Katherine Kurtz - Adept 05 - Death of an Adept

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Mystic and historian, Sir Adam Sinclair is Master of the Hunt, leader of a secret brotherhood at war with the

dark and unholy Powers that menace our world. In his time, he has challenged the forces of evil and been

victorious. Now evil is rising once again - an extraordinary evil born of ancient elemental magic and

twentieth-century ambition.

And Adam Sinclair will face the most unthinkable crime against his kind: murder.

DEATH OF AN ADEPT

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace hardcover edition / December 1996 Ace mass-market edition / November 1997

Cover art by Joe Burleson.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without

permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10.014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-441-00.484-9

ACE® Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10.014.

ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To David and Ursala Winder, Just because…

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, we are indebted to a number of people for their valuable technical advice and assistance, among

them:

Dr. David P. Winder, MD, ChB, FRCA, Consultant Anaesthetist, Hull Royal Infirmary, who graciously allowed

himself to be drafted as consultant anaesthetist for this project, and who was not the model for the slimy Dr.

Mallory;

Inspector Ian MacPherson, Highlands and Islands Police, Stornoway, for guidance on policing procedures on

the Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides, who hardly batted an eye when informed that we were bringing crime to his

island;

First Officer Bob McLellan, Loganair, for allowing us to pick his brain about island-hopping and civil aviation

procedures at Stornoway Aerodrome;

Sgt. Frank Urban, Strathclyde Police, Motherwell, for telling us where the bodies go;

Margaret Carter, for sleuthing out the corridors of UCSF-Mount Zion Medical Center in San Francisco;

Peter Morwood, for again providing technical background on helicopters and the SAS.

To these and all the others who assisted our development of the background for this story, our most sincere

thanks.

prologue

SOMEWHAT unusually for mid-December, Paisley-town lay under a dusting of winter-white. The citified blend

of building heat and traffic fumes that kept the snow from lying in the streets of Glasgow, ten miles away, did

not prevent a thin layer of powder from settling on the crow-stepped gables of a tall Victorian house that stood

in stately seclusion behind a high stone wall at the southern edge of the town. The bells of a nearby church

were striking eleven o'clock when a steel-grey Lancia sporting the logo of one of Scotland's leading press

agencies nosed into the upper end of the street, creeping along to halt outside the front gate of the house.

The dark-haired woman who emerged from the driver's door in a swirl of silver fox conveyed an immediate

impression of expensive cologne and couturier fashions, but the artfully made-up eyes behind the designer

sunglasses she removed and tossed onto the dash were hard, the red-painted lips set in an expression of

taut annoyance as she stalked up to the gate in a brittle tattoo of high-heeled leather boots.

The gate swung back with a discordant screech, and she scowled as she continued up the steps to the

white-painted door, impatiently tugging off black leather gloves. The ring on the hand she raised to the ornate

brass door-knocker flashed blood-red in the grey daylight - a carved carnelian caught in a modernist setting of

heavy gold. Adorning the oval stone was the incised design of a lynx's tufted head, its mouth agape in a feral

snarl.

The dark-eyed Spanish houseboy who answered the door backed off immediately at the sight of the ring,

glancing aside with a deferential murmur. Emerging from behind a newspaper, a somewhat older man in

olive-drab military sweater and khakis unfolded himself from a wing chair just inside the entry hall, a lazy grin

splitting his well-tanned face as he laid the paper aside.

"Morning, Miz Fitzgerald," he said, tugging the bottom of his sweater over his trousers - and the bulge of an

automatic pistol in his waistband - as his gaze swept from well-coifed head to leather-booted toe. "My, my,

the newspaper business must be good."

Angela Fitzgerald, one of Scotland's more highly paid gossip columnists, flung a sharp glance over her

shoulder at the otherwise empty street and pushed past the houseboy.

"Save your American sarcasm, Barclay," she muttered. "You know I don't like coming here. And have that

gate oiled. Where is he?"

"Upstairs in the library. Jorge will show you. My, but we are testy today, aren't we?" he added under his

breath, continuing to smile as she jammed her gloves into a coat pocket and headed up the stairs, shedding

her furs to reveal a smart ensemble of emerald-green. The cowed Jorge scurried after her to take the coat,

only barely overtaking her to knock at a gothic-arched door at the top of the stair.

"What is it?" a voice from within demanded.

"Senora Fitzgerald to see youjefe," the houseboy ventured.

"Come in, Angela," the voice replied.

The room beyond displayed the flamboyant neo-gothic style made popular by such arbiters of Victorian taste

as Pugin and Burges. Above the fireplace, Minton tiles in shades of red and gold depicted a colorful scene

from Chaucer's "Nun's Priest's Tale," and the handsome mahogany bookcase gracing the south wall bore the

design signature of Philip Webb.

The dominant presence in the room, however, belonged to the fair-haired man seated behind the desk in the

wide bay window, his willowy frame clad in a dark wool suit of impeccable cut.

"How good of you to come," he said, rising gracefully from the leather-upholstered depths of his chair. His

smile was slow and lazy, dangerous. "Welcome to my humble abode."

Angela ignored both the irony and the veiled menace in his greeting as she flounced into the room, the

houseboy withdrawing with alacrity to close the door behind him.

"This had better be important," she said. "By your own account, it isn't safe for any of us to be seen together,

here or anywhere else."

Francis Raeburn elevated a blond eyebrow in mild irritation as he waved her to one of the three lyre-backed

chairs opposite the desk and resumed his own seat.

"We aren't exactly going to be seen together," he answered, settling back to steeple his fingers before him.

"And the house is of sufficient architectural interest that, as a reporter, you can certainly claim a legitimate

reason for being here. Besides that, there are sufficient safeguards in place that I think you need not worry

about being discovered in my company."

"You mean Barclay, with his ridiculous pistol?" she retorted.

"You are well aware that Mr. Barclay has other talents at his disposal. The pistol is the least of our defenses,

though it and he would serve their purpose, if required. But as long as you are under this roof, I promise that

you are in no danger of discovery."

"I certainly hope not," she muttered. "I don't want to end up like Kavanagh, with a headline for an obituary:

'Suspected terrorist found dead in prison: Police report no leads.' "

Raeburn began idly rearranging some of the items on the desktop before him. Fluid and precise, his

movements called attention to the handsome carnelian lynx ring that he, too, was wearing.

"Kavanagh was a competent operative, but he had a somewhat inflated notion of his own abilities," he said

coolly. "He was warned that a Hunting Lodge might try to interfere. When they showed up, he should have

known better than to try and cross swords with them single-handed."

"So he made an error in judgement. Was that any reason to leave him where Dorje's operatives would have no

trouble finding him?"

"And what would you have had me do?" Raeburn asked. "Stage a jailbreak on his behalf? You know as well

as I do, that would have left a trail so conspicuous that even those witless clods who pass for ordinary

policemen might have been able to track us down. No, I had the welfare of the rest of us to consider - a fact

for which 1 should think you would be grateful!"

The Kavanagh to whom they were referring had been arrested the previous spring during an attempt to salvage

a Nazi treasure trove from a submarine left hidden in a sea cave on the northwest coast of Ireland. While the

trove had included a sizeable cache of diamonds, their immense worth had been negligible compared to the

accompanying chest of manuscripts on Tibetan black magic.

Recovery of the items had been commissioned by a man called Dorje, shadowy superior of an obscure

Buddhist monastery tucked deep in the Swiss Alps, whose inner cadre of initiates recognized him as the

current incarnation of an infamous black Adept known to Tibetan legend as the Man with Green Gloves. Born

Siegfried Hasselkuss, the product of Nazi selective breeding, Dorje's esoteric resources seemed to support

that claim; and recovery of the knowledge contained in the manuscripts, called Terma or ' 'treasure texts,''

would have redoubled his already formidable powers.

Raeburn himself was no novice in such matters; but neither was he a match for Dorje. Drafted by Dorje to

undertake the salvage operation - and in expiation for a previous venture gone wrong - Raeburn had reluctantly

agreed to accept a share in the diamonds as payment for his services, fully intending to appropriate the

Terma texts for himself if a suitable opportunity arose.

But the recovery operation had been thwarted by agents of a secret enforcement organization known as the

Hunting Lodge, themselves practitioners of esoteric disciplines no less potent than those of Raeburn or Dorje.

Raeburn had narrowly escaped with a share of the diamonds, but only at the expense of betraying his Tibetan

handlers, abandoning the manuscripts, and leaving the luckless Kavanagh to be arrested by conventional law

enforcement authorities on charges of terrorism.

Nor had Kavanagh languished long in jail before being found dead in his cell, of causes yet to be explained by

medical science but which Raeburn had no doubt could be laid at the feet of the vengeful Dorje. Lacking the

occult resources to combat his former employer on equal terms, at least for the present, Raeburn had

temporarily dispersed his own followers and gone into hiding, leaving his associates to find what safety they

could while he himself went searching for the means to shift the balance of power in his favor.

Angela's expression was stormy as she contemplated a well-manicured thumbnail.

"No doubt I am meant to be reassured by the knowledge that you threw Kavanagh to the wolves," she said

coldly. "All that tells me is that you wouldn't hesitate to dispense with me or Barclay or anyone else in this

organization, if it suited your purposes at the moment."

"Then take comfort from the assurance that I value your talents far too much to dispense with them for any

trifling reason," Raeburn said drily. "Why else do you think 1 forbade you to employ your occult abilities until

further notice, if not to ensure that you didn't betray yourself to our enemies?"

"Don't you mean your enemies?" she said archly.

"I doubt very much that Dorje would make that distinction," Raeburn said, "and neither should you, if you

want to survive."

"If survival is all you care about," said Angela, "perhaps you should think about resigning as Lynx-Master. A

change of leadership might do this organization a world of good."

"Are you proposing to replace me? Don't even think about it," Raeburn warned with a chilly smile. "Not unless

you really believe you're up to taking on Barclay and Richter as well as me. And even if, by some miracle,

you did succeed in bringing me down," he continued, "do you suppose for one moment that would pacify

Dorje?"

"You could consider giving him back his diamonds, by way of a peace offering," she ventured.

Raeburn dismissed this suggestion with a snort of bitter laughter.

"If I had ten times the value of that chest to give him, Dorje would still consider me in his debt for letting his

precious Terma fall into the hands of the Hunting Lodge," he replied. "Besides that, I earned those diamonds.

As it is, I remain Dorje's principal target. Remove me, and you merely add insult to injury by cheating him out

of the chance to wreak his revenge on me. And the only ultimate beneficiaries are Adam Sinclair and his

Hunting Lodge."

The mention of Adam Sinclair brought a grimace of malevolent dislike to Angela's carefully tinted face. In the

social circles in which she moved professionally, Sir Adam Sinclair was regarded as one of Scotland's most

eligible bachelors. Angela herself had been dazzled by his dark good looks, even as she connived at his

death a few years before. Titled and accomplished, with a comfortable independent income and a gracious

country house just north of Edinburgh, not only was Sinclair a patron of the arts and a much respected

amateur antiquarian, but his professional reputation as a psychiatric physician was matched by few others in

Great Britain.

What the world at large never suspected was that he was also a powerful agent of the Law - not as that Law

was represented by conventional police authority (though he did work regularly as a police consultant), but in

its transcendent expression as the ruling principle of Divine Order, enforced by groups of dedicated individuals

formed into Hunting Lodges on the Inner Planes. Scotland's Hunting Lodge regarded him as their Chief,

Master of the Hunt. As adversaries of the Hunting Lodge, ironically, Raeburn and his reluctant guest knew far

more about Sinclair's secret vocation than did the innocent and unsuspecting public he and his so diligently

served.

"Sinclair!" Angela hissed under her breath. "Damn him and all the rest of his ilk. What I wouldn't give for a

chance to wipe the smug smiles from their sanctimonious faces!"

"That opportunity may be closer than you think," Raeburn said blandly. "I believe I've finally found a way to

repair our broken fortunes."

Before Angela could demand a fuller explanation, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Barclay, who

ushered in a blue-suited man of similarly compact build, with a dense blond crewcut and square, steel-framed

glasses. As Barclay closed the door behind them and continued into the room, the newcomer drew himself

up with a snap reminiscent of a military salute.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Raeburn," he said, reverting then to accented but otherwise flawless English. "I trust I

am in good time for this meeting?"

"Punctual as always," Raeburn agreed pleasantly. "I believe you remember Angela?"

Klaus Richter accorded her a cool nod of his head. Like the other three present, he was wearing a lynx ring.

Angela eyed him up and down with no trace of commendation, not stirring from her chair.

"Mr. Richter," she said stiffly.

"I believe we'll have some refreshment before we proceed to the reason for this meeting," Raeburn said with a

faint smile, waving Richter and Barclay to two remaining chairs. "But I can assure you that what I have to say

will be well worth the risk all of you took to come here."

A tug at the antique bell pull next to the desk recalled Jorge, this time carrying a china tea service on a heavy

silver tray. Setting it on a corner of Raeburn's desk, the little valet stayed long enough to distribute a round of

tea before retiring from the room with timorous alacrity. Raeburn sipped at the delicate Queen Anne blend

with the thoughtful appreciation of the connoisseur. Then, abruptly, he bent his pale, steely gaze upon the

expectant faces of his subordinates.

"I think I need not tell you that these past five months have seen a sad decline in our affairs," he began

dispassionately, setting aside his cup and saucer. "Suffice it to say that being sought by two enemies at

once has left us in an unprecedented state of disarray. With Dorje on the one hand and Sinclair on the other,

we've been forced to abandon a whole range of promising enterprises and divert all our energies to the

necessary but not exactly exalted pursuit of retaining our lives and our liberty. That situation is about to be

changed, however - and the instrument of change is in my possession."

With this dramatic announcement, he opened the desk drawer and withdrew a long, narrow bundle wrapped in

undyed silk, which he placed before him on the blotter. As his three associates leaned forward with varying

degrees of expectation, he plucked aside the wrappings to expose an ancient-looking dagger.

It was an ugly thing, forged out of iron, its blade pitted with age and corrosion. The stubby hilt surmounting

the blade was overlaid with grotesque zoomorphic traceries reminiscent of the interlocking figures

occasionally to be found on Pictish standing stones. Obviously an object of great antiquity, the dagger had

about it a subtle aura of crude violence. Its decorative designs, dark and sinuous, drew the eye like a magnet,

exerting a fearful fascination.

Richter licked his lips, his pale face alight with hungry admiration. "It is herrlich - magnificent," he breathed.

"Where did you get it?"

"It was a legacy," Raeburn said. "From the Head-Master."

The significance of the name was not lost on his three listeners, though only Barclay had been present with

Raeburn at the bequeathal. The individual so-named had once been a powerful member of Hitler's inner circle,

before private ambition or perhaps mental instability had impelled him to decamp to Britain. By means known

only to himself, the Head-Master had survived the war, secured his freedom, and subsequently contrived to

establish a base for himself in the mountains of central Scotland.

There he had remained until two years ago, quietly working his dark intentions, until the Hunting Lodge led by

Adam Sinclair had taken his scent and run him to ground. He had perished amid the ruins of his Highland

fortress, but his malign influence was still making itself felt, and would continue to do so for a long time yet to

come.

Angela was among those who retained a clear recollection of the Head-Master himself, though she had not

been present at his demise.

"He would have valued such an important artifact," she said. "How did you convince him to part with it?"

Raeburn showed his teeth. "Arguments from me were superfluous, with the Hunting Lodge threatening to

knock down the walls around our ears. Suffice it to say that neither of us saw any virtue in allowing it to fall

into the hands of Adam Sinclair."

"Why haven't you told me about this before now?"

"There was little of substance to tell," Raeburn said. "Only now, at the end of two years' study, do I find

myself in a position to expound reliably on the secrets of its origin and its esoteric associations."

He steepled his long fingers before him with the air of a university professor about to deliver a lecture.

"To digress briefly," he went on, "and primarily for Mr. Richter's benefit. Those of you who had the distinction

of serving under the Head-Master will remember that among his most prized possessions was an ancient

relic which he referred to as the Soulis tore. As the name implies, the tore had come to be associated with

one William Lord Soulis, an infamous Scottish mage of the fourteenth century - though the tore itself was

already ancient by the time it passed into his possession. It was a product of Pictish workmanship,

embodying its makers' rapport with the powers of the elements."

"Why don't you cut to the chase, Francis?" Angela said sharply. "We all know that the tore was destroyed,

partly thanks to Sinclair. What does it have to do with the dagger?"

"Your impatience begins to wear thin, my dear," Raeburn replied. "To continue, I have been able to establish,

to my satisfaction, that this dagger belongs to the same period as the tore, and may even be the product of

the same craftsman.

"The connection between the two is to be found in various common features of the workmanship and design.

Like the tore, the dagger is fashioned of meteoric iron, and shows evidence of having been made by a similar

process of smelting and forging. Certain ogham inscriptions on the blade are likewise closely akin to those on

the tore, containing idiosyncratic elements I have not encountered anywhere else."

"Which means what?" Richter ventured.

A faint smile stirred Raeburn's lips, though his eyes remained cold. "The Head-Master used the Soulis tore

as the focus for invoking Taranis, hailed by the ancient Picts as the lord of air and darkness and, especially,

storm. In exchange for promises of service and sacrifice, he received the power to call down lightning from the

realm of eternal tempest - which authority he delegated to me, though only as it related to the tore."

"Which was destroyed," Angela reminded him.

"I have already conceded that point, Angela dear," Raeburn said evenly. "Fortunately, I now have every reason

to hope that, properly manipulated, this dagger will provide a similar focus for re-establishing contact with the

Thunderer. If I am correct in my expectations, we may soon find ourselves in a position to reclaim the power

of the storm and direct it toward Dorje, or Sinclair, or anyone else who thinks he has a right to meddle in our

affairs."

The silence that briefly fell upon his listeners was pregnant with speculation.

"You say 'properly manipulated,' " Richter mused, after a thoughtful silence. ' 'Perhaps you would care to

instruct us regarding what, specifically, will be required of us."

Raeburn inclined his head in graceful acquiescence.

"It is a basic axiom of esoteric practice that objects intended for ritual use must first be consecrated to that

purpose and empowered. The dagger is no exception. If we wish to make it actively responsive, in the same

degree and to the same purpose as the Soulis tore, it follows that we must determine what rituals were

applied in the first instance, and repeat them in conjunction with the dagger, with whatever modifications can

be deemed appropriate in the light of our present circumstances."

"Just where are you planning to get your information?" Angela inquired, much of her former waspishness

dissipated in light of the facts Raeburn had just presented. "Our latter-day grasp of Pictish culture is sketchy

at best - and I expect that the priests of Taranis would have guarded their mysteries as jealously as any

modern occultist. Unless the inscriptions you mentioned a moment ago supply the necessary details."

Raeburn shook his head patiently. "The inscriptions have some bearing on the case, but they convey a series

of cryptic clues rather than a set of explicit instructions. I've no doubt that a dedicated scholar might

eventually unravel the conundrums, but we can't afford that kind of time. That's why I've taken the liberty of

calling in a specialist whose resources in these matters far exceed my own."

Even Barclay looked somewhat askance at this announcement.

"What kind of specialist?" Richter asked, with an uneasy glance toward the windows. "You said nothing

about outsiders."

"His name is Taliere," Raeburn replied, "and he isn't exactly an outsider. He was an associate of my father's."

This disclosure silenced Richter and elicited a grave nod from Barclay, for those in Raeburn's inner circle

were well aware that their chief had been born the son of one David Tudor-Jones, a powerful Welsh Adept

whose esoteric interests and activities had spanned a wide variety of subjects, many of them decidedly dark

in focus. Only Angela seemed unsatisfied by Raeburn's explanation.

"An associate of your father's? That could mean anything," she muttered. "I'm a public figure, Francis. Before

I agree to make this person privy to any secrets of mine, I'm going to need to know a bit more about him."

"As you wish."

Reaching into the left-hand drawer of his desk, Raeburn produced a black and white snapshot and flipped it

across the desk in front of Angela. She captured it and turned it right-side up, tilting it to accommodate

Richter as he also leaned closer to inspect it.

The man in the photograph was elderly and majestic of mien, with luxuriant white hair to his shoulders and a

long white walrus moustache. He appeared to be wearing theatrical costume - a fantastic headdress featuring

bird's wings, and a mantle of dark fur clasped over a long white robe. Dependent from a broad leather belt

cinching the robe were a drawstring pouch and a small, sickle-bladed knife. His left hand grasped a gnarly

staff surmounted by the skull and antlers of a stag.

"What is he, an actor?" Angela inquired somewhat incredulously.

"A Druid," Raeburn corrected. "And not just a modern pretender, either. Taliere is an ardent and discerning

follower of the old ways. You may take it from me that his knowledge of his tradition reaches far into the

distant past."

"That sounds almost like high praise," Angela said.

"I always like to give a man his due," Raeburn replied. "In this instance, I believe he is precisely the one to

assist us in divining what we need to do."

"When do we meet him?"

"As soon as I can arrange a safe rendezvous - which, with the help of Mr. Richter, should be in a few days'

time."

"I am prepared to assist," Richter said, "but also I have questions. Why should this Taliere be interested in

helping us? What does he have to gain?"

"A measure of revenge, among other things," Raeburn replied. "Besides sharing some of the same aims, we

also share at least one common enemy."

"Meaning Adam Sinclair," Angela declared, more a statement than a question. When Raeburn did not deny

it, she added, "How are we going to prevent our peerless baronet from poking his long nose into this affair?"

"By moving quickly, before he has time to rally his forces," Raeburn said, wrapping up the dagger again.

"Thanks to our own recent spate of inactivity, I doubt he suspects I'm in Scotland. I've also been careful to

stay clear of the Edinburgh area.

With any luck at all, we'll be able to achieve our objective before he's any the wiser."

Angela made a face. "1 wouldn't count on that." "Wouldn't you?" Raeburn's solicitude carried a hint of malice.

"Then you'll be pleased to know that I've already taken the precaution of having Sinclair watched, along with

those members of his organization we've been able to identify. If any of them should show signs of becoming

a problem, we shall take steps to eliminate the offending party."

chapter one

ADAM Sinclair was a regular at the Royal Scots Club in Edinburgh. He never visited its premises in

Abercrombie Place without remembering his late father, Sir Iain, who had been a member of the club since

his regimental days - and his father, before him. On this frosty afternoon in mid-December, with the early

winter dusk crowding in low over the castellated rooftops of the city, the club's brightly lit windows seemed to

beckon with the bidding warmth of a blazing coal fire.

Bracing himself against a biting wind, Adam hunched deeper into the shelter of topcoat and scarf and dashed

the last few yards to the front door to ring the bell, with the easy air of a man paying a call on an old friend.

The porter who came in answer was quick to recognize the patrician features of the tall, dark-haired man at

the top of the steps, and opened the door with a welcoming smile.

"Sir Adam, come in out of the cold," he exclaimed. "A very happy Christmas to you and yours!"

"Thank you, Hamish, and a very happy Christmas to you," Adam replied, as he came into the foyer and let

the porter relieve him of coat and scarf. "Inspector McLeod and Mr. Lovat were supposed to be meeting me

here. Have they arrived yet?"

"Aye, sir, they have. You'll find the pair of them waiting for you in the lounge bar."

The lounge was a cozy panelled room at the front of the building, redolent of port, pipe smoke, and leather

upholstery. Not yet crowded with the evening clientele, it had the comfortably lived-in look of a favorite pair of

old slippers. A venerable silver-haired gentleman, who had known Adam's father, was smoking a pipe in an

armchair near the fireplace, placidly poring over the pages of The Scotsman, and raised his pipe in amiable

greeting as Adam approached.

"Evening, Adam."

"Good evening, Colonel. You're looking very fit."

"Not bad for an old-timer," the old man allowed. "Your friends are over there."

He gestured with his pipe to where Adam had already spotted two familiar figures at a table in one of the

window bays - the elder of the pair clad in a dark tweed jacket with white shirt and knit tie, the bespectacled

younger man stylishly informal in grey flannel trousers and a turtleneck pullover of the same shade.

Murmuring his thanks, Adam clasped the colonel's shoulder in affection before moving on toward them.

Judging by appearances alone, the two might have seemed an unlikely pair. A twenty-year veteran of the

Lothian and Borders Police, Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod was craggy and solid as a block of

Highland granite, with a thatch of grizzled hair and a bristly military moustache bracketing gold-rimmed

aviator spectacles. Youthfully slight by contrast, with hair like cornsilk and candidly observant hazel eyes,

Peregrine Lovat was gaining a widespread reputation as a portrait artist and was in increasingly well-paid

demand for his talents. Though a casual observer might wonder what the two men could possibly have in

common, Adam was in a position to appreciate the complementary nature of their differences.

McLeod was the first to notice Adam's arrival, sitting with his back to the wall and a clear view of the room

and its entrance, in instinctive adherence to good police procedure. Alerted by the sudden shift in McLeod's

attention, Peregrine half turned in his chair to grin and wave as he, too, spotted Adam.

Returning the salute, Adam made his way over to join them. The two had whisky glasses on the table in front

of them, with an untasted third glass set before the one remaining chair.

"I'm glad to see that you two haven't been shy about making yourselves at home,'' Adam remarked. ' 'Is that

extra measure of the MacAllan spoken for yet?''

"We've been keeping an eye on it for you," Peregrine said.

"Aye," McLeod agreed with a twinkle. "But it won't go to waste, if you'd prefer an alternative."

"Not at all!" Adam said. "Nothing else would do justice to the company."

He folded himself gracefully into the vacant seat and appropriated the glass in question, lifting it briefly in

salute before tasting. As he rolled the whisky's peaty savor to the back of his tongue and swallowed, his gaze

lighted upon the colorful assemblage of parcels piled on the floor beside Peregrine's chair. Protruding from the

top of one large carrier bag marked Jenners Department Store was a child's costume kit that included a

horned helmet, a circular shield, and a large plastic battle-axe.

Amusement tugged at the corners of Adam's expressive mouth as he set down his glass.

"Who's the aspiring Viking in your life?" he asked.

The young artist grinned. "Alexandra Houston," he replied, naming the younger daughter of a clergyman

colleague of theirs. "Christopher's been reading her stories from Norse mythology. She's decided she wants

to become a shield maiden when she grows up. Or failing that, an opera singer."

Adam chuckled. "There's a noble ambition for you. I'm sorry I won't be here to share in the fun on Christmas

morning."

"So am I," Peregrine said, "but I expect your regrets will evaporate pretty quickly, once you get to the

States."

"Once he gets past his medical symposium in Houston," McLeod corrected gruffly.

"You make it sound as if I'm going there to fight a dragon, not deliver a paper," Adam said.

"Even if you were," said Peregrine, "it would take more than a titan among all dragons to keep you away from

that fair lady of yours. What time is your flight tomorrow?''

"Seven a.m. Once at Heathrow, I've got nearly four hours to kill before the Houston flight - but this time of

year, anything less leaves too slender a margin for comfort. And I don't relish the holiday rush."

This observation was attended by a grimace. Flying visits to the States had become an increasingly frequent

occurrence for Adam over the past eighteen months, and more than once his travel arrangements had been

disrupted by missed connections.

The lure that kept drawing him back to the opposite side of the Atlantic was Dr. Ximena Lockhart, an

American surgeon turned trauma specialist, whom he had met two years before whilst undergoing treatment

in the otherwise unromantic confines of the emergency room at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. The mutual

interest kindled by that initial encounter had subsequently blossomed into a bright flame.

That flame had remained constant despite the separation forced upon them when Ximena learned that her

father had fallen victim to a terminal illness. Though she had gone home to San Francisco to care for him, the

strains of time and distance had failed to dampen the ardor of the relationship still growing between her and

Adam. In this instance, an invitation to address a gathering of American medical colleagues was providing

Adam with a professional excuse for being absent from his Edinburgh practice in order to spend the

Christmas holidays with Ximena.

"In some respects, it's going to be an awkward visit," he admitted to Peregrine and McLeod. "I'll finally get to

meet Ximena's family, but her father isn't doing well at all."

"What is the latest word on his condition?" Peregrine asked quietly.

"No better than it's ever likely to be, I'm afraid," Adam replied. "Given the original prognosis, it's nothing short

of miraculous that he's lasted this long."

"Aye, and one has to wonder whether that's really a mercy," McLeod murmured. "That form of cancer is

pretty painful, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid it is," Adam replied. "And he's already lasted six months beyond what his doctors ever expected.

Ximena can't even talk about it. I can only imagine that he must have some very powerful, private reasons for

wanting to cling to life. I'll be in a better position to form an opinion once we've met face to face."

"I'm frankly surprised that Ximena hasn't introduced the two of you before now," Peregrine said.

Adam shrugged. "I expect it's a reflection of the helplessness she feels as a physician - not being able to

help her father when she thinks he needs her most. If I meet him, she has to deal with that helplessness."

"Is that why you've always met elsewhere?" McLeod asked.

Adam nodded. "This is the first time she's consented to let me fly all the way out to the West Coast. I'm

given to understand," he added lightly, "that it would be bad form on her part to let me make all the travel

concessions - hence, our metropolitan tour of the East Coast."

The list of cities they had visited together in recent months included Atlanta, Boston, and New York. Adam

had not disputed the choice of venues, knowing that these were places where Ximena could escape, however

briefly, from the cares and responsibilities that burdened her at home. For that very reason, her invitation to

meet this time in San Francisco gave him cause for no small concern. If she was now afraid to leave her

father's side - and ready to face her own helplessness - the end must truly be in sight.

"That reminds me," Peregrine said, breaking in upon Adam's reflections. "I've got something here for you - if

only I can find the right bag."

With these words, he ducked partially from view below the level of the table. The sound of energetic

rummaging shortly gave way to an exclamation of triumph. When Peregrine re-emerged, he was holding a

parcel gaily wrapped in Christmas paper.

"Your real present will be waiting for you when you get back," he told Adam with a puckish grin. "This, on the

other hand, is for opening now - sort of a bon voyage present. It may come in handy if you should accidentally

get separated from your friendly native guide."

"Why, Peregrine, this feels like a book," Adam said with a pleased smile, as he began stripping off the paper.

"Surely you haven't forgotten that I already have a book?"

"You don't have this one!" Peregrine said gleefully as Adam pulled free a copy of Fodor's pocket-companion

to San Francisco.

"Indeed, I don't, and I thank you very much," Adam said with a grin, as he flipped through a few pages. "The

Baedeker I have back at the house must be a quarter century out of date. My mother brought it back from a

trip she took when I was in my teens."

"So I discovered, the last time you left me alone in your library," Peregrine said drily. "This one should keep

you ait fait with the attractions of the present day. Use it in good health."

"So I shall," Adam promised, bending to set it on the floor beside his chair. "And what about your Christmas

plans?" he asked, adroitly diverting the conversation from himself. ' 'Will you and Julia be getting away at all

for the holidays?"

Peregrine made a wry face and shook his head. "We can't go anywhere before Christmas Day. Julia got

roped into a concert on Christmas Eve - Hebridean carols. It's at St. Margaret's in Dunfermline, where we

were married, so when Father Lawrence told her that all proceeds would be earmarked for the church roofing

fund, she couldn't very well say no."

"Indeed, not," Adam agreed. "I'll be sorry to miss it."

"She'll be sorry, too," Peregrine replied. "As for me, I've still got quite a bit of work to do on that group portrait

that Sir Gordon's Masonic Lodge commissioned for their centenary. If I can at least get all the facial studies

finished, I'll feel justified in taking the week off between Christmas and the new year. In that event, we'll

probably head up to Aviemore to check out the prospects for a few days' skiing."

"Lucky you," McLeod grunted. "It's going to be business as usual at police headquarters. All too many of our

local ne'er-do-wells think of Christmas as the season for taking, rather than giving. Only yesterday, four

blokes in workmen's coveralls hijacked a removal van carrying a baby-grand piano."

"A valuable historical piece, I take it?" Adam said.

"So one would think, based on the furor the theft has caused," McLeod replied sourly. "No, this one was new.

According to the inventory, it was painted pearl-pink, with rhine-stone inlay."

Peregrine's reaction proclaimed a startled mixture of disbelief and artistic affront.

"Someone's having you on!" he declared. "Why on earth would anyone even want to make a thing like that,

let alone steal it?"

McLeod shrugged, his blue eyes lighting with the humor of the affair. "I'm afraid the report is legit. The piano

was being delivered to a new American-style nightclub that's just getting ready to open down at the foot of the

Grassmarket. The transport company is one that usually specializes in household removals. I expect the

thieves thought they were making off with a load of furniture and small appliances. Are they going to be

surprised!"

At McLeod's grin, Peregrine's eyes rolled behind his gold-framed spectacles.

"Talk about a waste of police resources…"

"Aye, but believe me, I'm quite content to chase burglars for a change, given what sometimes gets dished up

to us. If things stay quiet - as I dearly hope they'll do, with Adam away - Jane and I might sneak away to a

hotel for a few nights, so my daughter can have the house to herself and her university friends over

Hogmanay. And I may take a few extra shifts, to give some of the younger lads extra time with their families.

Otherwise, I'll be at home, trying to dissuade the cats from stealing the baubles off the Christmas tree."

"Surrounded by thieves and robbers!" Adam said with a laugh, picking up his glass. "Perhaps it's time we had

a toast. Noel, will you go first?"

The inspector knit his brow briefly, rubbing at his moustache, then lifted his glass. "All right, here's one my

grandfather favored:

"Lang life and happy days,

Plenty meat and plenty does;

A haggis and a horn spune,

And aye a tattle when the ither's dune."

"Your grandfather was a practical man!" Peregrine said with a chuckle, when the toast had been duly

solemnized.

"He certainly knew what was really worth having out of life," McLeod replied, and cocked an eye at the young

artist. "How about it, laddie? Have you any pearls of wisdom you'd like to contribute on this festive occasion?"

"I might," Peregrine said. He thought a moment, then recited:

"Lang o ' purse,

And licht o ' heart.

Health tae thee,

In every part."

Once again the three friends lifted glasses to their lips. "I think this makes it your turn, Adam," Peregrine

said, as he set down his glass.

"Very well," Adam said. "Since I'm off to the West, I have in mind a Gaelic blessing. Somehow it seems

appropriate:

"May the mad rise to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face.

May the rains fall softly upon your fields until we

meet again. May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.

Breaking off, he smiled at his companions. "It's going to be up to you to keep the peace while I'm away. But I

know you're equal to the task. Slainte var!"

"Slainte var!" the two of them repeated, as they drank the ancient toast.

It was still dark the following morning when Adam set out for the airport, driven by his faithful valet-butler,

Humphrey. An overnight drop in the temperature, with the attendant promise of ice on the roads, made the

steel-blue Range Rover, with its four-wheel drive, the only choice of vehicle. As they nosed out of the stable

mews, high-performance tires crunching on a white carpet of frost, the windscreen wipers only barely kept at

bay a moist ground-fog that was verging on a drizzle. Looking back over his shoulder as they crawled down

the drive, Adam could see the turrets and gables of Strathmourne silhouetted against a crystalline backdrop

of morning stars. The windows in the kitchen wing showed a scattering of lights where Mrs. Gilchrist, his

cook and housekeeper, was clearing up the remains of a frugal breakfast.

The avenue leading to the gates passed between sentinel ranks of copper beech trees, their branches black

and bare against the pre-dawn sky. Off to his left, through the passenger window, Adam glimpsed another

cluster of lights marking the location of a stout, stone-built steading held by one of his tenant farmers. A

gentle bend in the road brought them abreast of the gate lodge, its darkened windows confirming that

Peregrine and Julia, his bride of seven months, were still asleep.

Hunching down contentedly in his topcoat, Adam let his thoughts touch fondly on the couple as Humphrey

eased the big car quietly past their front door and swung onto the main road. Peregrine had been still a

bachelor when he first accepted Adam's invitation to take up residence in the gate lodge, in exchange for

what Adam quaintly termed a "peppercorn rent." The fair Julia had come to share her husband's affection for

the little house, and considered Adam to be the most agreeable and charming of landlords, but both Lovats

eventually realized that they were going to need more room if they ever intended to have a family.

Toward that end, with Adam's help and encouragement, the pair had recently purchased a decommissioned

chapel, but a few miles away, and had happily begun working on plans for its conversion into a residence.

That alone might take upwards of a year, sandwiched in between Peregrine's portrait commissions; and

Adam guessed that completion of the work might take another year or even two.

Even so, the Lovats would ultimately be moving - not far, but Adam still would be sorry to see them go. Quite

apart from the convenience of having another member of the Hunting Lodge so close at hand, Peregrine had

taken on aspects of close friend, star-pupil, favorite nephew, the younger brother Adam had never had, and

the son he wished one day to father.

The wistful notion of a son of his own, a child of his body as well as his heart and soul, turned his thoughts to

the woman he hoped could be persuaded to share his life and bear that child. Thus preoccupied, and still

lulled by the early hour, he failed to notice a flicker of movement among the shadows clustering under the

trees outside the gates - and Humphrey was focused on road conditions. As the Range Rover carefully

picked up speed, its tail-lamps receding in the wet, pre-dawn darkness, a black-clad figure rose from cover

behind a stand of broad oak trees and raised a wrist-strapped micro-corn to the mouth-opening of a black ski

mask. The wearer's report was rendered in a clipped undertone, after which he settled back to resume his

surveillance of the gates and the lodge beyond.

Some five miles ahead, at a wooded junction where the narrow country back road to Strathmourne connected

with the A-route to Edinburgh, a head-scarfed woman in a dark grey Volvo set aside a similar comlink and sat

up straighter, peering through the screen of trees that hid the car from the road. Only when the blue Range

Rover had whispered past did she smile a mirthless smile in the darkness, reaching down to start the engine

and then pulling quietly onto the road to follow.

The ground fog had mostly dissipated by the time Humphrey pulled the Range Rover onto the M90. Local

traffic was light at first, but increased steadily as they headed south toward Edinburgh. Content to leave the

driving to Humphrey, and made somewhat drowsy by the rhythmic hiss of tires on pavement and the hypnotic

sweep of the windscreen wipers, Adam leaned back against the headrest and lost himself in fond reflections

of the woman he was on his way to see, letting himself drift, searching for Ximena wherever she was to be

found amid memories of past joys and parting sorrows.

With an ease born of habitual longing, his mind's eye lit upon Ximena as he first had seen her. In that hospital

setting, kitted out in surgical green, she had been all brisk, well-scrubbed efficiency, as supple and

well-honed as a steel blade, with a wit to match and a keen sense of humor that gently teased but never

mocked. It cost him a pang to recall how that bright resilience had later melted under the reverent caress of

his hands and lips, revealing a warm responsiveness of flesh vibrant with laughter and desire.

The memory brought a wistful smile to his lips. With almost painful immediacy he found himself recalling the

way her dark, unbound hair spilled like silk through his fingers, the porcelain quality of her skin, smoothly

drawn over the finely chiselled bones of her face. Of all the women he had ever known, she alone seemed to

have the power to release him from the convoluted toils of his own intellect, to set him free to enjoy the

simplicity of the present moment. In exchange for such a gift, he was willing to offer everything he himself had

to give. But he was by no means certain that she would find it in herself to take it. And while her father lived,

Adam's conscience would not allow him to argue his own case.

His mood of introspection did not go unnoticed by Humphrey, though the older man was well accustomed to

his employer's silences and had learned not to let his own vigilance be distracted. Trained in the driving

techniques necessary for executive protection, as well as the skills that made him an outstanding butler and

valet, Humphrey made automatic note of the dark grey Volvo keeping pace with them along the M90; but any

real concern evaporated when the vehicle in question turned off at the exit for Dunfermline and Kincardine.

Relaxing a little, he concentrated thereafter on minding the traffic along the approach to the Forth Road

Bridge. When a black Edinburgh taxi nosed in behind them in the queue for the bridge tollbooth, its

appearance was so commonplace that Humphrey hardly spared it a second glance.

They arrived at the airport just as a big Aer Lingus jet was coming in for a landing. Bypassing the short-term

car park, Humphrey made for the terminal building and pulled into a space reserved for limousines outside the

main concourse. Adam roused as the car came to a halt, and vouchsafed his faithful valet an apologetic smile

as he undid his seat belt and reached behind for the briefcase on the back seat.

"Sorry to be such a poor companion, Humphrey. As Mrs. Gilchrist would say, I'm 'awa' wi' the fairies' this

morning."

"I trust nothing is wrong, sir?"

"No, not at all. Everything is very right - or as right as it can be, under the circumstances. And I promise to

keep my feet firmly on the ground from here on out - at least until my flight is airborne."

A faint smile played at the corners of Humphrey's mouth as he glanced at the steering wheel between his

gloved hands, then essayed a glance at his employer.

"If I may say so, sir, I hope that when you reach San Francisco, you'll not bother too much with keeping your

feet on the ground. I - would regard it as a great favor if you were to convey my particular greetings to Dr.

Lockhart."

"I shall certainly do that," Adam said quietly, well aware of Humphrey's hopes that Ximena might become the

next Lady Sinclair. "But it's a difficult situation, as you know."

"I do, sir," Humphrey murmured. "And she and her father are in my prayers."

"Then they have a powerful advocate. Thank you." Adam sighed heavily, then glanced at his luggage in the

back of the car and reached for the door handle. "Well, if you'll see to the luggage and get me checked in, I'll

meet you at the Air UK desk. If the news agents are open yet, I believe I have time to pick up a copy of The

Scotsman before boarding."

"You do, indeed, sir. I'll take care of the bags."

Alighting from the car, Adam shrugged out of his overcoat and slung it across his arm, then headed into the

terminal, making for the nearest news kiosk. Five minutes later, as he approached the Air UK check-in, he

found Humphrey just turning away from the counter, replacing a handful of travel documents in their paper

folder.

"Here we are, sir," Humphrey murmured, as they moved a few paces away from the desk and Adam set down

his briefcase between his feet. "Here are your tickets, your passport, and your boarding card. The bags are

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