got a note here from the kids. They want to know how I am and when they're coming. But, more important, they want to know about Uncle Scotty."

Scotty read the letter. "I'll drop them a card tonight."

Reddington took out a second. "Now this poetic specimen is from the Dragon Lady. I weakened. Wrote her. Asked her to come back. Don't hold the letter too long. It's dripping

with poison."

Scotty skimmed the note. "Guess she's not coming back."

Reddington laughed, slugging beer. "Guess not. I'm surprised she didn't include a pipe bomb. That would have been a fitting good-by."

Scotty tore the letter in half.

Reddington fingered the pieces. "Ripped up," he said, smirking. "Just like my marriage. Scotty. Let me tell you. You were smart never getting hooked."

Scotty laughed, dripped some lager on his jeans, then wiped the brew away. "Listen, jerk off. The only thing I've gained from bachelorhood has been the absence of alimony. I've had affairs break up just like your marriage, and the pain has been just as bad. Why don't you just step away from yourself for a moment and stop personalizing everything. It won't work right away. You just can't say, 'All right, I'm cured,' but you've got to try!"

Reddington embraced him. "You're a buddy." He pointed to the bartender. "Give this ace a lager. And I'll take another beer, too."

Two muscular men wearing T-shirts entered the pub, snaring Reddington's attention.

Reddington nodded to them; they barely acknowledged.

"Who are they?" Scotty asked.

"Special security guards. Information hounds."

"Lefebre's?"

"Yeah."

The drinks arrived; the noise continued.

Scotty shook his head thoughtfully. "Red, I don't understand what's going on here. This is Inverness. Not Los Alamos. And we're not manufacturing atomic warheads. What the hell

are all these ex-Gestapo officers doing around?"

"Guarding!"

"I'm aware of it, wise guy. I know we have to watch our flanks. But I've never seen anything like this. And I saw it before the
Columbus
was attacked! Hell, if you act like expect big trouble, you usually get it."

"You may have a point. We certainly got it."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Has Whittenfeld?"

"I just arrived in Scotland. I swore I'd keep my mouth shut for once in my life. You know it and encouraged it. I didn't ask Whittenfeld a thing. I'm asking you."

"Has Whittenfeld given you the
child-emotion-vile-bitch speech?
"

"Yes."

"Well, then. There's your answer. Only you didn't think he meant it. He does. He loves this project. He eats and sleeps Loch Ness. He's as paranoid as hell about it. And, in a way, you can't blame him. There was plenty of opposition. There were threats. He brought in Lefebre and company to protect the nest. He felt tight security was necessary. London and New York respected his opinion because they respected him, and based on the
Columbus
incident, I'd have to say he might have been right."

"Maybe."

"Someone did try to sabotage the drill ship, remember7"

"Maybe."

"Sabotage was your conclusion, too!"

"I've been wrong before. And even if I were right, we might be suspecting the wrong parties."

Reddington was confused. Scotty repeated Mary MacKenzie's challenge. Reddington nearly fell off his chair.