Death of an Adept

"I always like to give a man his due," Raeburn replied. "In this instance, I believe he is precisely the one to assist us in divining what we need to do."

"When do we meet him?"

"As soon as I can arrange a safe rendezvous - which, with the help of Mr. Richter, should be in a few days' time."

"I am prepared to assist," Richter said, "but also I have questions. Why should this Taliere be interested in helping us? What does he have to gain?"

"A measure of revenge, among other things," Raeburn replied. "Besides sharing some of the same aims, we also share at least one common enemy."

"Meaning Adam Sinclair," Angela declared, more a statement than a question. When Raeburn did not deny it, she added, "How are we going to prevent our peerless baronet from poking his long nose into this affair?"

"By moving quickly, before he has time to rally his forces," Raeburn said, wrapping up the dagger again. "Thanks to our own recent spate of inactivity, I doubt he suspects I'm in Scotland. I've also been careful to stay clear of the Edinburgh area.

With any luck at all, we'll be able to achieve our objective before he's any the wiser."

Angela made a face. "I wouldn't count on that." "Wouldn't you?" Raeburn's solicitude carried a hint of malice. "Then you'll be pleased to know that I've already taken the precaution of having Sinclair watched, along with those members of his organization we've been able to identify. If any of them should show signs of becoming a problem, we shall take steps to eliminate the offending party."

Chapter One

ADAM Sinclair was a regular at the Royal Scots Club in Edinburgh. He never visited its premises in Abercrombie Place without remembering his late father, Sir Iain, who had been a member of the club since his regimental days - and his father, before him. On this frosty afternoon in mid-December, with the early winter dusk crowding in low over the castellated rooftops of the city, the club's brightly lit windows seemed to beckon with the bidding warmth of a blazing coal fire.

Bracing himself against a biting wind, Adam hunched deeper into the shelter of topcoat and scarf and dashed the last few yards to the front door to ring the bell, with the easy air of a man paying a call on an old friend. The porter who came in answer was quick to recognize the patrician features of the tall, dark-haired man at the top of the steps, and opened the door with a welcoming smile.

"Sir Adam, come in out of the cold," he exclaimed. "A very happy Christmas to you and yours!"

"Thank you, Hamish, and a very happy Christmas to you," Adam replied, as he came into the foyer and let the porter relieve him of coat and scarf. "Inspector McLeod and Mr. Lovat were supposed to be meeting me here. Have they arrived yet?"

"Aye, sir, they have. You'll find the pair of them waiting for you in the lounge bar."

The lounge was a cozy panelled room at the front of the building, redolent of port, pipe smoke, and leather upholstery. Not yet crowded with the evening clientele, it had the comfortably lived-in look of a favorite pair of old slippers. A venerable silver-haired gentleman, who had known Adam's father, was smoking a pipe in an armchair near the fireplace, placidly poring over the pages of The Scotsman, and raised his pipe in amiable greeting as Adam approached.

"Evening, Adam."

"Good evening, Colonel. You're looking very fit."

"Not bad for an old-timer," the old man allowed. "Your friends are over there."

He gestured with his pipe to where Adam had already spotted two familiar figures at a table in one of the window bays - the elder of the pair clad in a dark tweed jacket with white shirt and knit tie, the bespectacled younger man stylishly informal in grey flannel trousers and a turtleneck pullover of the same shade. Murmuring his thanks, Adam clasped the colonel's shoulder in affection before moving on toward them.

Judging by appearances alone, the two might have seemed an unlikely pair. A twenty-year veteran of the Lothian and Borders Police, Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod was craggy and solid as a block of Highland granite, with a thatch of grizzled hair and a bristly military moustache bracketing gold-rimmed aviator spectacles. Youthfully slight by contrast, with hair like cornsilk and candidly observant hazel eyes, Peregrine Lovat was gaining a widespread reputation as a portrait artist and was in increasingly well-paid demand for his talents. Though a casual observer might wonder what the two men could possibly have in common, Adam was in a position to appreciate the complementary nature of their differences.

McLeod was the first to notice Adam's arrival, sitting with his back to the wall and a clear view of the room and its entrance, in instinctive adherence to good police procedure. Alerted by the sudden shift in McLeod's attention, Peregrine half turned in his chair to grin and wave as he, too, spotted Adam.