"Thank you," she murmured. "I believe I'm all right now."
Her voice had regained its briskness. Nevertheless, Christopher gave her a searching look.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. Don't flutter, Christopher." Turning to Peregrine and McLeod, she pulled a rueful moue. "It's times like this that I remember I'm not as young as I used to be. Still, I think we've done some good work tonight. Now, to see what our Adam has to say for himself."
Setting the Phurba back in its nest of silk, she turned to Adam and laid both hands on his shoulders.
"The Work is accomplished, Master of the Hunt," she stated formally, as Christopher returned to his place. "The night is far spent, the day is at hand: Let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light."
So saying, she gave both his shoulders a squeeze and then withdrew. Adam lifted his head and drew a swelling breath, then let it out again in a gusty sigh, his dark eyes finally focusing once again on the material world.
"I sense that we've been very busy," he said somewhat huskily, absently fingering the skean dubh still in his hand.
"Some of us more than others," Christopher replied, with a sidelong glance at Lady Julian.
Tight-lipped, McLeod handed Adam the sheath for the skean dubh, which was slid into place with a nod of thanks before Adam pocketed the weapon.
"I gather you don't remember much," the inspector said dourly. "You'd better read this."
He handed Adam the transcript and Christopher's translation, both of which Adam looked over in silence while he fingered the beads of the mala still wrapped around his wrist.
"It appears our timetable may just be adequate," he said grimly, when he at last looked up. "I expect we won't have much time even to breathe, once we meet up with our opposite numbers in Belfast, but at least we know that things won't get critical until tomorrow night."
"Opposite numbers?" Peregrine said. "You mean - more of us? More Huntsmen?"
Adam smiled wearily as he unwound the mala from his wrist and dropped it into a coat pocket.
"Did you think only Scotland had a Hunting Lodge? I've been in touch with several of our Irish counterparts. They've agreed to give us their full cooperation and assistance. God willing, we should be able to find our missing submarine and recover its contents before our adversaries even know we're onto them."
"Are we onto them?" Peregrine asked. "I mean, Tseten told us what they'll try to do, but we still don't know exactly where. Are we going to dowse for the sub's location tonight? 1 can try it, if you're too tired."
"I am, and I do appreciate your offer, but you have a very short memory," Adam replied. "What happened before, when you tried to link up with the flag?"
Peregrine gave a sheepish grimace. "Then, how are you planning to find it?"
"Fortunately, Tseten seems to have given me an alternate dowsing technique that should get around that little problem - and remember that we do know the general area of the Donegal coast where Mick Scanlan was patrolling." He gestured toward the map still spread on the table. "Given the day I've had, I'm content to let the exact location slide until we've crossed to Ireland tomorrow. I expect there will be less interference, once we're on the same island."
"Is there anything else we can do tonight, then?" Christopher asked. "And would you like me to come along tomorrow?"
"No on both counts, but the offer is duly noted and appreciated," Adam replied. "After the last couple of hours, I'm reasonably confident I'll have what it takes to see this one through, with just Noel and Peregrine to back me up with the Irish crew; but if I'm wrong, mere numbers won't mean anything.
"What you could do, however, is look in on a patient of mine while I'm gone." Briefly he outlined the circumstances of Claire Crawford's case. "We seem to be past the immediate crisis, in that I don't think she'll be causing any more accidents along Carnage Corridor, but I want to make sure she's dealt with the guilt. Once that's accomplished, we can see about the possibility of putting her psychic talents to better use."
"I'll be happy to do that," Christopher agreed.
"Thank you. That will put my mind at ease on that score, at least." He cast his gaze around the rest of the company and sighed wearily. "And on that note, I think it best if the three of us bid you both good night and head for our respective beds for some sleep. Peregrine, I'll give you a full briefing on our travel plans on the way back."
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.