Adam nodded, considering. "Monday's actually not too bad," he told McLeod. "I've got my usual rounds at the hospital, together with some late-morning appointments, but I should be free by noon. Why don't I meet you at your office after lunch?"
"That would do nicely," McLeod said. "Maybe you'll be able to spot something I've missed. It's just too uncanny to be mere chance."
"What's uncanny?" said an interested voice from behind Adam's back.
Both Adam and McLeod looked around to find Peregrine Lovat standing on the path.
"Nothing that need concern anyone who's about to take off on his honeymoon," McLeod said sharply. "Believe me, you've got far better things to do than meddle in the affairs of Traffic Division."
"Traffic Division?" Peregrine looked briefly nonplussed at the possibility of anything unusual occurring under the jurisdiction of that generally humdrum aspect of law enforcement. "But if you've really got a case you think we should look at - "
"We don't know yet," Adam said firmly. "We won't know until I've had a chance to look over the paperwork, if then. And even if something does turn up that might prove worth our investigating," he continued, raising an eyebrow, "don't you think you might trust Noel and me to handle it in your absence?"
Peregrine had the grace to look sheepish. "All right, I can take the hint," he told his mentors. "But if anything interesting happens here while Julia and I are off in the Western Isles, I'll want to hear the whole story when I get back."
"Don't worry, you will," McLeod promised. "Now, away you go and dance with that pretty wife of yours. I hear the Ceili band tuning up. A man's wedding day doesn't last forever, so don't waste another minute of it standing around talking to us."
Chapter Two
"Salutations to the Buddha!
In the language of gods and in that of the demigods, In the language of the demons and in that of men, In all the languages which exist, I proclaim the Doctrine!''
THE words of the ancient Buddhist invocation resonated across the courtyard of the monastery like a flourish of temple bells. As the echoes died away, there arose a sonorous, long-drawn exchange of horn-calls signalling the commencement of evening devotions. In the windows belonging to the apartments of the monastery's abbot, a string of moving lights appeared as the abbot himself, together with his attendants, processed toward the tsokhang, the community's vaulted meditation hall. Elsewhere throughout the monastery, a subdued patter of sandalled feet likewise converged on the hall, arrested outside the door as the ordinary monks paused to shed their footwear before padding inside to take their places for prayers and meditation.
The traditions governing these observances dated back to ancient Tibet. This monastic community, however, was located not amid the towering crags of the Himalayas, but deep in the heart of the Swiss Alps. Most inhabitants of the neighboring villages assumed that this settlement was merely an extension of the respected and much better-known Buddhist colony located at Rikon, near Zurich.
In fact, nothing could have been further from the truth. Though many honest seekers from both East and West daily found their way here, none of these ever suspected that this innocent-seeming retreat from the world was home to a select group of individuals who, for nearly half a century, had concealed the shadowy nature of their true powers and ambitions behind carefully maintained masks of sanctity.
Nowhere was the illusion more complete than in the meditation hall of the temple. Lofty as a cathedral vault, the interior was illuminated mostly by an array of elaborately jewelled and enamelled butter lamps. On every side, the walls and pillars were decorated with frescoes and scrolls of painting, some of them showing the manifold images of various Buddhas, others devoted to the depiction of a wide range of saints, demigods, and demons. At one end of the hall, enshrined behind another row of butter lamps, glittered the gilded images of lamas and former abbots. Beneath these statues reposed a collection of gold and silver stupas, reliquaries containing their mummified remains.
A stir at one end of the hall, together with a sudden brightening of the lights, heralded the arrival of the abbot's procession. Those monks who were still standing hurriedly fled to their stations and settled themselves cross-legged on the floor. A moment later, the abbot himself appeared, flanked by two of his senior attendants. Four lesser acolytes hovered behind them with thuribles of incense, ready to perfume the hall with the fragrances of balsam and musk.
The abbot and his aides were arrayed in caftan-like chubas of black brocade, the loose folds belted and bloused, with shoulder fastenings of gold. Over this, each member of the trio wore a short coat of heavy orange silk, surmounted by a toga-like mantle of the same material. The features of the two attendants were unmistakably Oriental, but the abbot himself was a Westerner. His ice-blue eyes and pale, regular features proclaimed Nordic blood, though his head was shaven clean, like those of his companions.
As the congregation of his humbler followers respectfully abased themselves before him, he led the way across the floor to a raised dais on the east side of the room. An expectant silence fell as he folded himself cross-legged onto the low, gilded throne which awaited him there. Before his two senior attendants took their places to either side of him, they paused at the edge of the dais to kindle two more lamps. As the twin lights flared, a deep-toned chant broke out from all sides.
The liturgy was conducted in the language of Tibet. The abbot himself led the chanting in a voice devoid of any trace of a Western accent. To the chorus of voices was added the occasional music of a small consort of Tibetan instruments - reed-like gyalings and trumpet-like ragdongs, played to the rhythm of a pair of kettledrums. Over all wafted the fragrance of incense mingled with the fumes from the lamps.
At the conclusion of the service, the abbot paused briefly to salute the statues of his predecessors before departing from the hall. A serving brother was waiting just outside the door and bowed low, joined hands pressed to his forehead.
"Pardon if I intrude, Rinpoche, but Kurkar-la and Nagpo-la have returned. I am instructed to ask if you will speak with them now or at some later time."
"I will see them now," the abbot said coolly. "Bring them to me here."
With another bow, the serving brother departed. When he returned a moment later, he was followed by two very senior-ranking monks, one of exceedingly venerable years. The abbot's blue eyes narrowed slightly as he searched their faces, but after a moment, his chiselled features eased.
"Come," he said, also instructing the serving brother to bring refreshment to his chambers.
The apartment to which he led them was opulently appointed. Butter lamps of gold and silver filigree flooded the room with wan, flickering light. The febrile glow of the flames picked out the jewel-like weave of a number of Oriental carpets warming the polished wooden floor on which they lay. Incense smoke from several gem-studded braziers filled the air with a heavy perfume redolent of opium and sandalwood.
Each of the four corners of the room was dominated by the presence of a heavy, triple-edged dagger standing as tall and bulky as a man, set upright by its point in a stand fashioned in the shape of an equilateral triangle. Thus positioned, the daggers had the look almost of sentries on guard. The pommel ends of the wooden daggers bore intricate traceries of carving, in patterns reminiscent of grinning masks. The wavering light of the butter lamps lent the carvings a disquieting illusion of movement, as if the weapons themselves harbored some malevolent life of their own. Though clearly made of wood, not metal, in all other respects they bore a kindred resemblance to the smaller metal daggers the two newly arrived monks were carrying thrust through the backs of their belts.