Dagger Magic

It had been over eighteen months since he had traded the Victorian refinements of his Scottish country house for the equal opulence and greater security of his present residence, a walled villa on the south coast of Spain. Outside, beyond the terraced terracotta rooftops of the town, the Mediterranean sun was laying down a pattern of dazzle across a blue bay the color of a Madonna's robe. Inside, a shadowy cool prevailed, redolent of Moroccan leather, Spanish cedarwood, and the pungent fragrance of lemons wafted in on the breeze from a neighboring citrus grove. Oblivious to the scents and sounds of his Andalusian retreat, Raeburn cast his avid gaze over the correspondence at hand.

The letter was from an associate in Berlin, acting as his agent. The attendant photographs were studies of a grail-like golden cup, taken from various angles. The sides of the cup were embellished with swastikas and other runic symbols. The provenance - or so the present owner claimed - was directly traceable to one of the black lodges known to have been working actively on Hitler's behalf in the late 1930s.

The item, as might be expected, was not readily available. Indeed, it was not for sale at any price. Klaus Richter's contact, a man named Hans Grausmann, professed to have reliable knowledge of its present location, but a third man held actual possession. In light of the cup's potential worth, the price Grausmann was asking for sharing that knowledge was high, but not excessive, in Richter's opinion. More than a little tempted by the proposition, Raeburn was just weighing up the financial considerations of the enterprise when his contemplation was jarred by a sharp, peremptory knock at the door.

The summons was sudden enough to bring Raeburn upright in his chair, annoyance furrowing his fair brow.

"Yes, what is it?" he snapped.

A rangy, dark-haired man in khakis poked his head into the room apologetically and then entered - Barclay, Raeburn's pilot, driver, and general factotum. Like Raeburn, he wore a carnelian lynx ring - and also a .45 automatic stuck into his waistband.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Raeburn, but I thought you ought to know you've got a couple of visitors."

"Visitors?" A scowl pulled at the corners of Raeburn's mouth. "You know full well I don't have any appointments scheduled for this morning. Tell them to go away."

"They're - ah - already in the entrance lobby, sir. I saw 'em on the security monitor. I can't explain how they got past the gate. And Rosita and Jorge are in another part of the house; they didn't let 'em in."

"You mean they just - appeared?"

"Yessir."

Raeburn's pale gaze flicked to the pistol in Barclay's waistband, suddenly aware of the pilot's uncharacteristic uneasiness.

"Who the devil are these people?" he asked softly.

"They look like Oriental monks, sir," Barclay said. "Not exactly Buddhist, but something like it. I remember seeing robes like that when I was out East in Nepal. Something to do with shamanistic rituals - "

"Tibetan black ngagspas." Raeburn used the native term for "sorcerers" with biting certainty. Fully alert now, he slipped Richter's letter and photographs into the top drawer of his desk, partially masking the presence of the .32 caliber Biretta lurking amongst the secretarial clutter of pens, envelopes, and stationery. Leaving the drawer discreetly ajar, he was just drawing breath to give Barclay instructions when two exotic figures clad in orange and black stepped into the doorway.

They were small and wiry by Western standards, and definitely Tibetan. The older one had a face seamed and chiselled like a carving in old ivory; the younger looked to be about of an age with Raeburn. As Barclay turned in challenge, reaching for his pistol, the younger monk raised his right hand and touched the pilot lightly behind his right ear with the tip of a triple-edged dagger.

Barclay's eyes went blank, all resistance fading away. Mouth slightly agape, he lapsed into passive immobility, his hands sinking slack to his sides, face wiped clean of all expression, swaying slightly on his feet. Raeburn had half come to his feet in alarm, but made himself sit again as he glared at the two intruders and considered the desk drawer.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded coldly. "What have you done to my associate?"

From far too close, the monks regarded him with a mixture of indulgence and faint disdain.

"Your servant has not been harmed," said the elder of the pair. "He has merely been rendered inactive."

"As for you, Francis Raeburn," the other instructed with bland authority, ' 'you will please to keep your hands in plain sight."