Death of an Adept

Death of an Adept Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Ace mass-market edition / November 1997

ISBN: 0-441-00484-9

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.