McLeod glanced at him uneasily.
"If I'm following you, it sounds like you think Mick Scanlan and his partner may have been killed because they stumbled on this submarine. The question is, Did their killers get what they were after?"
Tseten's gaze returned to Adam, and Jigme continued translating as he replied.
"I think not - at least not yet. But I cannot overemphasize the danger, if the false Termas are retrieved by those who seek them. If those who killed your young Irishmen were willing to profane the Phurba to achieve their ends, it is doubtful they will recognize any other ethical constraints. Should they succeed in obtaining and mastering the false Termas, they will have at their disposal a power equal to their ambitions. To gain some impression of the scope of those ambitions, you have only to recall Nazi Germany at its height.
"You must go to Ireland, Adam Sinclair - you and your associates. You must find the submarine that yielded up this flag, and rescue or destroy the Black Treasure Texts before these evil men can appropriate them for their own use."
Adam inclined his head. "I will accept this charge, Rinpoche, and I am prepared to be guided by you. I believe the sub can be located, using the flag as a focus. Can you tell us what kind of resistance we might encounter?''
In a guarded sanctum at Tolung Tserphug, the author of the expected resistance unfolded his instructions to the man selected to execute them.
"I'm not certain I understand," Raeburn said, still kneeling at the foot of the dais where sat the Man with Green Gloves, Dorje Rinpoche. "You say you know where the sub is - it isn't even underwater - but you want me to go and retrieve the cargo, when any decent demolition man could be hired to blow the hatches and get you in. Why drag me into this, after so many years?"
"Those I would trust not to bungle the assignment are all Oriental," Dorje said with tart candor. "Their very presence in the area would be cause for comment, and would draw unwelcome attention to the undertaking. No, the salvage work must be handled by a Westerner like yourself."
"There are other Westerners."
"None so qualified as you; do not interrupt. The cargo she carries, long thought lost, is both valuable and precious. I wish to retrieve it. I have reason to believe that you are the person best suited to arrange it."
Wincing as he shifted from one aching knee to the other, Raeburn shook his head dubiously.
"There's more you haven't told me," he said. "May I sit? My knees aren't what they were last time we met."
Without waiting for permission, he eased his hip onto the dais and stretched one cramped knee, moving at a gesture from Dorje to sit on a cushion the other tossed in front of him. After stretching both legs, one after the other, Raeburn settled himself in the same cross-legged posture as his host.
"Thank you," Raeburn said, relishing even this small triumph. "Tell me more about this cargo."
Dorje inclined his head indulgently.
"It will consist of several smallish wooden crates, each easily carried by one man, and a somewhat larger one, requiring two - but getting the contents out of the country could present certain difficulties. That is another reason I desire your expertise. I should prefer that no explanations need be given to local authorities."
"Is it Nazi gold?" Raeburn asked bluntly.
"No, it is not."
"What, then? You've suggested that the cargo is - questionable. Since some risk clearly is involved, I'd like to know what I'm dealing with."
He cocked an inquiring eyebrow and waited. The abbot, for his part, turned his attention to pouring tea into the translucent china bowls, one of which he tendered to Raeburn with a faint smile.
"The cargo is diamonds, dear Francis," he said softly. "A veritable fortune in cut and uncut stones."
"Indeed?"
Raeburn's gaze narrowed slightly as the abbot settled back on his cushions and lifted his drinking bowl to his lips in green-gioved hands.
"Do you think I would go to so much trouble to bring you here if I were making this up?" Dorje asked over the rim. "I assure you, I shall make it worth your while. The diamonds came mainly from Amsterdam. They were a convenient form of portable wealth, far more handy than gold. During the latter stages of the war, when it became apparent that Germany was in danger of falling, many different caches of treasure were amassed, with the intention of dispersing them to places of safety in the event of disaster. Some were intended for Swiss bank accounts, where it was hoped they could eventually be retrieved and used to finance the ultimate rebirth of the Reich.
"But Germany was overrun before most of the treasures could be moved. Rather than allow them to fall into enemy hands, orders were given to dispatch much of this wealth to South America by submarine. Many reached their destination, but many did not. When [7-656 disappeared off Northern Ireland, it was reported that she had been sunk by British warships; indeed, two Royal Navy frigates claimed the kill. Now we know better - and can make good use of that knowledge."
The story made sense - of a sort - but Raeburn sensed that there was more to the tale than had been told.
"You said you would make it worth my while, if I agreed to help you," he said. "Assuming I'm prepared to do as you ask and direct this undertaking, what are the benefits in it for me?"
The abbot's eyes went cold, like chips of ice. "You should be grateful merely to escape reprisals for the destruction of our base in Scotland and the attendant loss of an irreplaceable artifact. However," he amended in a milder tone, "I am willing to make some concessions for your trouble. If you succeed in salvaging the cargo, half the diamonds are yours to do with as you wish."
"A generous concession." Raeburn's pale eyes flicked round the room. "You're obviously doing well, but I'm surprised you can afford to part with that much wealth. Unless, of course, the diamonds are only a side issue. Unless," he concluded thoughtfully, "there is something else aboard that submarine that you want to get your hands on - something of even greater value than diamonds. I wonder what that something might be."
He raised his eyes to meet those of his former schoolmate and encountered a piercing glare. After a bristling silence, the abbot said coldly, ' The question of worth is purely subjective. Most men would consider the diamonds to be of paramount value and importance. The submarine was also carrying a number of Tibetan manuscripts. But those have value only to someone able to fathom their secrets."
"Manuscripts." Raeburn's tone was thoughtful, but his long, lean body was taut with sudden expectancy. "Would they be anything like the one that was in the possession of the Head-Master?"
The abbot's jaw tightened, then relaxed. "The document to which you are referring was from a similar source," he acknowledged with a curl of his lip. "The Head-Master removed it without authorization. It is no wonder that he failed in the work he set out to do, for his information was incomplete. Only the Man with Green Gloves, the Keeper of the Keys of Agarthi, has the knowledge and the power to make use of these manuscripts."
Raeburn let this declaration pass unchallenged, only gazing at the abbot with an air of bemused satisfaction. After a moment, Dorje resumed his revelations, almost as if under some compulsion to do so.
' The full collection of these ancient texts was housed at Munich until the changing fortunes of the war dictated that they should be consigned to a safer haven," he said. "My guardians were similarly persuaded that the single best hope for smuggling the texts out of Germany was by submarine.