Death of an Adept

THAT same night, while Adam Sinclair and his friends prepared to usher in the new year with time-honored pledges of good fellowship, Francis Raeburn and a small number of handpicked associates were converging on one of Scotland's less well known National Trust properties, now closed for the winter - the bleak and desolate border fortress of Hermitage Castle.

The ruined castle was an apt location for what Raeburn had in mind. Sited just north of the Cheviot Hills that marked the age-old boundary between Scotland and England, Hermitage squatted ponderous and forbidding, even on the brightest of days. A shallow streamlet called Hermitage Water bordered it to the south, joined half a mile to the southeast by a lesser tributary called Whitrope Burn.

A narrow B-road ran parallel to the burn and then beside the confluence of the two streams, meandering from Hawick, twelve miles to the north, then southwestward through a sparse string of border villages to Gretna Green and Carlisle. Even in summer, Hermitage was well off the beaten tourist track; and in the dead of winter, as the year turned, it was populated only by rooks and shadows. Popular legend asserted that the sorcerous depravities of one of its former masters, William Lord Soulis, had caused the castle to sink into the ground for very shame.

Raeburn's associates had made careful preparations for the night's work. As his white Land Rover eased into the lesser road that skirted Hermitage Water, Barclay at the wheel, a figure in white snow-camouflage fatigues materialized out of the shadows beside the road and flagged them down. Barclay simultaneously eased the vehicle to a halt and reached for the Luger under the dashboard, but the figure stripped off its mottled grey ski mask to reveal the pale, ascetic features of Klaus Richter.

Barclay relaxed. Raeburn rolled down the window on the passenger side of the car and waited for Richter to join them.

"Everything is ready, Lynxmeister," the German reported crisply. "We may proceed as planned."

"Good," said Raeburn. "Get in."

Richter made for the rear passenger seat. Angela Fitzgerald moved over to make room for him as Barclay set the Land Rover in motion again.

"Any problems?" Raeburn queried over his shoulder.

"None," Richter replied. "My men are stationed as you directed. Nothing has been left to chance."

"Let's hope not," Raeburn murmured. "I cannot overstress the delicate nature of this night's work. Every detail must be correctly executed, or the operation could well prove our undoing."

As he spoke, his long fingers tightened possessively around the polished ash-wood casket he was carrying on his knees. Though the Soulis dagger was locked inside the casket, its resonances damped down by spells of containment, Raeburn could sense the added potency it had gained merely from being used in the bull-slaying ritual of a fortnight before.

His lean face bore a wolfish expression as he peered out to the right, searching the dark landscape just beyond Hermitage Water. He caught his breath as the castle suddenly materialized, its massive bulk heavy and almost menacing against the starless blackness of the sky.

"Slow down," Richter ordered Barclay. "The turnoff to the bridge is just beyond that house on the left."

Raeburn eyed the house suspiciously as Barclay slowed to a crawl, for lights showed behind closed curtains in two of the windows on the upper floor.

"The house is unoccupied tonight," Richter said, following Raeburn's sharp gaze. "Its residents have gone up to Hawick for a party. The lights have been left on as a precaution against burglars - as if that would stop me, if I wished to gain access. Look right! There's the bridge."

A flat wood-and-metal bridge spanned Hermitage Water just  where the shoulder of the road widened slightly to permit tourist parking. Two of Richter's operatives were on hand to open the gates that secured both ends of the bridge, and Barclay dimmed the Land Rover's headlamps before easing the big vehicle almost noiselessly across the bridge, following Richter's directions around to the right, then into the shelter of the castle's blind side.

A second Land Rover equipped with a rooftop compartment was already in place, along with the sleek bulk of two powerful motorcycles parked close to the castle wall. Dim light streamed from the inside of the second Land Rover, barely illuminating a standing figure in a homburg and a voluminous scarf, just outside an open rear door. Seated in the car was a figure muffled under a dark blanket. Two more of Richter's henchmen were standing by in the background near the motorcycles, indistinguishable from one another in their snow-camouflage gear, and almost invisible.