"That's fine," Adam agreed. "In the meantime, we have responsibilities closer to home. I want to follow through as quickly as I can with Claire Crawford. Right now, she's eager to cooperate; but I don't want her getting frightened and checking herself out of the hospital before we break that dream cycle for good. How soon can you make good on your offer to provide a forensic artist?''
"How about first thing in the morning?" McLeod replied. "We've always got someone on call. If I've got the duty rota right in my head, it should be Peterson tomorrow. He's just a straight forensic artist - not up to Peregrine's standards - but I've watched him work. He's a little eccentric, but he's pretty good."
'' 'Pretty good' ought to be sufficient, if Claire does manage to come up with a physical description," Adam said. "I wouldn't mind having you there as well, if you can force a gap in your morning agenda."
"I'll be there, with Peterson in tow," McLeod promised. "When do you want us?"
"Would half past nine be too early?"
"Not for me," McLeod said sturdily. "As for Peterson, it won't do him any harm to conform to the schedule."
"You're a hard man, Noel." Adam chuckled. He glanced at his pocket watch. "If we're going to be meeting up again first thing tomorrow, it's probably time we both called it a day. Just let me file these papers away and then I'll walk you out to the car park."
Chapter Thirteen
THE dagger brooding in the Spanish sun was palpably ancient - a dark, heavy implement of meteoric iron, so blackened with age that the runic markings inscribed on its leaf-shaped blade were scarcely discernible without the aid of a strong light and a magnifying glass. Set near the edge of a large mahogany desk, it rested sullenly on its pillow of white silk like a toad squatting on a white marble grave slab, its sleeping presence suggestive of old bloodshed and primitive violence.
Overlooking the desk from the creamy stuccoed wall behind it was a black-and-white drawing of a similar artifact, a tore of the same dark metal, its iron density highlighted in silver by strange zoomorphic designs that troubled the eye with their interweaving lines. An accompanying set of runic inscriptions reinforced the probable close kinship of tore and dagger, not only as to their origin but likewise their purpose. The arcane nature of that common purpose was no secret to the dagger's present keeper. The tore was now lost, but Francis Raeburn had witnessed firsthand the elemental powers it had been fashioned to focus through its wearer. Both terrible and exquisite, the allure of such power was seductive, addictive, despite the cost. Since acquiring the dagger, Raeburn had spared no effort in attempting to decipher the kindred mysteries bound up in the sorcerous patterns of its runes. With one or two significant breakthroughs now behind him, he was confident that it was only a matter of time before those mysteries would be his to command. His study of the dagger, however, did not prevent him from taking an interest in any other intriguing artifacts that might happen to come his way. Just now, sitting in the book-lined solitude of what might have been a library of the late Renaissance, he was carrying out the daily ritual of sifting through the morning's mail. Off to his right, a recessed pair of doors stood open to the tiled courtyard beyond, where a small fountain played softly amidst an array of potted ferns and ornamental orange trees.
Deaf to the subdued music of the water, Raeburn abstracted a large envelope bearing an assortment of German stamps and set the rest aside. As he reached for the ivory-handled Moorish dagger that served as his letter opener, a fugitive gleam of sunlight from one of the east windows glanced off the signet ring he wore on the third finger of his right hand. The stone was a bloodred carnelian, cut square in the form of a cartouche, bearing the device of a snarling lynx head.
Carefully he slit open the German envelope and extracted its contents: a cover letter and half a dozen photographs. A cursory glance at the photos produced a thin smile as he sat back in his leather chair to read the letter.
It had been over eighteen months since he had traded the Victorian refinements of his Scottish country house for the equal opulence and greater security of his present residence, a walled villa on the south coast of Spain. Outside, beyond the terraced terracotta rooftops of the town, the Mediterranean sun was laying down a pattern of dazzle across a blue bay the color of a Madonna's robe. Inside, a shadowy cool prevailed, redolent of Moroccan leather, Spanish cedarwood, and the pungent fragrance of lemons wafted in on the breeze from a neighboring citrus grove. Oblivious to the scents and sounds of his Andalusian retreat, Raeburn cast his avid gaze over the correspondence at hand.
The letter was from an associate in Berlin, acting as his agent. The attendant photographs were studies of a grail-like golden cup, taken from various angles. The sides of the cup were embellished with swastikas and other runic symbols. The provenance - or so the present owner claimed - was directly traceable to one of the black lodges known to have been working actively on Hitler's behalf in the late 1930s.
The item, as might be expected, was not readily available. Indeed, it was not for sale at any price. Klaus Richter's contact, a man named Hans Grausmann, professed to have reliable knowledge of its present location, but a third man held actual possession. In light of the cup's potential worth, the price Grausmann was asking for sharing that knowledge was high, but not excessive, in Richter's opinion. More than a little tempted by the proposition, Raeburn was just weighing up the financial considerations of the enterprise when his contemplation was jarred by a sharp, peremptory knock at the door.
The summons was sudden enough to bring Raeburn upright in his chair, annoyance furrowing his fair brow.
"Yes, what is it?" he snapped.
A rangy, dark-haired man in khakis poked his head into the room apologetically and then entered - Barclay, Raeburn's pilot, driver, and general factotum. Like Raeburn, he wore a carnelian lynx ring - and also a .45 automatic stuck into his waistband.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Raeburn, but I thought you ought to know you've got a couple of visitors."
"Visitors?" A scowl pulled at the corners of Raeburn's mouth. "You know full well I don't have any appointments scheduled for this morning. Tell them to go away."
"They're - ah - already in the entrance lobby, sir. I saw 'em on the security monitor. I can't explain how they got past the gate. And Rosita and Jorge are in another part of the house; they didn't let 'em in."
"You mean they just - appeared?"
"Yessir."
Raeburn's pale gaze flicked to the pistol in Barclay's waistband, suddenly aware of the pilot's uncharacteristic uneasiness.
"Who the devil are these people?" he asked softly.
"They look like Oriental monks, sir," Barclay said. "Not exactly Buddhist, but something like it. I remember seeing robes like that when I was out East in Nepal. Something to do with shamanistic rituals - "
"Tibetan black ngagspas." Raeburn used the native term for "sorcerers" with biting certainty. Fully alert now, he slipped Richter's letter and photographs into the top drawer of his desk, partially masking the presence of the .32 caliber Biretta lurking amongst the secretarial clutter of pens, envelopes, and stationery. Leaving the drawer discreetly ajar, he was just drawing breath to give Barclay instructions when two exotic figures clad in orange and black stepped into the doorway.
They were small and wiry by Western standards, and definitely Tibetan. The older one had a face seamed and chiselled like a carving in old ivory; the younger looked to be about of an age with Raeburn. As Barclay turned in challenge, reaching for his pistol, the younger monk raised his right hand and touched the pilot lightly behind his right ear with the tip of a triple-edged dagger.