The starry firmament turned on its axis. The sudden shift in the stellar configurations took Adam's breath away. For a dizzy moment he hung in limbo, surrounded by comet-blurs of wheeling lights. Then all at once he plummeted.
A supple skein of silver materialized in front of him, coiling round him as he fell. Recognizing the line of his own lifetime, Adam reached out and seized it with both hands.
His headlong plunge slowed to a floating descent. Below him now he could see the foreshortened outline of his physical body, sitting relaxed in its chair. He followed the cord down in an ever-tightening spiral until, with a slight, disorienting jolt, his travelling soul was once again reunited with its corporeal complement.
He took another moment to settle back into his body before opening his eyes. The candle beside the photograph had burned down almost to the sconce, indicative that nearly two hours had passed since he first entered into trance. Now that he was back to full awareness, he became sensible of a chill in his bones and a hollow feeling in his midsection. It was further proof, if he needed it, of how far afield he had ventured on the astral this night.
Drawing a steadying breath, Adam reached for the house phone and buzzed for Humphrey. The promptness of the latter's response suggested that his faithful valet had been anticipating his summons. After requesting his usual fortifying snack of hot ham sandwiches and cocoa, Adam rang off with a heartfelt word of thanks, indulged in a languorous stretch, and sat back in his chair to contemplate the import of his exchange with the Master.
He centered his thoughts first on the matter of Tom Lennox's phantom lady. Since the Master had strongly intimated that the key to this woman's identity was to be found on this side of the astral, Adam resolved to redouble his efforts to learn who she might be. He was prepared to take seriously the Master's pronouncement that this woman was presently posing a danger not only to herself but also to others who might come into contact with her. Certainly those who had died in Carnage Corridor could attest to that danger. His resolution was unshaken by the prospect of having to share in her suffering, though the nature of that particular ordeal had been made only too plain to him during his astral journey to her place in the Akashic Records.
Of more disquieting concern was the Master's cryptic warning that the equilibrium of the Light was once again in danger of being destabilized by forces of darkness. Lacking any clues to work from, he could do nothing for the moment but watch and wait.
A knock at the library door roused him from his reverie, heralding Humphrey's arrival with a laden tray.
"Here you are, sir," the butler said. "Will you take your refreshments at the desk, or by the fireside?"
"By the fireside, thank you," Adam said. "And then I hope you'll take yourself off to your bed."
"Very good, sir." Humphrey raised a dubious eyebrow. "Are you sure you won't be needing me any further?"
"Quite sure," Adam said firmly. "I would, however, be grateful if you could have breakfast ready for six o'clock. Tomorrow promises to be a very busy day."
Chapter Seven
DAWN broke pale over the Swiss Alps. Initially the light touched only the outer walls of the remote Buddhist monastery perched on the heights. Inside the compound, the early morning quiet was broken intermittently by the subdued clatter from the kitchen wing. The still air carried the mealy fragrance of cooked tsampa porridge mingled with the scent of wild thyme.
A diaphanous mist filled the gaps between the buildings, leaving a fine glaze of moisture on everything it touched. Deep in the heart of the compound, in the sheltered formal garden adjoining the abbot's private apartments, the mist had limned each individual leaf and twig with silver. Soft on the foggy air came the muted sound of a door opening and then closing as the man known to his flock as Dorje Rinpoche turned his back on his quarters and moved silently along the pebbled pathway, approaching a small domed structure at the center of the garden.
The edifice was a temple in miniature, its exterior densely ornamented with grotesque carvings of demons, demigods, and other denizens of the spirit world. As Dorje drew near, a small, stooped figure in orange robes detached itself from the shadows and hobbled forward to meet him, bowing over a box of black lacquerwork cradled to its chest. No word was spoken, but the abbot returned the old monk's bow and beckoned him forward, leading the way up into the shallow porch that fronted the entrance to the shrine, where both men shed their sandals.
A groined doorway admitted the pair to a square meditation chamber. The flickering yellow glare of four butter lamps quartered the room, picking out the tarnished sheen of metallic embroidery amongst the ancient-looking tapestries that overhung the walls. The floor was of black marble, its center covered by a darkly patterned carpet of silk brocade. A number of flat brocaded cushions had been scattered around the carpet to provide seating.
More glints of silver and gold showed up from the chamber's vaulted ceiling. Here, a mosaic had been executed in tiny, many-colored tiles, depicting a wrathful, multilimbed deity wreathed in sulphurous clouds of fire and smoke. Two crimson eyes like molten rubies glared down into the room out of a skull-like face. Any initiate of Tibetan mysticism would have recognized the figure as that of Shinjed, the dread Lord of Death.
In the northwest corner of the chamber stood a small dais covered with a pall of crimson brocade. Centered on the dais, its point supported in a triangular stand, stood a large triple-edged dagger as tall as a man, with a hilt made of carved faces. The dagger was flanked by a pair of bronze incense burners in the shape of two coiled serpents, whose smoke left the air inside the chamber heavy with the musky, aromatic tang of burnt spices.
Approaching the dais, Dorje and his companion abased themselves before the dagger, then withdrew to the center of the room. As they drew up cushions and sat down opposite one another, leaving an open space on the carpet between them, Dorje fixed his chilly, china-blue eyes on the age-withered face of his companion.
"I am troubled, Lutzen," he said, addressing the other man in fluent Tibetan. "Almost fifty years have passed since you and your brother brought me here from Germany. Tell me, how much do you recall of the days leading up to our flight?"
The old monk's expression showed faint surprise. "How should I not remember, Rinpoche] It was a time of great uncertainty. The war was going badly for our patron. Daily the talk grew of impending defeat. Eventually it was decided that you should be brought away to safety. And so it was done."
"Indeed." Dorje's tone conveyed no warmth. "How would you evaluate that decision by your predecessor?"
"He did as his wisdom dictated," Lutzen said. "Thanks to his foresight, you were safely out of Berlin when it was taken by the Allies."
"Do you think this was well done?"
The old monk shrugged. "You are here, Rinpoche. And now that the Treasure Texts have at last been located, there will be no further impediment to your fulfilling your destiny as Keeper of the Keys to Agarthi."
"That destiny might well have been fulfilled half a century sooner," Dorje said coldly. "As you rightly observe, I am the Keeper of the Keys. Had I been allowed to remain in Germany, I might have unlocked Agarthi's gates and summoned the hosts of chaos to defend the Fatherland. As it was, I was absent at the very time when I was most needed."
"You were only a child," Lutzen reminded him. "The signs of your true identity were undeniable, but you had not yet regained your full stature as the Man with Green Gloves."