"What is he, an actor?" Angela inquired somewhat incredulously.
"A Druid," Raeburn corrected. "And not just a modern pretender, either. Taliere is an ardent and discerning follower of the old ways. You may take it from me that his knowledge of his tradition reaches far into the distant past."
"That sounds almost like high praise," Angela said.
"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.
Returning the salute, Adam made his way over to join them. The two had whisky glasses on the table in front of them, with an untasted third glass set before the one remaining chair.
"I'm glad to see that you two haven't been shy about making yourselves at home,'' Adam remarked. "Is that extra measure of the MacAllan spoken for yet?''
"We've been keeping an eye on it for you," Peregrine said.
"Aye," McLeod agreed with a twinkle. "But it won't go to waste, if you'd prefer an alternative."
"Not at all!" Adam said. "Nothing else would do justice to the company."
He folded himself gracefully into the vacant seat and appropriated the glass in question, lifting it briefly in salute before tasting. As he rolled the whisky's peaty savor to the back of his tongue and swallowed, his gaze lighted upon the colorful assemblage of parcels piled on the floor beside Peregrine's chair. Protruding from the top of one large carrier bag marked Jenners Department Store was a child's costume kit that included a horned helmet, a circular shield, and a large plastic battle-axe.
Amusement tugged at the corners of Adam's expressive mouth as he set down his glass.
"Who's the aspiring Viking in your life?" he asked.
The young artist grinned. "Alexandra Houston," he replied, naming the younger daughter of a clergyman colleague of theirs. "Christopher's been reading her stories from Norse mythology. She's decided she wants to become a shield maiden when she grows up. Or failing that, an opera singer."
Adam chuckled. "There's a noble ambition for you. I'm sorry I won't be here to share in the fun on Christmas morning."
"So am I," Peregrine said, "but I expect your regrets will evaporate pretty quickly, once you get to the States."
"Once he gets past his medical symposium in Houston," McLeod corrected gruffly.
"You make it sound as if I'm going there to fight a dragon, not deliver a paper," Adam said.
"Even if you were," said Peregrine, "it would take more than a titan among all dragons to keep you away from that fair lady of yours. What time is your flight tomorrow?''
"Seven a.m. Once at Heathrow, I've got nearly four hours to kill before the Houston flight - but this time of year, anything less leaves too slender a margin for comfort. And I don't relish the holiday rush."
This observation was attended by a grimace. Flying visits to the States had become an increasingly frequent occurrence for Adam over the past eighteen months, and more than once his travel arrangements had been disrupted by missed connections.