Death of an Adept

Before Raeburn could answer, there was a knock at the door. At Raeburn's query, Mallory entered, looking irritable.

Raeburn arched an eyebrow. "Why, Derek, what is the matter?"

The young physician made a petulant gesture of disclaimer. "It's Taliere. He came round about half an hour ago, and he's been making a right nuisance of himself ever since. He's demanding to be allowed to speak with you, and says if you don't consent to see him, he'll start sending up fireworks on the astral."

"Is that a fact?" Raeburn smothered a heavy-lidded yawn. "Then I suggest you put him back under sedation. And keep him that way until I tell you to do otherwise."

"I'll need some help."

"Then go borrow two of Mr. Richter's men. Restraining people is part of their vocation."

Raeburn went back to contemplating the fire on the hearth, retrieving his brandy with a gesture on the edge of boredom. Realizing that he had been dismissed, Mallory turned on his heel and strode out. As the door shut behind him, Angela directed a glare at the back of Raeburn's head.

"That's another point where we differ," she said. "The old man is becoming an increasing liability. Why don't you do us all a favor and get rid of him?"

"Because," Raeburn responded, ''he's our shield."

"Our shield?"

"Indeed. Why else do you suppose I ordered the Callanish site to be left as it was, rather than cleaning it up? Why else would I allow Taliere to play the dominant role in the ritual itself, if not to ensure that it was his presence, not mine, which was stamped on every blade of grass within the inner circle. Who among our enemies is likely to waste valuable time looking for us when there's so clear and obvious a trail leading off in another direction entirely?''

"I wish I had your confidence in this enterprise," Angela remarked. "Has it occurred to you that this new alliance you contemplate may not be any more successful than the last?"

"Are you questioning my decisions?" Raeburn showed his teeth. "The party in question is hardly likely to take umbrage at being offered a chance to escape from limbo. I anticipate no difficulty in reaching an accommodation."

As he spoke, the fax machine on a table in the corner came suddenly to life. As the message came chittering through, Rae-burn left his chair and crossed the room to retrieve it.

"It's from Klaus," he reported over his shoulder. "I hope you'll be pleased to hear that he has managed to assemble all the properties necessary for us to go ahead with our plans for the thirty-first."

Later that afternoon, the winter dusk was settling in by the time Harry Nimmo brought the Cessna in for a landing at Edinburgh Airport. McLeod had made a brief telephone call before leaving Stornoway, and would have taken Harry along to the meeting he had just arranged, but the counsellor was already late to pick up his son at the train station. Young Rory was at Eton; and since Harry was a widower, he and the boy usually spent the Christmas holidays with Harry's parents in Perth.

"Fair enough, then," McLeod said, as the three men headed for their respective cars, back in the airport car park adjoining general aviation. "Have a happy Christmas, Harry. We'll try not to need you in the next few days."

"No problem," Harry returned cheerily.

Accordingly, only Peregrine followed McLeod as he led the way back to Edinburgh and an Edwardian town house in the New Town district. There, over hot coffee and sandwiches, the two of them shared the day's findings with Lady Julian Brodie, the oldest member of the Hunting Lodge, and Senior in Adam's absence.

"Have a piece of fruitcake," she urged, as Peregrine hesitated over a stacked plate. "It sounds like the pair of you have earned your treats for the day."

Though over seventy, and physically so frail that she had been confined to a wheelchair for nearly a decade, Julian retained her full vigor of spirit and intellect, as well as a penetrating curiosity. An accomplished amateur goldsmith, she still turned out the occasional special commission for friends. Several members of the Hunting Lodge wore rings of her crafting; and Peregrine's had belonged to her late husband.

Wrapped tonight in a festive shawl of silk paisley, her silver hair soft around her face, she followed McLeod's report with unwavering attention before shifting her regard to the sketches Peregrine dealt out like oversized cards on the table they had cleared of the remains of their meal. The bit of bull's hide wrapped in Harry Nimmo's handkerchief also came under her careful scrutiny. Only after she had examined each item did Julian at last venture an opinion.