Scotty had never known a security clearance to be so inaccurate.
Lefebre was hiding something, and based on Whittenfeld's attitude, he suspected Whittenfeld might well be aware of it. Although he kept telling himself to hold to his promise and mind his own business, he damn well was going to make a quiet exception in this case.
Pierre Lefebre. The son of a bitch.
Yes, he'd challenged the Frenchman but certainly his action didn't warrant the response, Lefebre's attack had been the knee jerk of a madman, the reflex of a man out of control, a man on whose shoulders rested the safety of the project and every individual involved.
Was he the only one in Inverness who understood the danger this man presented?
Chapter 8
Scotty leaned over the ship's rail, watching whitecaps surge across the water toward Urquhart Bay. The surface conditions were a shade toward the perilous for most loch vessels, and so there were few in sight. However, the sonar tug had arrived and was lingering nearby, waiting for Whittenfeld's appearance.
Scotty had risen early, feeling even angrier than he'd felt before going to bed, an anger fed by the prior evening's smoldering solitude and a telex received at Travis House that morning from the London office that had announced it knew of no information concerning Pierre Lefebre apart from the material contained in Lefebre's resume and clearances. Completing breakfast, Scotty had retired to the den to place the same transatlantic call he'd unsuccessfully tried to place the night before to Michael Wessinghage, State Department, Washington Intelligence Bureau, an old friend. This time; however, Wessinghage had been in his office.
Their conversation had been short. He hadn't asked for much. Only a rundown on a man known to him as Pierre Lefebre, a Frenchman. Certainly, if anyone could pinpoint Lefebre, it was Wessinghage. However, even Wessinghage could only make a commitment to diligent effort, promising to call as soon as he'd located anything of interest.
Leaving the house, he'd picked up Tony Spinelli and had toured the three exploratory on-land well sites. The Black Isle hole, located on the Black Isle, a peninsula north of Inverness, had just been spudded. Highland B, situated across the firth, was a third of the way along, and Beauly Highpoint was almost at depth and, unlike the other two locations, a beehive of excitement because preliminary core tests had indicated they might very well be on the verge of a significant hydrocarbon find.
Subsequent to a conference with British Midland field executives at Beauly—Midland had won the drilling concession for all three wells—he'd returned with Spinelli to the base and had helicoptered out to the Columbus .
Bob Reddington, who'd been standing quietly alongside, moved closer. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Nothing," Scotty replied, deciding not to mention his continuing inquiries even to Reddington. "I don't want more trouble here. If the situation had been different, if Whittenfeld hadn't been there . . . God knows what might have happened."
"Damn thing is incredible!"
"What do you know about Lefebre?"
"Not much. Whittenfeld brought him in last year with little fanfare. He's apparently done a good job. And he's never attacked anyone that I'm aware of. Oh, sure, there've been some problems. Barrett didn't like the excess security. He unsuccessfully lobbied Whittenfeld to curtail it. And consequently argued heatedly with Lefebre, who did not appreciate Barrett's interference. But this kind of thing? Never."
They descended into the drill ship to the second deck and inspected the condition of equipment at the heart: the mud pumps, the liquid mud containers, and cement pods. Satisfied, they checked the electric and engineering workshops, moved forward into the moon pool, then returned to the main deck and entered the superintendent's offices.
A summons from Grabowski drew them topside moments later.
Several members of the crew and staff were
Lefebre was hiding something, and based on Whittenfeld's attitude, he suspected Whittenfeld might well be aware of it. Although he kept telling himself to hold to his promise and mind his own business, he damn well was going to make a quiet exception in this case.
Pierre Lefebre. The son of a bitch.
Yes, he'd challenged the Frenchman but certainly his action didn't warrant the response, Lefebre's attack had been the knee jerk of a madman, the reflex of a man out of control, a man on whose shoulders rested the safety of the project and every individual involved.
Was he the only one in Inverness who understood the danger this man presented?
Chapter 8
Scotty leaned over the ship's rail, watching whitecaps surge across the water toward Urquhart Bay. The surface conditions were a shade toward the perilous for most loch vessels, and so there were few in sight. However, the sonar tug had arrived and was lingering nearby, waiting for Whittenfeld's appearance.
Scotty had risen early, feeling even angrier than he'd felt before going to bed, an anger fed by the prior evening's smoldering solitude and a telex received at Travis House that morning from the London office that had announced it knew of no information concerning Pierre Lefebre apart from the material contained in Lefebre's resume and clearances. Completing breakfast, Scotty had retired to the den to place the same transatlantic call he'd unsuccessfully tried to place the night before to Michael Wessinghage, State Department, Washington Intelligence Bureau, an old friend. This time; however, Wessinghage had been in his office.
Their conversation had been short. He hadn't asked for much. Only a rundown on a man known to him as Pierre Lefebre, a Frenchman. Certainly, if anyone could pinpoint Lefebre, it was Wessinghage. However, even Wessinghage could only make a commitment to diligent effort, promising to call as soon as he'd located anything of interest.
Leaving the house, he'd picked up Tony Spinelli and had toured the three exploratory on-land well sites. The Black Isle hole, located on the Black Isle, a peninsula north of Inverness, had just been spudded. Highland B, situated across the firth, was a third of the way along, and Beauly Highpoint was almost at depth and, unlike the other two locations, a beehive of excitement because preliminary core tests had indicated they might very well be on the verge of a significant hydrocarbon find.
Subsequent to a conference with British Midland field executives at Beauly—Midland had won the drilling concession for all three wells—he'd returned with Spinelli to the base and had helicoptered out to the Columbus .
Bob Reddington, who'd been standing quietly alongside, moved closer. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Nothing," Scotty replied, deciding not to mention his continuing inquiries even to Reddington. "I don't want more trouble here. If the situation had been different, if Whittenfeld hadn't been there . . . God knows what might have happened."
"Damn thing is incredible!"
"What do you know about Lefebre?"
"Not much. Whittenfeld brought him in last year with little fanfare. He's apparently done a good job. And he's never attacked anyone that I'm aware of. Oh, sure, there've been some problems. Barrett didn't like the excess security. He unsuccessfully lobbied Whittenfeld to curtail it. And consequently argued heatedly with Lefebre, who did not appreciate Barrett's interference. But this kind of thing? Never."
They descended into the drill ship to the second deck and inspected the condition of equipment at the heart: the mud pumps, the liquid mud containers, and cement pods. Satisfied, they checked the electric and engineering workshops, moved forward into the moon pool, then returned to the main deck and entered the superintendent's offices.
A summons from Grabowski drew them topside moments later.
Several members of the crew and staff were
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