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.

The lure that kept drawing him back to the opposite side of the Atlantic was Dr. Ximena Lockhart, an American surgeon turned trauma specialist, whom he had met two years before whilst undergoing treatment in the otherwise unromantic confines of the emergency room at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. The mutual interest kindled by that initial encounter had subsequently blossomed into a bright flame.

That flame had remained constant despite the separation forced upon them when Ximena learned that her father had fallen victim to a terminal illness. Though she had gone home to San Francisco to care for him, the strains of time and distance had failed to dampen the ardor of the relationship still growing between her and Adam. In this instance, an invitation to address a gathering of American medical colleagues was providing Adam with a professional excuse for being absent from his Edinburgh practice in order to spend the Christmas holidays with Ximena.

"In some respects, it's going to be an awkward visit," he admitted to Peregrine and McLeod. "I'll finally get to meet Ximena's family, but her father isn't doing well at all."

"What is the latest word on his condition?" Peregrine asked quietly.

"No better than it's ever likely to be, I'm afraid," Adam replied. "Given the original prognosis, it's nothing short of miraculous that he's lasted this long."

"Aye, and one has to wonder whether that's really a mercy," McLeod murmured. "That form of cancer is pretty painful, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid it is," Adam replied. "And he's already lasted six months beyond what his doctors ever expected. Ximena can't even talk about it. I can only imagine that he must have some very powerful, private reasons for wanting to cling to life. I'll be in a better position to form an opinion once we've met face to face."

"I'm frankly surprised that Ximena hasn't introduced the two of you before now," Peregrine said.

Adam shrugged. "I expect it's a reflection of the helplessness she feels as a physician - not being able to help her father when she thinks he needs her most. If I meet him, she has to deal with that helplessness."

"Is that why you've always met elsewhere?" McLeod asked.

Adam nodded. "This is the first time she's consented to let me fly all the way out to the West Coast. I'm given to understand," he added lightly, "that it would be bad form on her part to let me make all the travel concessions - hence, our metropolitan tour of the East Coast."

The list of cities they had visited together in recent months included Atlanta, Boston, and New York. Adam had not disputed the choice of venues, knowing that these were places where Ximena could escape, however briefly, from the cares and responsibilities that burdened her at home. For that very reason, her invitation to meet this time in San Francisco gave him cause for no small concern. If she was now afraid to leave her father's side - and ready to face her own helplessness - the end must truly be in sight.

"That reminds me," Peregrine said, breaking in upon Adam's reflections. "I've got something here for you - if only I can find the right bag."

With these words, he ducked partially from view below the level of the table. The sound of energetic rummaging shortly gave way to an exclamation of triumph. When Peregrine re-emerged, he was holding a parcel gaily wrapped in Christmas paper.

"Your real present will be waiting for you when you get back," he told Adam with a puckish grin. "This, on the other hand, is for opening now - sort of a bon voyage present. It may come in handy if you should accidentally get separated from your friendly native guide."

"Why, Peregrine, this feels like a book," Adam said with a pleased smile, as he began stripping off the paper. "Surely you haven't forgotten that I already have a book?"

"You don't have this one!" Peregrine said gleefully as Adam pulled free a copy of Fodor's pocket-companion to San Francisco.

"Indeed, I don't, and I thank you very much," Adam said with a grin, as he flipped through a few pages. "The Baedeker I have back at the house must be a quarter century out of date. My mother brought it back from a trip she took when I was in my teens."

"So I discovered, the last time you left me alone in your library," Peregrine said drily. "This one should keep you ait fait with the attractions of the present day. Use it in good health."

"So I shall," Adam promised, bending to set it on the floor beside his chair. "And what about your Christmas plans?" he asked, adroitly diverting the conversation from himself. "Will you and Julia be getting away at all for the holidays?"

Peregrine made a wry face and shook his head. "We can't go anywhere before Christmas Day. Julia got roped into a concert on Christmas Eve - Hebridean carols. It's at St. Margaret's in Dunfermline, where we were married, so when Father Lawrence told her that all proceeds would be earmarked for the church roofing fund, she couldn't very well say no."

"Indeed, not," Adam agreed. "I'll be sorry to miss it."

"She'll be sorry, too," Peregrine replied. "As for me, I've still got quite a bit of work to do on that group portrait that Sir Gordon's Masonic Lodge commissioned for their centenary. If I can at least get all the facial studies finished, I'll feel justified in taking the week off between Christmas and the new year. In that event, we'll probably head up to Aviemore to check out the prospects for a few days' skiing."

"Lucky you," McLeod grunted. "It's going to be business as usual at police headquarters. All too many of our local ne'er-do-wells think of Christmas as the season for taking, rather than giving. Only yesterday, four blokes in workmen's coveralls hijacked a removal van carrying a baby-grand piano."

"A valuable historical piece, I take it?" Adam said.

"So one would think, based on the furor the theft has caused," McLeod replied sourly. "No, this one was new. According to the inventory, it was painted pearl-pink, with rhine-stone inlay."

Peregrine's reaction proclaimed a startled mixture of disbelief and artistic affront.

"Someone's having you on!" he declared. "Why on earth would anyone even want to make a thing like that, let alone steal it?"

McLeod shrugged, his blue eyes lighting with the humor of the affair. "I'm afraid the report is legit. The piano was being delivered to a new American-style nightclub that's just getting ready to open down at the foot of the Grassmarket. The transport company is one that usually specializes in household removals. I expect the thieves thought they were making off with a load of furniture and small appliances. Are they going to be surprised!"

At McLeod's grin, Peregrine's eyes rolled behind his gold-framed spectacles.

"Talk about a waste of police resources…"

"Aye, but believe me, I'm quite content to chase burglars for a change, given what sometimes gets dished up to us. If things stay quiet - as I dearly hope they'll do, with Adam away - Jane and I might sneak away to a hotel for a few nights, so my daughter can have the house to herself and her university friends over Hogmanay. And I may take a few extra shifts, to give some of the younger lads extra time with their families. Otherwise, I'll be at home, trying to dissuade the cats from stealing the baubles off the Christmas tree."

"Surrounded by thieves and robbers!" Adam said with a laugh, picking up his glass. "Perhaps it's time we had a toast. Noel, will you go first?"

The inspector knit his brow briefly, rubbing at his moustache, then lifted his glass. "All right, here's one my grandfather favored:

"Your grandfather was a practical man!" Peregrine said with a chuckle, when the toast had been duly solemnized.

"He certainly knew what was really worth having out of life," McLeod replied, and cocked an eye at the young artist. "How about it, laddie? Have you any pearls of wisdom you'd like to contribute on this festive occasion?"

"I might," Peregrine said. He thought a moment, then recited:

Once again the three friends lifted glasses to their lips. "I think this makes it your turn, Adam," Peregrine said, as he set down his glass.

"Very well," Adam said. "Since I'm off to the West, I have in mind a Gaelic blessing. Somehow it seems appropriate:

Breaking off, he smiled at his companions. "It's going to be up to you to keep the peace while I'm away. But I know you're equal to the task. Slainte var!"

"Slainte var!" the two of them repeated, as they drank the ancient toast.

It was still dark the following morning when Adam set out for the airport, driven by his faithful valet-butler, Humphrey. An overnight drop in the temperature, with the attendant promise of ice on the roads, made the steel-blue Range Rover, with its four-wheel drive, the only choice of vehicle. As they nosed out of the stable mews, high-performance tires crunching on a white carpet of frost, the windscreen wipers only barely kept at bay a moist ground-fog that was verging on a drizzle. Looking back over his shoulder as they crawled down the drive, Adam could see the turrets and gables of Strathmourne silhouetted against a crystalline backdrop of morning stars. The windows in the kitchen wing showed a scattering of lights where Mrs. Gilchrist, his cook and housekeeper, was clearing up the remains of a frugal breakfast.

The avenue leading to the gates passed between sentinel ranks of copper beech trees, their branches black and bare against the pre-dawn sky. Off to his left, through the passenger window, Adam glimpsed another cluster of lights marking the location of a stout, stone-built steading held by one of his tenant farmers. A gentle bend in the road brought them abreast of the gate lodge, its darkened windows confirming that Peregrine and Julia, his bride of seven months, were still asleep.

Hunching down contentedly in his topcoat, Adam let his thoughts touch fondly on the couple as Humphrey eased the big car quietly past their front door and swung onto the main road. Peregrine had been still a bachelor when he first accepted Adam's invitation to take up residence in the gate lodge, in exchange for what Adam quaintly termed a "peppercorn rent." The fair Julia had come to share her husband's affection for the little house, and considered Adam to be the most agreeable and charming of landlords, but both Lovats eventually realized that they were going to need more room if they ever intended to have a family.

Toward that end, with Adam's help and encouragement, the pair had recently purchased a decommissioned chapel, but a few miles away, and had happily begun working on plans for its conversion into a residence. That alone might take upwards of a year, sandwiched in between Peregrine's portrait commissions; and Adam guessed that completion of the work might take another year or even two.

Even so, the Lovats would ultimately be moving - not far, but Adam still would be sorry to see them go. Quite apart from the convenience of having another member of the Hunting Lodge so close at hand, Peregrine had taken on aspects of close friend, star-pupil, favorite nephew, the younger brother Adam had never had, and the son he wished one day to father.

The wistful notion of a son of his own, a child of his body as well as his heart and soul, turned his thoughts to the woman he hoped could be persuaded to share his life and bear that child. Thus preoccupied, and still lulled by the early hour, he failed to notice a flicker of movement among the shadows clustering under the trees outside the gates - and Humphrey was focused on road conditions. As the Range Rover carefully picked up speed, its tail-lamps receding in the wet, pre-dawn darkness, a black-clad figure rose from cover behind a stand of broad oak trees and raised a wrist-strapped micro-corn to the mouth-opening of a black ski mask. The wearer's report was rendered in a clipped undertone, after which he settled back to resume his surveillance of the gates and the lodge beyond.

Some five miles ahead, at a wooded junction where the narrow country back road to Strathmourne connected with the A-route to Edinburgh, a head-scarfed woman in a dark grey Volvo set aside a similar comlink and sat up straighter, peering through the screen of trees that hid the car from the road. Only when the blue Range Rover had whispered past did she smile a mirthless smile in the darkness, reaching down to start the engine and then pulling quietly onto the road to follow.

The ground fog had mostly dissipated by the time Humphrey pulled the Range Rover onto the M90. Local traffic was light at first, but increased steadily as they headed south toward Edinburgh. Content to leave the driving to Humphrey, and made somewhat drowsy by the rhythmic hiss of tires on pavement and the hypnotic sweep of the windscreen wipers, Adam leaned back against the headrest and lost himself in fond reflections of the woman he was on his way to see, letting himself drift, searching for Ximena wherever she was to be found amid memories of past joys and parting sorrows.

With an ease born of habitual longing, his mind's eye lit upon Ximena as he first had seen her. In that hospital setting, kitted out in surgical green, she had been all brisk, well-scrubbed efficiency, as supple and well-honed as a steel blade, with a wit to match and a keen sense of humor that gently teased but never mocked. It cost him a pang to recall how that bright resilience had later melted under the reverent caress of his hands and lips, revealing a warm responsiveness of flesh vibrant with laughter and desire.

The memory brought a wistful smile to his lips. With almost painful immediacy he found himself recalling the way her dark, unbound hair spilled like silk through his fingers, the porcelain quality of her skin, smoothly drawn over the finely chiselled bones of her face. Of all the women he had ever known, she alone seemed to have the power to release him from the convoluted toils of his own intellect, to set him free to enjoy the simplicity of the present moment. In exchange for such a gift, he was willing to offer everything he himself had to give. But he was by no means certain that she would find it in herself to take it. And while her father lived, Adam's conscience would not allow him to argue his own case.

His mood of introspection did not go unnoticed by Humphrey, though the older man was well accustomed to his employer's silences and had learned not to let his own vigilance be distracted. Trained in the driving techniques necessary for executive protection, as well as the skills that made him an outstanding butler and valet, Humphrey made automatic note of the dark grey Volvo keeping pace with them along the M90; but any real concern evaporated when the vehicle in question turned off at the exit for Dunfermline and Kincardine.

Relaxing a little, he concentrated thereafter on minding the traffic along the approach to the Forth Road Bridge. When a black Edinburgh taxi nosed in behind them in the queue for the bridge tollbooth, its appearance was so commonplace that Humphrey hardly spared it a second glance.

They arrived at the airport just as a big Aer Lingus jet was coming in for a landing. Bypassing the short-term car park, Humphrey made for the terminal building and pulled into a space reserved for limousines outside the main concourse. Adam roused as the car came to a halt, and vouchsafed his faithful valet an apologetic smile as he undid his seat belt and reached behind for the briefcase on the back seat.

"Sorry to be such a poor companion, Humphrey. As Mrs. Gilchrist would say, I'm 'awa' wi' the fairies' this morning."

"I trust nothing is wrong, sir?"

"No, not at all. Everything is very right - or as right as it can be, under the circumstances. And I promise to keep my feet firmly on the ground from here on out - at least until my flight is airborne."

A faint smile played at the corners of Humphrey's mouth as he glanced at the steering wheel between his gloved hands, then essayed a glance at his employer.

"If I may say so, sir, I hope that when you reach San Francisco, you'll not bother too much with keeping your feet on the ground. I - would regard it as a great favor if you were to convey my particular greetings to Dr. Lockhart."

"I shall certainly do that," Adam said quietly, well aware of Humphrey's hopes that Ximena might become the next Lady Sinclair. "But it's a difficult situation, as you know."

"I do, sir," Humphrey murmured. "And she and her father are in my prayers."

"Then they have a powerful advocate. Thank you." Adam sighed heavily, then glanced at his luggage in the back of the car and reached for the door handle. "Well, if you'll see to the luggage and get me checked in, I'll meet you at the Air UK desk. If the news agents are open yet, I believe I have time to pick up a copy of The Scotsman before boarding."

"You do, indeed, sir. I'll take care of the bags."

Alighting from the car, Adam shrugged out of his overcoat and slung it across his arm, then headed into the terminal, making for the nearest news kiosk. Five minutes later, as he approached the Air UK check-in, he found Humphrey just turning away from the counter, replacing a handful of travel documents in their paper folder.

"Here we are, sir," Humphrey murmured, as they moved a few paces away from the desk and Adam set down his briefcase between his feet. "Here are your tickets, your passport, and your boarding card. The bags are checked through to Houston, and you have a bulkhead seat for this flight, with plenty of leg room. Your seat on the Houston flight is pre-assigned."

"Humphrey, you are indispensable," Adam replied with a smile, tucking the tickets into an inside pocket. "I'll check back with you from time to time to see how things are going. I've left a full itinerary back at the house, if anyone should need to reach me."

"Very good, sir. Have a safe trip."

He handed Adam his briefcase and raised a hand in farewell as his employer headed off toward the gate, watching until he had disappeared through the security checkpoint before turning away to return to the car.

Across the departures hall, a nondescript-looking man in a dark suit gazed after Humphrey from behind a newspaper, then furled it under his arm and strolled casually in the direction of the security checkpoint, glancing at his watch and then at the monitor that announced imminent departures. When the London flight had disappeared from the display and his quarry did not emerge, he turned and headed purposefully toward the Air UK desk, discarding his paper in a convenient refuse barrel and then elbowing past a queue of passengers waiting to check in.

"I'm Dr. Travis," he announced to the pretty ticket agent tagging a bag on the scale beneath her counter. "I do beg your pardon, madam," he said, turning briefly to address the passenger he had shoved aside. "Did a Dr. Sinclair get on your London flight that just left?''

A male agent one position down looked over with interest.

"Sir Adam Sinclair? I believe he did, sir. Is there some problem?''

Feigning dismay, "Dr. Travis" glanced at his watch, then back at both agents in more urgent appeal.

"Oh, dear, I'd hoped to catch up with him before he got away. It's rather an emergency. Do you know if London was his final destination? If so, I might be able to track him down there. His nurse only said he was on his way to the airport. Fortunately, there aren't too many flights this early."

As the two ticket agents exchanged bewildered glances, their inquisitor lifted both palms in entreaty.

"Please, I need to know where to reach him," he insisted. "It may be a matter of life and death."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Travis. Dr. Edward Travis. I'm a colleague of Dr. Sinclair."

Won over by his urgency and apparent authority, the male agent quickly called up Adam Sinclair's flight details on his computer terminal. Ten minutes later, "Dr. Travis" was ringing his employer from a pay phone in another part of the airport terminal.

A little over a hundred miles away, in a secluded Victorian house in Paisley, Francis Raeburn's Spanish-born valet took the call, then strode to the dining room.

"Senor Richter, you are wanted on the telephone," he announced, as Klaus Richter was just sitting down to an early breakfast. "It is Mr. Toynbee."

Richter took the call in the seclusion of the adjoining study. Through a burst of background noise, he could hear a voice relaying information over a public address system.

"Richter here. What is it?"

"I'm at the airport in Edinburgh," came the voice from the other end of the line. "There's been an interesting development."

"Yes?"

"The chief subject you're interested in has just boarded a flight to Heathrow," his informant reported, above the din of another flight announcement. "From there he flies on to the United States, with a two-day stopover in Houston and then an onward connection to San Francisco. How long he intends to stay there is anybody's guess, but he checked two bags. That suggests more than an overnight visit. The return ticket is open-ended."

"Open-ended, you say? That may be worth knowing. Well done," Richter acknowledged. "Will you be able to confirm that he makes that Houston flight?"

"We can hack into the system to confirm that he checks in for it, and that his bags are en route. We can also flag the system to alert us when he books his flight back."

"Excellent. As soon you are certain he is on the Houston flight, you will transfer your attentions to the other individuals on your list. In the meantime, an appropriate compensation for your services will be deposited in your account, as usual. Thank you very much, Mr. Toynbee."

Raeburn appeared at the door of the study just as Richter was cradling the phone.

"That was one of my men checking in," Richter announced with a thin smile. "Sinclair is leaving the country. And there is evidence to suggest that he may be planning to be gone for some time."

When Richter had recited the particulars he himself had just received, Raeburn gave a satisfied nod.

"I sense a matter of personal importance," he observed. "I hope it's nothing trifling. The longer Sinclair stays away, the better. But in any event, I propose to take full advantage of his absence."