Death of an Adept

EARLY morning of Imbolc Eve found McLeod and Harry sheltering in the lee of Strathmourne's entry porch, McLeod with a cellular phone in one gloved hand, Harry scanning the grey skies to the south through compact Pentax binoculars. The rest of the house still slept, in varying stages of exhaustion, though pairs of Huntsmen continued to keep watch by turns in the parlor, hoping to renew the all too brief contact of the night before. Rousted from his first real sleep in the last twenty-four hours by the general's telephone call, McLeod felt like someone had poured sand in both his eyes.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath, as a mottled grey shape with military markings materialized out of light snowfall, slightly preceded by the chuff of rotor blades. "I hope this isn't an omen."

"You hope what isn't an omen?" McLeod retorted, as Harry lowered his binoculars and the chopper ghosted to a gentle landing on the front lawn in a flurry of snow.

"I was expecting a Wessex," Harry replied. "That's a goddamn Lynx."

McLeod's stomach did a queasy turn, but he forced himself to move past the unfortunate name to more immediate considerations.

"I don't care if it's called a goddamned bloody Raeburn. Can you fly it? Will it do the job?"

"Hell, yes," Harry drawled, stuffing the binoculars into a pocket of his flying jacket. "Not as big a payload as a Wessex, but a damned sight faster. I'll go see who they've sent for the team. Stand by."

Harry set out across the snowy lawn as the pilot cut power, hunched against the wind of the slowing blades as the side door slid back to disgorge a lanky figure clothed in the distinctive black combat smock, paratroop boots, and body armor favored by the SAS. CJose on his heeJs came a taJl, grey-haired man neither of them had expected to see here in person, with the shoulder slides of a brigadier on the epaulets of his olive-drab pullover. As McLeod saw who it was, he headed down the steps to meet the new arrival, who nodded grimly to Harry as they passed, then jogged on toward McLeod, keeping his head down and one hand on his tan beret.

"Good morning, Gordon. Thanks for coming," McLeod said.

"Morning, Noel," said General Sir Gordon Scott-Brown, as he and McLeod exchanged handshakes. "Sorry about the Lynx, but that's what they sent up from Hereford this morning. What's the update on Adam?"

Shaking his head, McLeod set a hand under the general's elbow and urged him back toward the house. Behind him, Harry and the SAS officer had disappeared back into the helicopter.

"Not good, I'm afraid. I hope to God I haven't brought you out on a wild goose chase. Come on into the house and we'll bring you up to speed. Adam's man has laid on breakfast for the troops, so Harry's going to bring them in in shifts. We can brief them once you know the lay of the land."

"Fair enough. Incidentally, Ian Duart is your mission commander. You'll remember him from the Cairngorm operation. And a couple of the lads in the hostage rescue team were along on that one as well."

"Then they aren't likely to be flapped by what may crop up this time," McLeod said, opening the front door and standing aside to let the general enter first. "If we get a chance to turn them loose on the opposition, that is. How many are we talking about?"

"Duart, two pilots, and a four-man hostage rescue team. I know that doesn't sound like many, but if it can be done, they'll do it; if it can't, it wouldn't matter if I'd brought three times that number."

By mid-morning, with Duart added to the briefing, assorted members of the Hunting Lodge once again assembled in the library at Strathmourne. McLeod, Harry, and the two newcomers had been joined by Philippa, Julian, Victoria, and a taut and anxious Ximena. Closer by the fire, Peregrine was doodling in the margins of the list he and Julia had compiled of ancient sites in the southern half of Scotland. Julia herself was ensconced in the library bay window with lolo's dream journal, still brooding over the text and the cryptic lettering. Christopher alone was absent, patrolling on the astral from the nearby parlor.

"I understand the limitations, Lady Sinclair," Duart was saying to Philippa, "but telling me you think he's in the southern half of the country isn't much help." He indicated the map spread on the twin card tables in the center of the room. "Until and unless your people can pick up something more specific, I don't see how we're going to be able to do anything. I've got a crack unit on standby out there, and we can be anywhere between here and the border in close to thirty minutes - but if tonight is as critical as you think, we've got to have some lead time. He's got to have the lead time."

Philippa drew a deep breath, schooling herself to forbearance, and let it out slowly. "I'm aware of that, Major," she said softly, not looking at him. "You'll just have to bear with us. Believe me, we're doing all we can."