Dagger Magic

"Meanwhile, my pilot Barclay will meet another associate in Brussels, and they'll fly via London to Belfast, where separate arrangements are being made for them to charter a seaplane. Once the sub's cargo has been salvaged, Barclay will fly in to collect it and me. Do you wish me to detail the means of getting the goods out of the country?''

At Dorje's gesture of agreement, Raeburn proceeded to outline the succession of boats and other vehicles that would be used to convey the sub's cargo back into Europe, and subsequently to Tolung Tserphug. Dorje was nodding as Raeburn finished, but he did not speak, only staring distractedly into the coals of the incense burner at his elbow.

As the seconds ticked by into a full minute, Raeburn began to wonder whether his old rival had slipped into some narcotic stupor - the fumes were still heavy in the room, and beginning to affect his senses as well - but then Dorje looked up, the pale eyes still wide and dilated, all pupil.

"I have already sent Nagpo and Kurkar ahead to make their own preparations at the site," he said at last. "The auguries suggest that your preparations will suffice, so long as you exercise vigilance regarding the interference of which I have already warned you. When you arrive in Zurich, my agent will meet you and deliver sufficient cash to cover all financial outlays necessary for the execution of this operation. Have you any questions?"

Raeburn shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good to ask that I be released from this assignment, so no."

"I am glad we understand one another," Dorje allowed himself a small smile. "You may go, then. Your escorts are waiting to conduct you to one of the Western guest rooms, where you may shower and change clothes and eat, if you wish. Your pilot has already been instructed to prepare for the flight to Zurich. I send no one with you from here, but I suggest that you put firmly from your mind any attempt to cross me. I hold little patience with those who betray me."

The veiled threat was quite real, and Raeburn's bow, forehead to floor, conveyed real respect for the power wielded by the Man with Green Gloves, if not the individual who held that title. Dismissed with a curt wave, Raeburn got to his feet without further comment and departed, not looking back at the two dagger priests who followed after.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

WHILE Raeburn and his pilot were winging their way over the Alps toward Zurich, Adam Sinclair was caught up in traffic on the approach to the Forth Road Bridge, coming into Edinburgh for his nine o'clock lecture. Crisis intervention was the morning's topic - an important aspect of psychiatric practice, but it also described much of his work with the Hunting Lodge, and certainly applied to the task awaiting him in Ireland. Humphrey had packed him a bag and was driving, which freed Adam to review his lecture notes, but slowing traffic soon had him glancing at his watch and then peering ahead in some concern, as Humphrey eased the Range Rover to a halt behind a long line of other cars making for the bridgehead.

"Looks like an accident up ahead, sir," Humphrey noted.

The distant flash of blue lights reminded Adam of his own accident approaching this bridge, little more than a year ago - no accident at all, as he later had learned, but an attempt by the Lodge of the Lynx to kill him. They had done him an unwitting favor, though they did not know it, for without the accident, he might never have met Ximena.

The Range Rover began to creep toward the lights, and Adam sat back with a faint smile curving at his lips, lecture notes temporarily forgotten. He thought about ringing Ximena when he got to the hospital - if he ever got to the hospital, in this traffic - but the timing was all off. It was just after midnight in San Francisco; and if she was not working the Emergency Room, she would be snatching some much-needed sleep, in between bouts of looking after her dying father. He wondered how much longer their relationship would stand the strain of separation.

The Range Rover finally rolled onto the bridge itself, and the cause of the delay at last became apparent. A holiday caravan had parted company with its tow-vehicle and ploughed laterally into the guardrail flanking the left-hand lane, blocking that lane and partially obstructing the other. No one appeared to be hurt - or if they had been, an ambulance must have already taken the victims away in the opposite direction - so at least Adam would not be obliged to stop and render medical assistance; but traffic officers in fluorescent orange windbreakers were diverting all in-bound traffic into the right-hand lane while workmen struggled to clear away the obstruction.