Monster: Tale Loch Ness (7 page)

The office surprised him. He expected something sparse and uninviting. But this place was fascinating. There were potted plants about. Shelves filled with books. Hanging lithographs. An open volume of Shakespearean plays on a reading stand. A half-dozen mounted ivory carvings. And one carving in progress on a work bench in the corner.

Lefebre ended the phone conversation—he'd been talking to a perimeter security officer—and put down the receiver. "Monsieur Bruce?" he said, smiling.

"I was down the hall," Scotty explained. "I thought I'd drop in and sit for a minute. See your office."

"Make yourself at home," Lefebre said, shifting in his scat. Behind him was a duty roster clogged with names. "Would you like something to drink? Some coffee, tea, water?"

"No, thank you," Scotty said, looking about, admiring the carvings.

Lefebre smiled. "I see you have a roving eye. See anything interesting?"

"Yes. The ivory work."

"My menagerie."

"The elephant in particular. It's spectacular."

"I appreciate the compliment."

Scotty pointed to the work bench. "You carved these yourself?" he asked, very impressed.

"With considerable difficulty."

"Where'd you learn?"

Lefebre paused, thinking, then answered. "In the army. In Marseilles. There was a soldier in my regiment who'd been raised in the Cameroons. He learned the skill from a native. I learned from him."

"Are you from Marseilles?"

"No, Calais. I was stationed in Marseilles. And I remained there after my discharge. Working."

"For the Marseilles police?"

Lefebre laughed. "You seem to be compiling a dossier. So please, allow me to complete it. Parents dead, childhood status: orphan. No wife. One child . . . a bastard . . . location unknown. Six years as security director for various industrial concerns. A tenure in the French army. A long career with the Marseilles police. A degree from the Sorbonne in classical literature."

"Classical literature?"

"Does that surprise you?"

Scotty glanced at the shelves, the books. "Not really. I see the evidence." Lefebre's manner of speech included; it was perfect. "No, I guess I just find it incongruous that someone with a degree in literature would become a security man."

"Life's convolutions can never be accurately foreseen. There are roadblocks, circumstances, twists of fate, which often lead men down uncharted roads. Yes, I enjoyed literature. I still do. But long ago I found other pursuits far more rewarding."

"Like what?"

"My job. This job."

"I hope I'm not prying?"

Lefebre shook his head, laughing. "I'm flattered by the attention." He extended a pack of Gitanes. Scotty declined. Lefebre pulled one out. "So," he said, lighting the cigarette and blowing a ring of smoke across the desk, "what else can I tell you?"

Scotty looked about. The blotter was filled with papers. There were several books piled on a corner of the desk and, strangely, two boxes of chewing tobacco, something he would not have expected to find in the possession of a Frenchman. "Tell me about the submersible," he said.

"What do you mean?" Lefebre asked as he flipped some pages of the Shakespeare compendium.

"My conclusion."

"I accept it."

"Do you think it was right?"

"If you're asking whether or not I think there could actually have been a submersible in the loch, the answer is 'yes.' If you're asking whether there are people who would attempt such an attack, I refer you to my speech upstairs, and again the answer is 'yes.' And if you're asking whether I will uncover the identity of the malicious parties involved, the answer is . . ."

" 'Yes'?"

"Definitely yes."

The telephone rang. The secretary had not returned yet, so Lefebre picked up the phone himself. The caller was Whittenfeld. They spoke briefly; then Lefebre walked Scotty out into the hall.

"Duty calls, my friend," Lefebre said. "But we should have lunch soon. Talk some more. Compare dossiers."

"Absolutely," Scotty declared.

The elevator arrived. Lefebre disappeared. Scotty sorted out impressions. Though Lefebre had tried to make a sincere and friendly impression, he'd failed. Scotty wasn't quite sure what he sensed, but he suspected a completely different kind of man lurking inside the smiling shell of the security chief.

He left the building.

It was raining the following morning when Scotty walked down the second-floor corridor past frenetic secretaries and popped into Jerry Foster's office.

"You look bright eyed and bushy tailed," Foster observed as he collated some papers on his desk.

"Hardly," Scotty said, picking up the bottom of the drawn window blinds. "You going to show movies in here?"

Foster laughed. "No. The rain depresses me. I also work best under artificial light."

Scotty sat, noticing a ludicrous picture of Foster in scuba gear hanging on the wail.

"That the
Columbus
report?" he asked, pointing at the papers.

"You bet."

"You have a full draft already?"

"Already? Hey, Scotty, that's a funny one. I haven't ieft this place since yesterday afternoon." He glanced down at the report. "God knows if the damn thing makes any sense. I'm so bleary-eyed I doubt I'll be able to tell. And hell, a lot of the stuff is Greek to me."

"You need my expertise?"

"No. Whittenfeld will be down in a while to dot the i's. He's been hovering around me like a bat since I started this thing. But who can blame him. The ship gambit backfired. There's been pressure from New York and London. And while you and Reddington were working on the loch, Whittenfeld was fielding some stinging phone calls from the Scottish Office and the Highland Council. No, he has every reason to make sure this report hits the mark, some special incentive, too. Loch Ness, this place, this operation, all of it is very personal to him. He lives for it. Christ, I'm surprised he's been as restrained as he's been this week, though, I tell you, when you laid the submersible thing on him, I thought he was going to explode like a bomb."

"Maybe I have a calming effect on him."

"Could be."

Thoughtful, Scotty picked up the draft, glanced over it, then laid it down and stood. "You call me if you need me."

Foster stood, too. "You got it," he said, smiling.

Several days later, Whittenfeld summoned the executive staff to his office and distributed the
Columbus
report. The report recapped the events aboard the drill ship, the results of the investigation, and the conclusions reached by management. It declined to point an incriminating finger but acknowledged the company was undertaking steps to ensure the safety of its installations.

He asked for comments. There were none. He said he'd expected none, so he had taken the liberty of previously forwarding the report to Farquharson.

He dismissed everyone except Scotty and told Scotty about a meeting he'd arranged with the planning committee of the

Highland Regional Council. Having already forwarded copies of the report to committee members as well, he asked Scotty to take the meeting and answer any questions that might be forthcoming.

The planning committee convened the following morning. Scotty fielded questions, again avoiding incriminating accusations. Specifically, the committee asked why the company had not requested the assistance of the Northern Constabulary. There was no permanent damage, he replied. No fatalities. And the company had stiffened its security to ensure there would be no repetition. In fact, he said, the entire affair had been put to bed, and the meeting with the committee had been called solely as a courtesy.

Most of the committee members were satisfied. However, he wasn't sure how Mary MacKenzie had reacted. She'd said absolutely nothing.

The meeting adjourned.

He left the council building and waited in the parking lot. MacKenzie appeared several minutes later and walked briskly to her car. He approached.

"I'd like to speak to you." he said.

"I'm late for an appointment."

"Mrs. MacKenzie," he said, "this is important."

"It's miss," she snapped.

"All right. Miss. But what I have to say is still important."

She looked at her watch.

"I won't keep you long," he said.

She slid into her car, opened the shotgun door, and waved him inside.

"Did you read the report?" he asked, moving next to her.

"Of course I read the report," she said. "I read it twice."

"I should have known. You had all those comments. Observations."

She glanced at him, fire in her eyes. "I said nothing, Mr. Bruce, because there was nothing to say. I read the report. I heard your arguments. I listened to the conclusions."

"And?"

"They're absurd! Is that clear?"

He held up his hands, nonplussed. "Don't get angry at me. I'm only doing my job."

"And I'm doing mine. Which means I have to represent the people of this region. And protect their lives, their homes. I have to sift through lies and see the forest for the trees. And what I see I don't like."

"Neither do I," he shot back. "I see a closed-minded woman with predetermined opinions, little or no courtesy, and no patience."

She cranked her head toward him. "I've been listening to Geminii for years. Till it's almost choked me. I'm no novice at this."

"I didn't say you were."

"I was on the ship. I was there! Something disastrous happened. Something occurred that endangered us all!"

"I don't deny that. No one does. But you've been given all the facts. The results of the investigation."

"And am I supposed to accept them as the gospel?"

"Yes."

"Then you take me for a fool, Mr. Bruce."

He breathed deeply, frustrated. "I conducted the investigation, Miss MacKenzie."

"I see," she said, glaring wickedly. "Does that entitle you to some kind of award?"

"No!" he challenged. "But it entitles me to defend the truth. And the report reflects the truth."

She laughed. "We were all told Geminii had just hired a saint. You, Mr. Bruce! The conscience of the world. The essence of integrity. But don't delude yourself. Don't think I attribute more to your panderings than I would to the word of any other employee of Geminii. You are an employee of Geminii, aren't you? District supervisor, if I'm correct. A senior executive?"

He sat back. Thoughtful. Did everyone know about his background? "Yes. I work for Geminii. Yes, I'm district supervisor."

She looked him square in the eyes. "Mr. Bruce, let me ask you an honest question. Do you really believe someone operating a submersible vehicle attacked the
Columbus
?"

"The evidence suggests so."

"I haven't seen any evidence. I've just heard what representatives of Geminii said they found."

"That's what we found!"

"All right. That's what you found. But even looking at this so-called evidence, these findings made by divers. A manned submersible? Attacking a giant ship? You must be senile."

"It's possible."

"Who, Mr. Bruce? Who?"

"What do you mean, 'who'?"

"Who was in the submersible? Who organized this attack? Tell me who."

"That's the exact question Whittenfeld asked me. I couldn't give him an answer, and I can't give you one. I just joined the company. I wasn't here during license application. I wasn't here at the start of active exploration. I don't know the players, so I couldn't possibly make a guess at who might have tried to sabotage the
Columbus
."

"Sabotage is a very serious charge, Mr. Bruce."

"Yes. Especially when lives might have been lost."

She smiled archly, paused. "Now, Mr. Bruce, you can't tell me no one at the company named names. Identified parties who might have engineered such an attack!"

"There were suggestions."

"Well, then. You didn't tell the council this."

"It's not the type of speculation one indulges in publicly."

She looked around. "We're not in public."

He glanced at her severely. She was almost too attractive to be so goddamned stubborn and contentious, too feminine and sensual to be a clarion for local public outrage. "It's common knowledge there were opponents to the company's application."

"Like?"

"Environmentalists."

"I'm an environmentalist, Mr. Bruce."

"The Scottish Nationalist Party."

"I'm one of them, too."

"The unions fought aspects of the plan that called for the importation of English and American workers."

"I'm a union sympathizer. You know, Mr. Bruce. It seems you're pointing a finger in my direction. Or in the direction of my close associates."

"I'm doing nothing of the kind."

"Then what are you doing?"

He didn't respond.

She stiffened, angrily twisting her features. "No submersible attacked the
Columbus
. And that leaves one of two alternatives. Something
did
go wrong beyond the control of the crew. Something that endangered everyone. Or the event was planned. Planned and executed by Geminii executives."

"Are you crazy?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"No," she said calmly. "Not in the least. It makes a hell of a lot of sense. Whittenfeld invites us all on board. The breakdown is engineered. Everyone is taken off the ship. A report is issued. Saboteurs are blamed. But there are no saboteurs. Nevertheless, these imaginary saboteurs serve a very useful purpose. The specter of sabotage allows the company to close down access. Increase security. Keep everyone away. Keep oversight at a minimum. That's the way oil companies like to work, isn't it?"

"No."

"Spare me, Mr. Bruce. Because there's more. There's something else this supposed conspiracy serves to do. It serves to protect Geminii Petroleum."

"How's that?"

"In case something does go wrong internally. Something beyond the control of the company. A breakdown. A disaster. Anything. The company can blame it on sabotage. Plain and simple. Blame it on sabotage and no one will question whether the company should be allowed to continue operations. Have everyone out chasing ghosts and the company itself is free from scrutiny!"