Dagger Magic

"Thank you. That will put my mind at ease on that score, at least." He cast his gaze around the rest of the company and sighed wearily. "And on that note, I think it best if the three of us bid you both good night and head for our respective beds for some sleep. Peregrine, I'll give you a full briefing on our travel plans on the way back."

Chapter Twenty-Six

DAWN found Francis Raeburn alone in the chill, sparsely furnished quarters allotted him by the master of Tolung Tserphug. He had not slept. Seated cross-legged on the straw mat meant to serve him as a bed, elbows resting on his knees, he steepled his fingers and contemplated the sum of his work over the last twenty hours - an array of notes, maps, and diagrams laid out on the bare flagstone floor before him. His most valuable reference had been an original manual of technical specifications and operation for a Type VII C Atlantic U-boat, in mint condition. The compact cellular telephone beside the manual had given him his link with subordinates in several countries, though he harbored no illusions that his many calls had gone unmonitored.

He was not so sanguine as to suppose that he dared risk open defiance of his host. The service being required of him had not come with the option of refusal. Had he been allowed full access to Tolung Tserphug's training thirty years ago, he might now dare to challenge his boyhood rival with some chance of survival or even victory; but a direct confrontation with the mature and fully empowered Green Gloves was another matter entirely.

Then there was the threat of possible intervention by an old adversary - which almost had to be Adam Sinclair, the only man who had ever presented a serious challenge to Raeburn's occult endeavors. It seemed unlikely that a Scottish Master of the Hunt could have become aware of an operation taking shape in Ireland, but Sinclair had been known to work far afield of Scotland in the past; the writ of an astral enforcer of Sinclair's apparent stature ran beyond mere national borders.

So the possibility could not be dismissed lightly. Raeburn had heard it said that once a Master Huntsman took the scent of a quarry, breaking that scent was almost impossible until the final confrontation. If Sinclair had established that sort of link, doubtful though it might seem, Raeburn would need to ensure that the "Master" met his match, when Lynxes teamed with Eastern quarry to turn on the Hunt in unfamiliar territory, with unfamiliar weapons. In such an event, Ireland could well become the killing-ground that would end Adam Sinclair and his Hunting Lodge, once and for all.

Against that possibility, and to ensure that his grudging service to Green Gloves at least netted some degree of personal gain beyond what the master of Tolung Tserphug had in mind, Raeburn had laid his plans with meticulous care. He both feared and respected the power of the dagger priests that Dorje had said would accompany him, but hopefully their efforts could be channelled to suit Raeburn's purposes. Coded instructions had been given to trusted henchmen, and preparations now would move forward with each passing hour. He tried not to think about the methods Dorje had suggested might be employed by the dagger-men. Suffice it to get the cargo off the submarine, into the boat, and onto the seaplane being arranged for - never mind Dorje's boast that the submarine itself must move from its resting place for one final voyage.

Shivering slightly as he indulged in a yawn, Raeburn pulled his orange mantle more closely around him, still greatly annoyed with the situation, despite its promise of gain. He did not like Oriental austerity, despite his boyhood aspiration to partake of Oriental esoterica. As an extremely successful practitioner of Western occult disciplines, if canted decidedly toward what his opponents would refer to as the Left-hand Path, he had developed a taste for pleasure, even personal indulgence.

His present situation was neither pleasant nor indulgent. Though the compound was wired for electricity and many other modern conveniences - including a sophisticated computer linkup in the next room, to which he had been given free and unlimited access for making his travel arrangements - this room had no heat or even a light bulb in the overhead socket. He supposed it was Dorje's way of reminding him who was in charge. Faint warmth and illumination came from the fitful flames of an array of butter lamps set out along the four walls, with more useful light provided by a chimneyed oil lamp at his left elbow.