Death of an Adept

"The chief subject you're interested in has just boarded a flight to Heathrow," his informant reported, above the din of another flight announcement. "From there he flies on to the United States, with a two-day stopover in Houston and then an onward connection to San Francisco. How long he intends to stay there is anybody's guess, but he checked two bags. That suggests more than an overnight visit. The return ticket is open-ended."

"Open-ended, you say? That may be worth knowing. Well done," Richter acknowledged. "Will you be able to confirm that he makes that Houston flight?"

"We can hack into the system to confirm that he checks in for it, and that his bags are en route. We can also flag the system to alert us when he books his flight back."

"Excellent. As soon you are certain he is on the Houston flight, you will transfer your attentions to the other individuals on your list. In the meantime, an appropriate compensation for your services will be deposited in your account, as usual. Thank you very much, Mr. Toynbee."

Raeburn appeared at the door of the study just as Richter was cradling the phone.

"That was one of my men checking in," Richter announced with a thin smile. "Sinclair is leaving the country. And there is evidence to suggest that he may be planning to be gone for some time."

When Richter had recited the particulars he himself had just received, Raeburn gave a satisfied nod.

"I sense a matter of personal importance," he observed. "I hope it's nothing trifling. The longer Sinclair stays away, the better. But in any event, I propose to take full advantage of his absence."

Chapter Two

"SCHOLARS!" Jasper Taliere said with a derisive snort. "What know they? Their reliance on the tools of so-called science has made them deaf and blind to the promptings of their own intuition. They treat the past as if it were naught but a quarry, to be mined without discrimination or respect. Is it any wonder that the greater truths forever elude them?"

The old man's deep voice carried across the library with theatrical resonance, reminding Raeburn of the actor Richard Burton at the height of his form.

"Not everyone can boast your particular sense of historical perspective, Taoiseach," Raeburn said mildly, "especially with regard to the ancient mysteries of our native isle."

Raeburn had used the Gaelic title meaning "Head," an apt honorific. Accepting it as his due, Taliere turned restlessly from the window bay, where he had been gazing out at a flight of snow geese silhouetted against the wintry sky.

Despite his age, Taliere was a hale figure of a man, broad across the shoulders and gnarled as a mature oak tree, with shaggy, beetling white brows and lush moustaches lending eccentric character to a lean, sharp-nosed face. A receding hairline had endowed him with a natural tonsure approximating those shown in lithographs of ancient Druids, hairless across the top of his head from ear to ear, with the rest of his hair swept back in a silvery mane. Though clad unalarmingly in baggy tweeds and a nondescript pullover, out at the elbows, the overall effect was that of an ageing and unpredictable lion - an aspect that grew more pronounced as he studied his host through yellow-green eyes.

"You need not exert yourself to flatter me, Francis," he growled. "I have already agreed to do what you desire."

"On terms of your own dictating," Raeburn pointed out drily. "Mind you, I'm not complaining," he continued when the older man showed signs of bridling. "Knowledge never comes without a price. But don't pretend that you're lending me your assistance purely out of the goodness of your heart. You stand to profit as much from this experiment as I do."

"I doubt that," Taliere said bluntly. "You have your father's propensity for seeing that the scales are weighted in your favor. But I did not come here to quibble. Where is this dagger you wish to show me?"

"One of my initiates is fetching it from the safe," Raeburn said. "He should be here momentarily."

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. At Raeburn's acknowledgement, Barclay came in with a small wooden casket under one arm. He accorded Taliere an unabashedly curious glance as he crossed to set the casket on the desk before his superior.

"Here you are, Mr. Raeburn. Do you want me to wait, so I can put it back in the safe, or shall I just leave it here?"

"I'll call you when I'm ready for it to go back," Raeburn said. "For now, why don't you and Mr. Richter make certain the wards are secure?"

With a nod, Barclay retired from the room. As the door closed behind him, Taliere pulled a scowl and ensconced himself into one of the chairs opposite Raeburn.

"That man of yours is far too inquisitive for one of his degree and station," he observed disapprovingly. "What prompted you to take an American into your service?"

He pronounced the word "American" as if it were an epithet. Raeburn shrugged.

"He's an excellent pilot."

"But you described him as an initiate."