Dagger Magic

Chapter Twenty-Six

DAWN found Francis Raeburn alone in the chill, sparsely furnished quarters allotted him by the master of Tolung Tserphug. He had not slept. Seated cross-legged on the straw mat meant to serve him as a bed, elbows resting on his knees, he steepled his fingers and contemplated the sum of his work over the last twenty hours - an array of notes, maps, and diagrams laid out on the bare flagstone floor before him. His most valuable reference had been an original manual of technical specifications and operation for a Type VII C Atlantic U-boat, in mint condition. The compact cellular telephone beside the manual had given him his link with subordinates in several countries, though he harbored no illusions that his many calls had gone unmonitored.

He was not so sanguine as to suppose that he dared risk open defiance of his host. The service being required of him had not come with the option of refusal. Had he been allowed full access to Tolung Tserphug's training thirty years ago, he might now dare to challenge his boyhood rival with some chance of survival or even victory; but a direct confrontation with the mature and fully empowered Green Gloves was another matter entirely.

Then there was the threat of possible intervention by an old adversary - which almost had to be Adam Sinclair, the only man who had ever presented a serious challenge to Raeburn's occult endeavors. It seemed unlikely that a Scottish Master of the Hunt could have become aware of an operation taking shape in Ireland, but Sinclair had been known to work far afield of Scotland in the past; the writ of an astral enforcer of Sinclair's apparent stature ran beyond mere national borders.

So the possibility could not be dismissed lightly. Raeburn had heard it said that once a Master Huntsman took the scent of a quarry, breaking that scent was almost impossible until the final confrontation. If Sinclair had established that sort of link, doubtful though it might seem, Raeburn would need to ensure that the "Master" met his match, when Lynxes teamed with Eastern quarry to turn on the Hunt in unfamiliar territory, with unfamiliar weapons. In such an event, Ireland could well become the killing-ground that would end Adam Sinclair and his Hunting Lodge, once and for all.

Against that possibility, and to ensure that his grudging service to Green Gloves at least netted some degree of personal gain beyond what the master of Tolung Tserphug had in mind, Raeburn had laid his plans with meticulous care. He both feared and respected the power of the dagger priests that Dorje had said would accompany him, but hopefully their efforts could be channelled to suit Raeburn's purposes. Coded instructions had been given to trusted henchmen, and preparations now would move forward with each passing hour. He tried not to think about the methods Dorje had suggested might be employed by the dagger-men. Suffice it to get the cargo off the submarine, into the boat, and onto the seaplane being arranged for - never mind Dorje's boast that the submarine itself must move from its resting place for one final voyage.

Shivering slightly as he indulged in a yawn, Raeburn pulled his orange mantle more closely around him, still greatly annoyed with the situation, despite its promise of gain. He did not like Oriental austerity, despite his boyhood aspiration to partake of Oriental esoterica. As an extremely successful practitioner of Western occult disciplines, if canted decidedly toward what his opponents would refer to as the Left-hand Path, he had developed a taste for pleasure, even personal indulgence.

His present situation was neither pleasant nor indulgent. Though the compound was wired for electricity and many other modern conveniences - including a sophisticated computer linkup in the next room, to which he had been given free and unlimited access for making his travel arrangements - this room had no heat or even a light bulb in the overhead socket. He supposed it was Dorje's way of reminding him who was in charge. Faint warmth and illumination came from the fitful flames of an array of butter lamps set out along the four walls, with more useful light provided by a chimneyed oil lamp at his left elbow.

The flames cast his own shadow oddly against the walls, whose sole adornment in the north, before him, was a rather gruesome portrait of the dread god Shinjed, who was perhaps another aspect of Taranis, the Thunderer, whose votary Raeburn had become while under the aegis of the now-departed Head-Master lamented by Dorje. But he could not believe that Taranis meant him to pay more than token lip service to the arrogant Man with Green Gloves.

As he shifted to relieve a cramp in one knee, his shadow rebounded around the walls and his hyperacute hearing caught the light patter of sandal-shod feet approaching from the door behind. Without the preamble of a knock, the door to the room swung open, silent on its hinges but accompanied by a whisper of air and the faint rustle of robes. Unhurriedly, Raeburn turned his head, his sardonic gaze lighting on the two younger dagger priests who had met the chopper when he arrived. He had expected Nagpo and Kurkar.

"You will please come with us, Gyatso-la," the nearer of the two said, favoring him with a nod. "Dorje Rinpoche wishes a final word with you before you depart."

Noting the "please" and the honorific, Raeburn gathered himself to his feet with less resentment than he might have felt, wondering whether the courtesy betokened Dorje's approval of the plans undoubtedly monitored during the night. He could read nothing from the priests' faces as he gathered up his notes and the technical manual. After wrapping his orange mantle around himself with a flourish, he padded stocking-footed to the doorway and paused to slip into his waiting Guccis before following his escorts along the passageway that led toward his new employer's private quarters.

It was a different chamber to which they led him this time. After passing through double doors flanked by painted dragons and two more subordinate priests, his escorts bade him leave his shoes in the ensuing anteroom before leading on to a second set of doors, these covered with figured silk of an emerald-green hue.

Raeburn passed through these alone. The chamber beyond was dim, of modest size, wreathed in a dense haze of aromatic smoke. Dorje was sitting enthroned on a carpeted dais amid a wealth of silk cushions, dressed informally in a chuba of emerald-green silk, with a profusion of lacquerwork tiles spread before him and a heavy bronze incense burner at his left elbow. A pair of green gloves lay beside it, in pointed reminder of who he claimed to be. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded, the extreme dilation of his pupils suggesting the recent use of a potent narcotic, but his gaze had lost none of its sharpness as he subjected Raeburn to his searching scrutiny.

"You have not slept," he noted, gesturing for Raeburn to approach.

Raeburn inclined his head and mounted the dais. "I can sleep in the chopper, and then on the flight to Ireland. I trust my pilot has slept?"

"Rest assured that he did," Dorje said, with a tiny smile, as Raeburn folded to his knees and then back on his hunkers before him. "I trust that all your preparations are complete?"

"They are," Raeburn replied. "Of course, one cannot predict all permutations of such an operation, but I am confident that any trifling details will be resolved as the plan unfolds."

Dorje's expression hardened. "They had better be trifling."

"What do your auguries tell you?" Raeburn countered, indicating the tiles. "Surely you know better than I, the odds for or against the success of this mission."

"I have never cared for your impertinence," Dorje said icily.

Raeburn quirked his rival a faint smile. "I haven't cared for this mission, from the very beginning," he said lightly, "but you needn't concern yourself that I'll sabotage it, just to defy you. Remember that I, too, have a stake in this venture. I am hardly likely to endanger my own profits."

A sardonic smile curled the other's lip. "Ever the materialist, Gyatso. I begin to see why you have yet to transcend your limitations."

"I may yet surprise you."

"I doubt it. Acquaint me with the arrangements you have made."

With a shrug, Raeburn began to relate the timetable and form of his preparations. He had scarcely begun, however, when Dorje cut him off with a gesture.

"Why have you not arranged to fly into Belfast?'' he demanded. "Dublin is twice the distance from your destination."

"True enough," Raeburn conceded. "Unfortunately, I have reason to believe that quite a credible likeness of me has been circulating in British police circles over the last year or so. By contrast, the Irish Republic has no record of my existence. I thought you might prefer me not to risk calling attention to myself."

With Dorje's grudging nod of agreement, Raeburn continued.

"One of my associates will be waiting to meet me with a car when I arrive in Dublin," he went on. "The coastal village I've chosen for our staging area is only a few hours' drive from there, and the sub a few more hours beyond, by boat. A suitable vessel and crew are being hired.

"Meanwhile, my pilot Barclay will meet another associate in Brussels, and they'll fly via London to Belfast, where separate arrangements are being made for them to charter a seaplane. Once the sub's cargo has been salvaged, Barclay will fly in to collect it and me. Do you wish me to detail the means of getting the goods out of the country?''

At Dorje's gesture of agreement, Raeburn proceeded to outline the succession of boats and other vehicles that would be used to convey the sub's cargo back into Europe, and subsequently to Tolung Tserphug. Dorje was nodding as Raeburn finished, but he did not speak, only staring distractedly into the coals of the incense burner at his elbow.

As the seconds ticked by into a full minute, Raeburn began to wonder whether his old rival had slipped into some narcotic stupor - the fumes were still heavy in the room, and beginning to affect his senses as well - but then Dorje looked up, the pale eyes still wide and dilated, all pupil.

"I have already sent Nagpo and Kurkar ahead to make their own preparations at the site," he said at last. "The auguries suggest that your preparations will suffice, so long as you exercise vigilance regarding the interference of which I have already warned you. When you arrive in Zurich, my agent will meet you and deliver sufficient cash to cover all financial outlays necessary for the execution of this operation. Have you any questions?"

Raeburn shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good to ask that I be released from this assignment, so no."

"I am glad we understand one another," Dorje allowed himself a small smile. "You may go, then. Your escorts are waiting to conduct you to one of the Western guest rooms, where you may shower and change clothes and eat, if you wish. Your pilot has already been instructed to prepare for the flight to Zurich. I send no one with you from here, but I suggest that you put firmly from your mind any attempt to cross me. I hold little patience with those who betray me."

The veiled threat was quite real, and Raeburn's bow, forehead to floor, conveyed real respect for the power wielded by the Man with Green Gloves, if not the individual who held that title. Dismissed with a curt wave, Raeburn got to his feet without further comment and departed, not looking back at the two dagger priests who followed after.