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Authors: Jeffrey Konvitz
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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!"
"You're crazy."
"You've said that already."
"Look. I can see you and I have to have a long talk."
She leaned across and snapped down the handle of the door. "We've had a long talk, Mr. Bruce. Good day."
"Please . . ."
"Good day," she repeated, interrupting.
Scotty climbed out of the seat. MacKenzie turned on the engine, revved it momentarily, maneuvered the car out of the parking lot, then sped away.
Scotty closed the front door to Travis House, walked down the hall, and entered the den. Mrs. Munro was puttering about with a feather duster.
"Home early, aren't you, Mr. Bruce?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"You wouldn't be wanting me to fix up some food for you, would you now?"
"No."
"That's good. Very good. I only have two hands, and the dust is creeping over this place like the moor fog at night."
He bobbed into the kitchen, built an impressive turkey sandwich, then returned to the den, sitting down on the lounge.
"If you sit there, Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro said, waving feathers, "you're going to have a side order of dust."
"I'll cover up when you roam by."
He sipped his beer as Mrs. Munro whizzed past him, her plain drape of a dress catching nearly every article in the room.
"Do you know anything about the Scottish Nationalist Party?" he asked moments later.
Mrs. Munro stopped dusting and turned, a gaping expression on her face. "Now that's some question, Mr. Bruce. I'm Scottish. Was born and raised here. My poor dead husband, too. I'd be a boob if I didn't know about the Scottish Nationalists."
"That's fine, Mrs. Munro. Then perhaps you can give me some insight."
"The Scottish Nationalist Party is a political party," she said a trifle condescendingly, as if she had found his ignorance pathetic. "Just like Labour, the Tory
"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!"
"You're crazy."
"You've said that already."
"Look. I can see you and I have to have a long talk."
She leaned across and snapped down the handle of the door. "We've had a long talk, Mr. Bruce. Good day."
"Please . . ."
"Good day," she repeated, interrupting.
Scotty climbed out of the seat. MacKenzie turned on the engine, revved it momentarily, maneuvered the car out of the parking lot, then sped away.
Scotty closed the front door to Travis House, walked down the hall, and entered the den. Mrs. Munro was puttering about with a feather duster.
"Home early, aren't you, Mr. Bruce?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"You wouldn't be wanting me to fix up some food for you, would you now?"
"No."
"That's good. Very good. I only have two hands, and the dust is creeping over this place like the moor fog at night."
He bobbed into the kitchen, built an impressive turkey sandwich, then returned to the den, sitting down on the lounge.
"If you sit there, Mr. Bruce," Mrs. Munro said, waving feathers, "you're going to have a side order of dust."
"I'll cover up when you roam by."
He sipped his beer as Mrs. Munro whizzed past him, her plain drape of a dress catching nearly every article in the room.
"Do you know anything about the Scottish Nationalist Party?" he asked moments later.
Mrs. Munro stopped dusting and turned, a gaping expression on her face. "Now that's some question, Mr. Bruce. I'm Scottish. Was born and raised here. My poor dead husband, too. I'd be a boob if I didn't know about the Scottish Nationalists."
"That's fine, Mrs. Munro. Then perhaps you can give me some insight."
"The Scottish Nationalist Party is a political party," she said a trifle condescendingly, as if she had found his ignorance pathetic. "Just like Labour, the Tory
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