Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  "You're in my way."

  "There's more to be said!"

  "No, there isn't. There are no words to be passed between you and me. Out of personal choice and out of duty. I have been nominated to sit on the investigation commission panel. As such, I can have nothing to do with anyone at Geminii until the commission has issued its findings."

  "Bullshit."

  She turned, her anger building even further, and then burst through the council building door out into the parking lot.

  He watched her disappear. "Damn woman," he said.

  The sight made him sick. Urquhart Bay, Drumnadrochit, the entire north shore of Loch Ness, overrun with tourists.

  Why the hell couldn't they appreciate the horror—the Columbus down, his best friend dead, the crew buried beneath hundreds of feet of water! Why the hell couldn't they all have stayed away!

  Resigned, he drove along the north shore, past Urquhart Bay and the still visible top of the marine riser, and arrived in Fort Augustus at the west end of the loch about a half hour later. Pausing to watch a boat enter a chamber on the St. Augustus track of the Caledonian Canal, he meandered from one lock to another, then returned to the jeep, drove by the St. Augustus Abbey, and rumbled out of Fort Augustus along the south highway. Passing an endless extent of sheep meadow, he headed toward Foyers on a narrow road, barely capable of handling one car, then returned to Inverness, arriving at his home exhausted, his frustrations purged.

  Detective Superintendent MacGregor was waiting, seated on the mansion's front porch.

  "I thought you'd never return," MacGregor said.

  "If I'd known I had a reception committee," Scotty said, "I would have hurried back sooner."

  "No matter," MacGregor advised, displaying a very melodic brogue. "I enjoyed the rest. You know, resting and waiting are part of the job. If you can't get used to both, you might as well leave the constabulary." He smiled, pointing northward. "Besides, I've had a good view of the Black Isle, and it's one right soothing view for the eyes after a long day."

  Scotty looked down from the hill, past the city and the Beauly Firth—a heavy fog lay over the water—and toward a green expanse of farmland rising in the distance.

  "I assume," MacGregor said, "you've been there."

  "Yes. We have an exploratory well at Munlochy."

  "Of course. I've passed it many times on my way to Cromarty."

  "Cromarty?" Scotty asked, Puzzled why the superintendent would be spending much time in the little village.

  "I have a good amount of family there," MacGregor said as he pulled some nuts from his jacket pocket and popped them into his mouth. "Some of whom work over at Nigg."

  "Are you from Cromarty, too?"

  MacGregor shook his head. "Kessock," he announced, pointing toward the near shore of the Black Isle. "There's Kessock, right across from Clachnaharry. It used to be the Black Isle docking point for the ferry from Inverness." His expression turned slightly wistful. "Before they built the big bridge, there was a ferry route, and it was right well needed because to get to the isle without the boat necessitated a thirty-mile drive around the Beauly Firth through Beauly. Ay, and the ferry was one fun thing, especially for us kids. I used to ride it all the time when I wasn't out stealing fruit and vegetables from the big-corporation farms."

  Scotty laughed. "You? Stealing?"

  Superintendent MacGregor laughed, too. "I'm not such a saint that I've never erred. Rob Roy, who was the most famous Highland outlaw of all time, was a MacGregor. When my cousins and I were children, we all wanted to be just like him. I even had my father take me down to Balquhidder near Loch Tay when I was twelve years old so I could see Rob Roy's grave dug right in the soil of Clan MacGregor country." He tossed some more nuts into his mouth, then stood. "Ay, up until my midteens, I wanted to be an outlaw like Rob Roy."

  "But you became a detective instead," Scotty said facetiously.

  "What better man to deal with crime than a criminal at heart."

  Scotty invited the superintendent inside. MacGregor demurred, preferring to stay on the porch. The day was pleasant; he did not want to waste it, especially since the weather service had predicted that the offshore fog would move in rapidly once the wind had changed.

  "So?" Scotty asked. "What can I do for you?"

  MacGregor adjusted his tweed jacket. "You can answer a few questions," he said.

  "Fire."

  "Besides the current tragedy and the previous attack on the Columbus, I've learned another suspicious accident occurred aboard the drill ship. A drowning. I'm told you're familiar with the particulars."

  Scotty sat on the porch railing. "I was there."

  "Tell me about it."

  Scotty recapped the events.

  "Why wasn't the drowning reported to the police?" MacGregor asked.

  "There was nothing to report," Scotty replied. "It was an accident."

  "A matter for the procurator fiscal to determine."

  "We thought we could handle the whole thing internally. Cause less of a stir."

  "In retrospect, do you think that was wise?"

  "I can't answer that."

  "I see."

  "Why the sudden interest?"

  MacGregor smiled; he had sparkling white teeth, an aggressive face. "I'm trying to fill in background."

  "A paycheck well earned?"

  MacGregor waffled about in place, thinking. "Did anyone try to ascertain what caused the jolt which threw the crewman off the helipad?"

  "Of course. We checked the ship. There was no damage and no clues left behind. I wish there had been." He decided not to mention the sonar tracings; why create the inference he was a bit off his rocker? "I doubt the drowning incident had any relation to the blowout."

  MacGregor waxed ambivalent. "Maybe. Maybe not." He took another nut from his pocket, tossed it into the air, and caught it dramatically in his mouth. "Well done," he said, complimenting himself.

  "Is there anything else?" Scotty asked impatiently.

  "Yes," MacGregor replied. "I'd like to backtrack to the 'so-called' attack on the ship several weeks ago."

  "All right."

  "You were there?"

  "You know I was because I'm sure you've read the Columbus report."

  MacGregor smirked, caught. "It was very interesting. So were your conclusions."

  "They were educated guesses."

  "Do you think they were accurate?"

  "What I think is irrelevant. What I know for a fact carries weight."

  "And?"

  "I honestly can't answer your question."

  "Do you think your educated guesses might be applicable to the current tragedy?"

  "I don't know. I may never know."

  MacGregor paused, thinking. "When all is said and the police may have no involvement here. These strange tragic events may be explained away naturally. No crime may have been committed, nor may there have been criminal malfeasance. I may very well be wasting my sniffing for the unsniffable."

  "Could be," Scotty said with a smile.

  MacGregor walked to the porch staircase. "Yes, could be," he said. "But I doubt it. Something tells me the police will heavily involved." He smiled. "Thank you for the information, Mr. Bruce. You've saved me considerable time and effort."

  "My pleasure," Scotty declared.

  The detective departed.

  Scotty drove into town alone that night through the heavy fog that had raced in over the Great Glen like an express train just before sundown. He also ate dinner alone, had a lager or two, then returned to Travis House shortly after nine.

  "He just insisted he had to talk to you and wouldn't leave," Mrs. Munro was saying as she indignantly followed Scotty through the foyer. "I told him I don't approve of such things. Uninvited visits are not proper, and I know proper from not proper 'cause I got a good mind for manners. But he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. I tell you, Mr. Bruce, he's a bit of hard head 'cause he stood up to me and pushed into the house even though I had
a fire stoker in my hand."

  "There's no need for any violence, Mrs. Munro," Scotty said, moving to the den. "You know Mr. Foster!"

  "Don't matter a bit if I know him or not. Right is right."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Munro!"

  Mrs. Munro retreated with a huff. Scotty entered the dern. Foster was seated in the armchair; his expression was serious

  "What's up?" Scotty asked as Foster stood.

  "More bad news," Foster said. "I thought I would bring it to you personally." He shook his head. "I know you didn't know the man, but I do know you've been interested in his progress."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Jim Barrett died last night."

  Scotty sat behind the desk puffing heavily on a Havana cigar. It was late. The room was deadly quiet. The window glass was covered with a gray mist; the fog still hung heavy. He heard Mrs. Munro lumber across her room, then began sifting through a stack of photos—underwater pictures taken by the diving crews of the remains of the Columbus and the sonar tug. The prints were precise and grotesque, making his skin crawl. He put the stack to the side and began to examine three large charts. One was a schematic-composite diagram of the derelicts, drawn from the referenced pictures. There were several large red marks near the drill floor and deck lines representing the crucial material the divers had not been able to locate—the blowout preventer control hoses and the guide wires. Preliminary inspection suggested the missing parts had been burned off their surface connections by the blaze. Damn, he was convinced the parts would be needed if they were ever going to know the true cause of the disaster. Hopefully, though, the parts had been pinned beneath the drill ship rather than having spun free into oblivion. He examined the other two diagrams. The first was a plan chart of the salvage operation that set the position of the salvage vessels and diving barges. The second was an operational plan depicting the stages of the underwater recovery. They were not futures; they were immediate. All the salvage vessels were on their way and would soon arrive. Recovery would start in a week. Though the operation was not going to be easy, he was anxious as hell to get on with it.

  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.

  Chapter 15

  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. Bruc
e. 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."