Dagger Magic

He stared at it for a moment, to fix its position firmly in his mind. Then, slipping his ring back onto his finger, he drew a deep breath to bank the energies, got to his feet, and went topside. He found Dillon operating the sonar, shaking his head as he studied the readings. Plunkett was at the helm, Kavanagh standing between him and Dillon. O'Rourke was up on the bow, keeping a lookout for the rocks that occasionally jutted out of the water farther inshore.

"Take her in to half our present distance from shore and drop anchor," Raeburn said.

"We've only got about thirty feet of water right now," Plunkett said, though he spun the wheel to take the Rose in closer. "You sure about this location?"

"Beyond all mortal doubt," Raeburn replied. "Have your men bring up the dinghy as soon as we've dropped anchor."

"But - "

"The wreckage is in a sea cave, accessible from the shore," Raeburn said, in a tone that did not brook further discussion. "We'll need your equipment ashore."

Plunkett said nothing until O'Rourke had set the anchor and the engines had been shut down, watching as Kavanagh brought two large canvas satchels from out of his duffel bag and laid them beside the stern lockers.

"We're only going to get three in the dinghy, with so much gear," Plunkett said, as Dillon pulled the dinghy closer to the diving platform suspended off the stern. "If you want all that to go ashore as well as the cutting equipment, I suggest that you go across in the first trip with Dillon and me, and then we'll send him back to fetch Mr. Kavanagh."

"That's entirely reasonable," Raeburn replied, much to Plunkett's surprise.

Plunkett boarded the dinghy first, settling in the stern beside the little outboard motor. Dillon followed with a canvas bag containing flares and a brace of electric lanterns. Next O'Rourke handed down a large duffel with acetylene tanks and cutting equipment, after which Raeburn climbed down, perching in the bow. He took the two canvas satchels Kavanagh handed him and set them at his feet, silent as Plunkett fired up the little outboard and O'Rourke cast off their bowline.

The moonlight cast hard shadows as the little craft buzzed toward the slender crescent of beach, the Rose's running lights gradually fading against the bright glare of moonlight. Within a few minutes, the little inflatable was running up onto the sandy crescent, which was already narrower than it had been, with the tide coming in.

"I expect we're going to run out of beach before we run out of tide," Plunkett remarked as Raeburn sprang lightly to the sand and he followed. "Where's this sea cave of yours, Mr. Raeburn?"

Raeburn shouldered one of his satchels and gestured off toward the cliffs to their right, leaving Dillon to retrieve the other and draw the boat farther onto the sand.

"Up there. If you don't waste time talking, we'll be well above the high-water line before it becomes a problem. Just pull the dinghy up as far as you can and moor it. And bring the equipment."

They followed these somewhat autocratic instructions without comment, Plunkett breaking out the electric lanterns and handing one each to Raeburn and Dillon before hefting the cutting equipment onto his shoulder and scooping up the bag with the flares. As they began trudging up the beach, heading for the cliffs with Raeburn in the lead, the tiny radio in his pocket beeped.

Plunkett stopped dead in his tracks, and Dillon said, "What's that?" as Raeburn pulled out the radio and lifted it to his mouth.

"Go," he acknowledged, also drawing the Walther as he turned.

"Rose secured," came the terse reply, even as the moonlight glinted off the gun-metal in Raeburn's hand.

"Stay where you are, gentlemen," Raeburn murmured, before lifting the radio to his mouth to acknowledge. "Roger."

"What the devil's going on?" Plunkett demanded, as Dillon glanced back at him in alarm.

Raeburn moved aside and gestured with the gun for the two to come on past him.

"Please take the lead, Mr. Dillon," he said quietly. "There's still a great deal of work to be done this evening."

As Dillon sidled on past, keeping a wary eye on the gun, Plunkett followed, tight-jawed - and balked in his tracks as two outlandish human forms stepped suddenly between him and his first mate, out from behind an outcropping of rock. The pair had shaved heads, and were wearing what looked like bright orange sarongs. Though these men were old, Plunkett vaguely remembered seeing kids dressed like this in Galway one summer, amiably dispensing meditation tracts to passers-by.

But there was nothing amiable or meditative about the way these two moved briskly forward, each bearing a strange triple-edged dagger. As Plunkett uttered a croaked cry of dismay, one of the monks raised his blade in warning, pointed straight at Plunkett, while the other tapped Dillon's forehead with the point.

Chapter Twenty-Nine