Quake! The goddamn quake!
They were jolted. Reddington grabbed tighter to the tether. The shaking and vibrations increased. The tether line brushed hard against the edge of the fissure. They pulled. The rock wall shook, then shifted, tearing the tether in half.
Stunned, Reddington and Foster watched the free tether end disappear. Reddington moved to follow just as a huge tremor surged through the water, disorienting them. Panicked, Foster headed to the surface. Reddington followed. By the time they had broken water, the quake had subsided.
They climbed on to the dock. The end of the tether line lay by Reddington's side, one end sliced clean. A small aftershock hit, then quiet. It was over.
"What the hell do we do now?" Foster asked.
"I'm going down!" Reddington said.
"Are you crazy?!"
"We've got to do something."
Reddington returned to the water. Foster waited on shore, trembling. Reddington was not gone long.
"I can't see a goddamn thing down there," he said, surfacing.
"The torch?" Foster asked.
"Useless!"
Reddington climbed from the loch and fell to the ground, exhausted. Foster moved next to him. Immobile, they watched the water, the now-quiet surface. Above them, residents of Lower Foyers had emerged from their homes, looking for damage. Eventually, Reddington glanced at his watch and stood.
"His tanks must be empty by now."
Foster stood, too, wobbling toward the Rover. "We'd better call the police!"
Frantic, Rolf Kreibel moved quickly along the wall of the cavern. He could feel his lungs pulling desperately, his entire body wracked with pain. Shortly before, he had opened the emergency reserve valve, but now even those tanks were almost empty. And God, he was exhausted, having moved in endless circles, fighting to get out of the maze and back into the open waters of the loch.
Blood was pouring from a deep gash on his forehead. Part of his wet suit was torn. His fingers, too, were raw, eaten to the bone, the flesh shorn by desperate lunges along the rock wall.
The torch was still working, barely illuminating the black, glistening walls. He continued to search, spearing at threads of hope. However, he'd begun to feel the final ebb of the reserves. He clutched his throat, holding off suffocation, then darted quickly ahead and slammed into a wall. Directly above, the cavern was spreading; he might be near the entrance. Gasping, he surged through the quake debris. Yes, he was certain; he was near the mouth. He moved even quicker. Suddenly, however, the view grew dark again, as if the exit had been sealed. Puzzled, his body bursting inside, he committed himself to a final assault, exploding forward.
He was jolted aside. As his vision clouded, he whirled about and felt a surge of terror accompanying the onslaught of unconsciousness.
Something was there.
Directly in front of him.
There!
Two days after Rolf Kreibel's disappearance, Jerry Foster and Bob Reddington were summoned to Foyers by Detective Constable James MacKintosh, Fort Augustus Division, Northem Constabulary, Criminal Investigations Division. Since the accident, they had been staying at the Clachnaharry Inn near the Beauly Firth. The first day had been consumed by interrogation, the second by an interminable wait for the procurator fiscal's ruling concerning the nature of Rolf Kreibel's disappearance. The crown's chief prosecutory official in Inverness, the procurator was charged with determining cause of death and, in criminal cases, bringing indictment under the jurisdiction of the lord advocate. As such, he held their immediate futures in his hands.
Reddington and Foster arrived in Foyers in the late mornlng. Two police vans were already at the site. MacKintosh was there with several uniformed constables.
"Gentlemen," MacKintosh said perfunctorily as Reddington and Foster climbed from the Rover, "the procurator has ruled the disappearance an accident."
Foster and Reddington strained to pick up the words. MacKintosh, an expatriate from the Glasgow Lowlands, had a very heavy brogue and mountainous illiterate style.
Reddington looked up at the sky, which was heavy with clouds and moisture. "Then I suppose we can go?"
"Sure as the Word is good," MacKintosh said. "But we'd like you to look at something first. For identification purposes. A villager was fishing this morning and found a diving helmet along the shore. He called us. We assumed the helmet belonged to Kreibel. We'd like you to take a look."
MacKintosh motioned to one of the uniformed officers, who brought over a helmet covered with dirt and a grayish-blue film.
"That's Kreibel's," Foster said. He reached into the Rover and took out one of the other helmets, handing it to MacKintosh. "We each had an identical one."
"Do you agree, Mr. Reddington?" MacKintosh asked.
Reddington did not reply.
"Mr. Reddington?"
Reddington's eyes shifted. "Yes," he said, running his fingers across the helmet's torch.
"Good," MacKintosh declared. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry this had to happen. But I'm right pleased we were able to expedite things quickly. You have my number if you need speak to me, and we have yours in case there are further questions or in the event the body is recovered."
Reddington and Foster thanked MacKintosh, who offered a few quick words about the dangers of Loch Ness and a peculiar philosophical statement about life and death in the Highlands.
"Let's head back to Aberdeen," Foster suggested sheepishly after the police officers had disappeared.
Reddington walked to the shoreline and kneeled. Sniffing the edges of his fingers, he remained trancelike until Foster had moved to his side.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Foster asked.
Reddington held out his hand, extending his fingers. "Smell that?
Foster sniffed the substance. "Christ!" he said, astonished.
"Yeah," Reddington declared. "The quake must have opened a fissure."
Foster changed thoughts to words. "There's oil down there? Under Loch Ness?"
And Bob Reddington, senior drilling supervisor, Geminii Petroleum International, just stared.
The music and words had been filtering through his thoughts ever since he had stepped off British Airways Flight 7425 in Aberdeen.
You take the high road and I'll take the Iow road and I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . . .
A strange sense of Scottish earthiness or some bizarre notion of history, he guessed, rather than his heritage or an overromantic persona had created a bridge to barely familiar melodies. Oh, sure, Peter Robert Bruce, he'd been told, was a Scottish name, but his father had died when he was three, and if he professed any roots, it would have been to his mother's Irish ancestry. No, there was something about this country that culled emotions, something unaffected by two days of orientation at Geminii Petroleum's Aberdeen complex and by the long hours spent analyzing drilling and geophysical reports. Nor did this something relinquish its hold during the quick flight to Inverness or along the route into the city in a stretch Mercedes limousine to the rented home on a domineering hill. No, it was there, and goddamn, he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"I hope you like Travis House," Jerry Foster said as the limousine stopped in front of an old stone mansion overlooking the city. "I took particular care choosing it. In fact, I must have looked at half the vacant mansions in Inverness and even some that were occupied."
"I don't think the effort was necessary," "Scotty" Bruce replied. "I would have been very comfortable in a sleeping bag."
"It wasn't an effort. It was a pleasure, Mr. Bruce."
"Mr. Bruce? Hey, if I'm going to call you Jerry, you're going to call me Scotty."
Foster smiled broadly while patting down the lapels of an ostentatious plaid suit, unflatteringly styled. "All right, Scotty. But I've got to tell you the formality is part of idol worship. I lived in Los Angeles when you were at USC, and I was a real fan of yours."
Scotty smirked; the memories were almost petrified. "That was a long time ago."
Foster puffed his chest as they entered the grounds, proud of his good memory. "You were the best tight end I ever saw. There might be faster ballplayers today but no one who could block like you could."
Scotty pulled off his Amarillo Stetson. "I hope you're the only football fan in Inverness 'cause I don't want anyone to remind me how old I am."
Foster laughed, his moustache rising up his cheeks, his pudgy body and rotund face expanding. "Well, there are a lot of football fans, but football is soccer here. They're honkers about it."
They entered the mansion. Foster led a tour: living room, dining room, kitchen—a housekeeper would be forthcoming—the upstairs bedroom area, and then the den, where they sat and attacked some beers pulled from the refrigerator.
"I was also in Washington with the State Department when you were traded to the Redskins," Foster began again. "I didn't miss a game. In fact, if you ask me, Scotty, those years with Washington were your best."
"My coldest, too."
Foster lit his pipe, impressed with Scotty's appearance. Scotty did not look like the athlete long retired. He was muscular and slim, and his handsome, angular features, aggressive eyes, and inviting smile still carried a message of enthusiasm. "You may wish you were still there once you get a load of the Scottish winter. They say it's warmer than one would expect because of the Gulf Stream, but when those gales come raging in off the North Sea, no one takes much comfort with a few extra degrees of temp. The rain isn't God's gift, either. Oh, yeah, it snows, but the rain's the curse. Drops as big as golf balls and blown horizontally by the wind so they whiz around like artillery shells. It gets so bad you can hardly stand. Everyone winds up slushing around in the mud. It's worse than playing football on a rainy field, and you'd know about that 'cause of the torn knee!"
Scotty slugged some beer, subconsciously flexing his scarred kneecap. He didn't like memories of the NFL, and he rarely indulged himself, but it was hard to prevent others from doing so. Notoriety always carried a ponderous curse even many years after the fact.
Foster pulled some papers from his pocket, continuing to speak. "I've got a message for you from Jim Barrett."
Scotty massaged his burnished cheeks. "I tried to get in to see Barrett in London, but he'd just been flown back to the States."
Foster shook his head. "The man's fortunate to be alive. I tell you, Scotty, it was one scary night. We were lucky we had a doctor on the plane. Barrett was sitting right next to me when he started to complain about shortness of breath. I told him he'd eaten too much. But when he started to sweat, I knew he was in trouble. It wasn't ten seconds later, he turned blue, his eyes rolled into his head, and he went out like a light. I called for help. A doctor ran over, tore off Barrett's shirt, and went to work, pumping his chest. He said Barrett'd had a coronary and his heart was fibrillating. And he was trying to get it back in rhythm. Yeah, let me tell you, Scotty, Barrett's a lucky man to be alive."
"How's his condition now?"
"Not good."
"You said he had a message."
Foster didn't flinch. "Yeah. He said; 'Good luck. You'll need it.' "
"Is that so?"
"Some say yes. Some say no."
"What do you say?"
"Not much. Remember, I'm the press officer. The official PR man. I keep locals at bay, newspaper reporters subdued, and company egos massaged. I try to stay away from controversy. Out of everyone's way. I talk and write and make up little press releases like the one in my hand announcing your arrival, education and work experience listed, plus your membership in the Pro Football Hall of Fame."
Scotty grimaced. "Do we need the last?"
"Absolutely. Stateside management demanded it. They like the PR potential."
Scotty stood and walked around the den, examining bookshelves, then sat down again. "Have you got some time?" he asked.
"Sure," Foster replied. "And it's at your disposal." He looked at his watch, a relic on a gold chain. "Call it nine-thirty. Mr. Whittenfeld suggested I bring you by just after one. You'll be asked to call him Bill. Just about everyone does. He may be the boss, a high-powered executive and a man not unaware of position and station, but he's human, too. A member of the team. A first-name sort of guy."
"I see."
Foster laughed. "You'll like him . . . like him a lot."
Scotty closed his eyes, thinking. Foster watched, bemused. There was silence. Several minutes passed.
"Well, if you're at my disposal," Scotty suddenly said, "talk to me."
"About what?"
Scotty once more subconsciously flexed his knee. "I've just joined the company. I'm in Scotland for the first time. I don't know anything about anything."
"You do know I was with Reddington and Kreibel the day Kreibel died?"
"Call that the beginning," Scotty said. "Start from there."
Foster poked at the end of his moustache. "I wasn't privy to all the technical stuff. You'd know more about that than I would. Oil wasn't supposed to be here. The oil slick suggested it was. The company obtained a preliminaw exploratory license from the Department of Energy in London and quietly went about its business. Divers dove. Seismic crews doodle bugged the area. When Geminii was sure everyone had been wrong about the region, it approached Energy, obtaining a license to drill for and produce oil. Then it petitioned the local authorities through the Highland Regional Council for land access and development approval, and that's when the fireworks began." Foster repacked his pipe. "The Department of Energy only licenses the company. The local elected councils must license the land and approve a development plan." He paused thoughtfully. "The company applied for local cert. It presented a comprehensive development statement. The onland application was quickly approved. But the Loch Ness request hit a shit storm. A councilor named MacKenzie from Foyers put up a hell of a fight, forming an opposition group, the Caucus, which recruited environmentalists, the Free Church, and the Scottish Nationalist Party. After the Caucus lost in committee, they tried to stop the initiative in the full council as well. They lost again. But this didn't end the matter. No way. Throughout the entire process of public hearings, the secretary of state for Scotland, who is a member of the British Cabinet, head of the Scottish office, and sort of Scotland's prime minister, could have taken jurisdiction himself. But the loch application was a nasty political issue, and the secretary left it in the Highland Council's lap and would have kept it there had MacKenzie and company let the matter die. They didn't. They put so much pressure on the secretary, he buckled and held a new round of public hearings. Once again, the application was approved, and once more MacKenzie rebelled, bringing suit, claiming the secretary had ignored pertinent testimony. The case was thrown out of court. And that's where we are now. Moving ahead. Slowly. Under the watchful eye of the crazies who opposed the Loch Ness application and who hope something goes wrong so their cause will be vindicated."