Death of an Adept

Chapter Twenty-One

"I should have insisted that they let Humphrey drive them into town," Adam said, eyeing the winter sky from a library window at Strathmourne. "It looks like snow. I hate to think of them stalling out on the side of the road somewhere between here and the Forth Road Bridge."

"Then don't think of it, darling. Or why not worry about them stalling on the Forth Road Bridge, if you're determined to worry about them?" Philippa said over the top of the needlework she was stitching, ensconced in a wing chair beside the library fire. The "them" under discussion were Ximena and Julia, who had taken the Morgan into Edinburgh for a consultation with a dressmaker. "Your mechanic gave the car a thorough going-over. It was purring like a kitten when they left."

"Adam's learning a new way to worry, now that he's settling into a married frame of mind," Peregrine said with a grin, from a vantage point in one of the window seats that overlooked the approach to the house. "Why do you think Julia and I got a mobile phone, Adam? Fortunately, she's got it with her today. If anything goes wrong, they can summon the cavalry at the touch of a button. Ah, here comes Noel now."

He set a mug of tea aside and rose expectantly as McLeod's black BMW appeared at the head of the snow-bordered drive and made brisk passage toward the house, pulling up in front of the steps. The inspector had telephoned Adam with a brief account of his trip to Wales the night before, but sensitive details were to be rendered in person this afternoon. Prior commitments had prevented Julian and the Houstons from attending the impromptu briefing session called by Adam, but Peregrine was as eager as Adam and Philippa to hear what McLeod had learned.

Humphrey admitted the inspector very shortly. McLeod looked frazzled, and carried a manila envelope under one arm. As Humphrey closed the door behind him, Philippa said, "Hello, Noel. Cup of tea? You look like you could use one."

McLeod quirked a grim smile and inclined his head in acceptance as he came to collapse in a chair beside her.

"Aye, that would be grand. Sorry if I'm a bit later than I'd planned. I got waylaid by a public prosecutor just as I was leaving the office, and he wanted to talk about a case that's pending. I thought I'd never get rid of him."

Philippa set a mug of tea in front of him, adding a splash of milk. "The main thing is that you're here now," she said. "Adam, Peregrine, do you want anything else?"

"Not just now," Adam said, as Peregrine also declined. "So, tell us about Griffith Evans."

The envelope McLeod had brought with him contained a copy of Evans' police file, complete with the fingerprint record. While the others examined the documents enclosed, the inspector embarked on an uncompromising report of his findings. Adam noted Harry Nimmo's part in the operation with particular interest.

"Our Mr. Nimmo's psychometric talents are clearly blossoming," Adam observed thoughtfully. "One almost has to wonder whether something about this case has triggered their development."

"Aye," McLeod agreed. "I was thinking much the same thing myself. Don't get me wrong," he amended. "Harry's a good man - and if he's meant to take on a more active role, I'd be the first to welcome him. At the same time, if the Powers That Be have arranged to send us reinforcements, it makes me wonder if there may be bigger trouble ahead than we realize."

Pulling out his notebook, he showed them the two sets of symbols he had copied down, one made at Callanish and the other in the cellar at Conwy.

"As you can see, most of the same symbols appear in both locations," he pointed out. "And the chamber we found was set up to mimic more traditional stone circles - though with a decidedly nasty edge, given all the evidence of blood sacrifices. I'm not yet prepared to state categorically that Evans and the mastermind at Callanish are one and the same. But whatever else turns out to be true about him, this Evans character appears to have an intimate knowledge of Druidic ceremonies and rituals - perhaps more than anyone could hope to acquire in a single lifetime. Furthermore, I think there's little question that he's using that knowledge to foster contact with one or another of the Patrons of Shadow - 'the dark side of the Force,' as young lolo MacFarlane might put it."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that how he described what he felt on New Year's Eve? A 'disturbance in the Force'?"

McLeod blinked. "I suppose he did."

Peregrine sat forward avidly, his hazel gaze darting from one to the other of them. "Noel, did you pick that phrase for a reason?" he asked.

"Or did it kick in from your subconscious?" Philippa joined in. "That isn't a phrase you'd be likely to use, Noel. Could it be that, on some level, you have made the connection between Evans and what happened at Callanish?"

"It's possible," McLeod conceded.

"Well, whether or not the two perpetrators are one and the same," Adam said, "we appear to have a situation that needs nipping in the bud. Noel, how long would you estimate this underground hallow has been in use?"

McLeod grimaced. "Difficult to judge. The atmosphere was so thick in there, you could almost cut it with a knife. I'd say a long, long time - maybe even decades."

"Decades?" Peregrine murmured. "How could that be? I mean, isn't there some equivalent to our own Hunting Lodge down in Wales? Wouldn't someone have noticed?"

"The English have a loose confederation of several groups that perform some of the same functions we do," Philippa said. "But unless Evans had done something to draw attention to himself, it's quite possible he could have gone unnoticed - particularly since he seems to have gone to considerable lengths to keep a low profile."

"There wax that incident at Druids' Circle, two years ago," McLeod pointed out.

"That hardly counts," Philippa said, shaking her head. "I very much doubt much serious energy was raised on that occasion. 'A mere ripple in the Force,' as your young lolo might say."

"Perhaps you're right," Adam agreed. "But the episode does tell us one thing of value. It tells us that Evans apparently has nothing but a deep and withering contempt for all modern interpreters of Druid tradition - which suggests that his own esoteric roots go back to very ancient sources."

"How so?" Peregrine asked.

"Well, leaving the Callanish incident aside for the moment, everything else Noel has been able to discover about Evans makes him out to be a solitary recluse who, for whatever reason, shuns contact with the rest of the world. He has, as far as we can tell, no family, no friends, and no known associates. His whole life would seem to be centered in his work as an occultist - and up till now, that is something he has pursued alone and in secret, never seriously venturing outside the hidden hallow he has created for his own private use.

"Callanish, on the other hand, was a large-scale operation. It simply could not have been carried out by one man on his own. We know from Peregrine's drawings that Evans was there, in full ceremonial regalia, presumably as the director of the ritual. But there were a number of others present as well - a fact which raises several important questions."

He began ticking off items on his fingers. "To begin with, what could have motivated Evans to come out hiding after all these years spent in apparently deliberate obscurity? Next, why Callanish, rather than someplace closer to home? And finally, was Evans himself the instigator, summoning outside support for a venture of his own devising, or was he himself recruited as figurehead for an operation conceived by someone else?"

"That's a lot of questions," Peregrine said. "So far, we're not even sure if Evans is this fellow's real name."

"True," Philippa agreed. "But your comment about other Hunting Lodges has made me think of someone who might be able to give us some answers. He himself doesn't work in a Druid tradition, but he'll know who does - both the legitimate ones and those who skate closer to the Abyss." Her dark eyes shifted to meet Adam's. "Do you want to phone him, or shall I?"

"I will," Adam said.

"Phone who?" Peregrine asked.

But Adam was already moving toward the telephone on the desk. A quick flick through his desktop Rolodex gave him the number he wanted. After three rings, he got a response.

"Oakwood," said a discreet male voice.

"Hello, Linton. This is Adam Sinclair, ringing from Scotland. If he's available, I'd like a word with Sir John."

He glanced back at them as he waited for the call to be relayed to Gen. Sir John Graham.

"Adam! This is a delightful surprise! What can I do for you?"

"Hello, Gray. I wish I could say that this was purely a social call, but the truth of the matter is, I'm hoping you can give me some information."

"Ah, looking to put the old warhorse back into harness, are you?" Graham said equably. "I'll do my best to oblige. What kind of information are you after?''

"I'm trying to locate a man who calls himself Griffith Evans."

"Griffith Evans." Graham paused a beat. "No, I can't say that the name rings any bells. Could it be a pseudonym?"

"How about Taliere?" Adam ventured.

"Now, that sounds a bit more familiar. Welsh, maybe - but so is Griffith Evans. What's the context?"

"We have reason to believe that this Evans may have been involved in an incident that took place up here in the Hebrides about a week before the new year," Adam said. "It may not have made the papers down in London, but it caused quite a stir up here. There were certain - ah - Druidic aspects," he added carefully.

"I see," Graham replied, in a tone that conveyed full understanding and attention. "Please go on."

"Well, we haven't been able to establish for certain that Taliere and this Evans are one and the same," Adam said, "but two of my colleagues were able to trace Evans as far as a cottage in North Wales. Unfortunately, Mr. Evans himself was nowhere to be found, so the trail peters out there. We do have a set of his fingerprints, courtesy of the police in Conwy, and we can connect him to a couple of very minor incidents in the last ten years, but the usual police sources run dry beyond that point."

"So you're hoping for alternative sources of information," Graham said.

"I am," Adam replied, smiling to himself. "I seem to recall that you have or had access to certain sources that - ah - are not available to the civilian authorities. That being so, I was hoping I might prevail upon you to do some checking on our behalf."

"I'll be more than happy to assist," came Graham's response, "though I can't guarantee success, with so little to go on."

"There is one more item that may help," Adam said. "We have a mug shot of Evans, and also an artist's impression of what Taliere looks like, done up at Callanish by Peregrine Lovat."

"Ah, young Lovat. From what I recall of your young artist-friend's abilities, that ought to be as good as a photograph. Yes, those and a set of fingerprints should suffice to get me started. Do you have access to a fax machine?"

"I can send through the material within the hour," Adam promised. "Is it the same number?"

"One digit after."

"Right. Thank you, Gray. I appreciate your help, as always."

"Happy to oblige. Incidentally, I don't suppose your mother is there, by any chance? I've been meaning to ring you since the new year. I had a very vivid dream about her."

Adam turned to grin at Philippa, who had risen expectantly from her chair.

"She's here with me now, Gray. I'll put her on."

After handing the phone to Philippa, Adam took McLeod and Peregrine off to the kitchen to fetch fresh tea and to give his mother privacy. She was back at her needlework by the time they returned with the new pot of tea and a tray of fresh scones and sandwiches, but she offered no details of her conversation with John Graham. While she distributed the tea, Adam assembled the documents to be faxed through to Graham and sent them. Ximena and Julia returned shortly thereafter, effectively ending the morning's business; but until Graham came up with a new direction for their investigations, further speculation was unlikely to produce any useful results.

No inspiration came during sleep to change Adam's estimation of the situation. Aware that it might well take time for Sir John to complete his research, Adam drove in to work the following morning with no expectation of any immediate breakthroughs. After teaching rounds, he saw patients for the rest of the day, with hardly a break for lunch, and by four o'clock had finally retreated to his office to update his case notes for the day. He answered the buzz of his phone somewhat distractedly, but immediately shifted focus on hearing the voice at the other end of the line.

"Hello, Adam, it's Gray. Are you alone?"

"I am," Adam replied, "but you know this line."

"Yes, I do." A note of suppressed tension clipped the voice of Sir John Graham. "I have some information for you, but I'd rather not relay it by telephone. Could we meet up face to face to discuss it?"

"Certainly," Adam said, turning the page of his desk calendar. "I've got two therapy sessions scheduled for tomorrow morning, but I could probably catch the noon shuttle and be with you for tea tomorrow afternoon."

"I'd rather discuss it sooner than that," Graham said. "If you were to call upon me tonight, you would find the door open."

Adam caught his breath slightly as he realized that the senior Adept was not proposing a physical meeting, but one on the astral plane, as one Adept to another.

"I am entirely at your disposal," he said carefully. "Just tell me when and where to seek you out."

"Let's say ten o'clock, in the gazebo," Graham said. "I believe you already know the way through the maze."

As Adam rang off, he reflected that it was perhaps just as well that Ximena was working the evening shift at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, for that meant she was unlikely to be getting home much before half-past eleven. He would have to forego dinner - fasting was a desirable preparation for any form of serious occult endeavor - but Philippa certainly understood that; and Ximena's absence simplified the situation for everyone concerned.

Returning home shortly after six, Adam retired to his room for a shower and change of clothes, then a brief rest until it was time to work. His mind had been restless and unfocused all the way home, turning this way and that in troubled speculation about the nature of the information Graham had promised to impart. He put on his Adept ring before lying down in shirtsleeves and his dressing gown, also pulling a light blanket over himself. Only after putting himself through a short breathing exercise was he able to drift off into a light sleep.

He roused some hours later to the distant chime of the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall. A glance at his bedside clock told him that the appointed hour was fast approaching. Casting aside his blanket, he thrust his stockinged feet into the crested slippers waiting on the floor by the bedside and headed down to the library.

Humphrey had already seen to it that a fire was burning on the hearth and the drapes were tightly drawn. Closing the door behind him, Adam turned the key in the lock, then went over to the house phone on his desk.

"Hello, Humphrey. I'll be unavailable for the next hour or so. Divert all calls until further notice. Philippa will deal with anything that needs urgent attention."

"Very good, sir."

Knowing that his valet could be trusted to uphold those instructions, Adam doused the room's electric lights and made his way back to the hearth by firelight alone, pausing to toss an incense stick into the flames before settling into his favorite fireside chair. The mingled fragrance of cinnamon and myrrh teased at his nostrils as he put his feet up on a footstool, and he inhaled deeply of their perfume while he briefly closed his eyes, testing the security of the wards around the house. Then, after taking a long moment to center himself, he fixed his gaze on the heart of the flames.

The shimmer of light and shadow was like a dance, drawing him slowly downward in a spiral toward his soul's center point, as his eyelids drifted closed. Sinking past the threshold between waking and trance, Adam became aware of a complementary resonance permeating the air around him, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Gradually the resonance grew more articulate, assuming a formal pattern of repetition. Hearkening to the summons, Adam was reminded of the beating of a great drum.

The drumbeat became a wall of sound. The wall became an onrushing tidal wave, sweeping him off his feet to carry him away. As he rode the crest of the wave, content to ride it out, a distant shore loomed ahead, its dark tree line surmounted by a firmament of stars.

The shoreline converged with breathtaking speed. A sudden, shadowy plunge left him lying slightly breathless on a smooth stretch of turf before the maze gateway at Oakwood, shining silvery in the moonlight.

In the waking world it was winter and the moon was waning. Here, by contrast, the night was balmy and the full moon shone with a radiance almost as bright as day.

Rising to his feet, Adam approached the gateway, now robed in the formal soutane of sapphire-blue symbolic of his office and calling. The gate itself was standing ajar, in token of John Graham's invitation, glimmering like silver filigree in the light of the moon as Adam slipped fearlessly through the gap, mindful of Graham's parting words. Beyond lay the shadowy convolutions of a boxwood maze. Looking down, Adam found himself standing at the head of a white-pebbled path.

As he paused, more in preparation than from any apprehension, the drumbeat took up its rhythm once more, soft but compelling, again precisely on the rhythm of his heartbeat. Obedient to its summons, Adam set out for the heart of the maze, paying no mind to the alternative pathways that branched occasionally to left or right, bathed in the radiance of the moonlight as he followed the intended path and suddenly found himself at the center point, before the fairy-tale arches and cupola of a Victorian gazebo.

The moonlight silvered the roses threading the gazebo's trel-lised walls, which filtered patterned moonlight onto the wooden floor. A tall, dark-robed figure stood waiting in the arched doorway at the top of the wooden steps, a cowl obscuring his features, a shining sword cocked over one shoulder. As Adam advanced, the blade came down to bar his way, fire rippling along its length, but he did not hesitate to mount the four steps, halting at the threshold with the blade at his throat as a deep voice proclaimed the ritual challenge.

"Who comes?"

The question was part of a tirne-honored formula, Adam's response unhesitating.

"Adam, Master of the Hunt and servant of the Light, duly sworn."

His challenger's head inclined and the sword was lowered, its fire dying to a mere glow.

"Enter and be welcome, Adam, Master of the Hunt and servant of the Light," the challenger said, sweeping back his cowl as he stepped aside in invitation.

As time was reckoned in the material, the man Adam had come here to meet was nearly twice his own age. Here, however, Adam needed no second glance to recognize John Graham in the individual who stood before him now, strong and vigorous as Adam himself, with flashing hazel eyes and dark hair untouched by time. Nor was this appearance of vitality any mere trick of the eye - rather, a vision of Graham in his immortal semblance, revealed by the timeless moonlight of this consecrated place as a very senior Adept of the Inner Planes.

When Adam had joined him within the confines of the gazebo, Graham briskly drew the tip of the sword three times across the threshold. Adam could feel the protective barriers strengthen with each stroke. As final warding, Graham laid the blade itself across the opening before gesturing toward a round table set at the center of the floor, where three lighted candles - black, white, and red - made a flickering triangle on the white-draped surface. The table was flanked by two waiting chairs.

With a smile, Graham invited Adam to be seated. Sinking into the chair opposite, he said, "I see you had no trouble finding the way. Thank you for coming."

"It is I who should be thanking you," Adam answered. "It was very generous of you to bear a hand in this inquiry."

A more sober look clouded Graham's lean face. "As it happens, this inquiry concerns me as much as it does you - though the evidence linking our interests dates back to a time before you were born. Your instincts in coming to me were entirely correct. I doubt if anyone else now alive could have made the connections necessary to link this man who now calls himself Evans with his own buried past."

This cryptic statement gave Adam a prickling sensation at the base of his skull, for John Graham was not prone to exaggeration.

"What, exactly, have you learned?" he asked.

"Enough to give me cause for grave concern," Graham replied. "To begin with, it isn't Taliere that's the pseudonym - it's Evans. The name Jasper Taliere occupies a curious place in the classified annals of military intelligence. And for the past fifty years, he's been on file as missing, presumed dead."

At the mention of military intelligence, Adam raised an eyebrow. Mentally performing a quick mathematical calculation, he said, "That would make him active during the Second World War. Am I to understand that he was some kind of spy?"

"Not a spy," Graham corrected. "A terrorist - though the term had not yet been coined in those days."

At Adam's look of inquiry, he continued. "As you well know, when Hitler came to power, the Nazi regime was not without its sympathizers here in this country. From the very outset of the war, there were some who actively collaborated with the enemy, seeing the threatened invasion of England as an opportunity to further their own schemes for aggrandizement.

"Jasper Taliere was hardly more than a boy at the time, but he was old enough to harbor a host of resentful ambitions. Spurred on by dreams of power, he was among those who took part in a well-orchestrated campaign to bring havoc to our cities - a campaign all the more terrible and effective because it was carried out with the aid of supernatural powers."

Adam was well aware of whispered tales concerning the existence of certain black lodges operating within the Third Reich, whose members had utilized their esoteric talents in support of their patron's designs for world conquest. Aware of a sudden chill creeping into his bones, he asked, "What, exactly, was Taliere doing?''

Graham's jaw hardened. "Committing very specialized acts of sabotage - some directed at destroying national monuments, others aimed at wiping out key individuals associated with the wartime government. To this day, I doubt we'll ever know the full extent of the damage that was done. But one thing I am sure of: By the time certain of my colleagues were able to bring the situation under control, these sabotage operations had cost the lives of hundreds - possibly even thousands."

As Adam shook his head in horrified wonderment, Graham went on.

"It started in the early days of the Blitz. When the air strikes first began, the devastation seemed as random as it was widespread. As the raids continued, however, it came to our attention that the number of direct hits on politically significant targets was disproportionately high. We thought at first that the Germans had perfected some kind of highly sophisticated internal guidance system for their bombs. Then one of my own special agents in the field managed to intercept information which enabled us to piece together the truth.

"Taliere and his fellow-collaborators were using the bombing raids as convenient camouflage under which to carry out a parallel campaign of attack. The damage they were wreaking was caused not by explosives, but by lightning. This lightning was no natural phenomenon, but an emanation from the realms of chaos. The giver of the lightning was none other than one of the storm gods of old."

Adam caught his breath. All at once, this was beginning to have an eerily familiar ring.

"How did they determine where the lightning was to strike?" he asked.

"By leaving a votive object at the site to draw down the lightning charge," Graham replied. "Those few we were able to recover and neutralize took the form of disk-shaped bronze medallions bearing a symbol that my people dubbed the lightning rune. It was not unlike the double-S sigrunen insignia adopted by the SS. Even at the time, it was suggested that this symbol might be part of a secret Pictish alphabet reserved for ceremonial use. But in those days, all that seemed certain was that the rune was intended to invoke the destructive power of Taranis, the ancient lightning god of pagan times."

"Taranis," Adam repeated softly. If Taliere was a votary of Taranis, the incident at Callanish suddenly began to take on a new dimension - and to connect with an old adversary. Taranis had been the dark Patron invoked in the slaying of Randall Stewart, and in a series of lightning strikes directed against prominent Freemasons - and Francis Raeburn had been at the heart of the operation, allied with another black magician whose former allegiances apparently paralleled Taliere's. The targeting principle in both instances had been a medallion.

"You're certain we're talking about the same man?" Adam asked.

"You supplied the name. And the fingerprint records you provided, no less than your photograph and Mr. Lovat's excellent sketch, match up with the fingerprints and photos contained in our files. I'd say there's little question that the Callanish affair was Taliere's work."

"That doesn't explain his motive, especially after so long. Have you any idea what made this Taliere turn traitor in the first place?"

"From what we could piece together at the time, he apparently saw himself as acting to revive the beliefs and practices of the ancient Druids - of whom he claimed to be a direct descendant."

Adam frowned. "That tallies with what we've been told of Evans. But the various forms of Druid worship were the very heart and soul of Britain from ancient times. Why would a Druid want to see the British government overthrown in favor of an invader from the Continent?''

Graham smiled thinly. "Don't forget that Taliere's a Welshman. By his reckoning, the House of Windsor is a dynasty of usurpers. By contrast, the Welsh-descended Tudors were the last legitimate rulers of this sceptered isle - and by extension, the last keepers and users of our native shamanic traditions in the line of sacred kings. Taliere was collaborating with the Germans in the fond expectation of seeing a Tudor monarch restored to the throne under Hitler's aegis."

Adam's frown deepened. "That makes no sense. The direct Tudor line of succession came to an end when Elizabeth the First died without issue."

"So say the history books," Graham agreed. "But Taliere was convinced otherwise by a man claiming to be a direct descendant of her father, Henry the Eighth - this, by virtue of a clandestine dalliance between Henry and a Welsh princess who secretly bore him a son. Whether or not the story was true - and I think it unlikely - this pretender was going to assume the crown in the wake of the Nazi conquest. And between them, he and Taliere were going to reinstate the old religion - or rather, Taliere's warped vision of it."

Adam was gripped by a sudden premonition. "This pretender - what was his name?"

His tone earned him a curious glance from Graham. "He called himself Tudor-Jones. Why do you ask?"

"Davld Tudor-Jones?" Adam said.

"Then you've heard of him," Graham replied.

"Aye, and crossed paths more than once with a man who would seem to be his son."

It was Graham's turn to look startled. "I never knew Tudor-Jones had a son!"

"That's not surprising, since the son himself doesn't advertise the connection," Adam said. "He uses his mother's maiden name. We know him as Francis Raeburn.''