Raeburn's associates had made careful preparations for the night's work. As his white Land Rover eased into the lesser road that skirted Hermitage Water, Barclay at the wheel, a figure in white snow-camouflage fatigues materialized out of the shadows beside the road and flagged them down. Barclay simultaneously eased the vehicle to a halt and reached for the Luger under the dashboard, but the figure stripped off its mottled grey ski mask to reveal the pale, ascetic features of Klaus Richter.
Barclay relaxed. Raeburn rolled down the window on the passenger side of the car and waited for Richter to join them.
"Everything is ready, Lynxmeister," the German reported crisply. "We may proceed as planned."
"Good," said Raeburn. "Get in."
Richter made for the rear passenger seat. Angela Fitzgerald moved over to make room for him as Barclay set the Land Rover in motion again.
"Any problems?" Raeburn queried over his shoulder.
"None," Richter replied. "My men are stationed as you directed. Nothing has been left to chance."
"Let's hope not," Raeburn murmured. "I cannot overstress the delicate nature of this night's work. Every detail must be correctly executed, or the operation could well prove our undoing."
As he spoke, his long fingers tightened possessively around the polished ash-wood casket he was carrying on his knees. Though the Soulis dagger was locked inside the casket, its resonances damped down by spells of containment, Raeburn could sense the added potency it had gained merely from being used in the bull-slaying ritual of a fortnight before.
His lean face bore a wolfish expression as he peered out to the right, searching the dark landscape just beyond Hermitage Water. He caught his breath as the castle suddenly materialized, its massive bulk heavy and almost menacing against the starless blackness of the sky.
"Slow down," Richter ordered Barclay. "The turnoff to the bridge is just beyond that house on the left."
Raeburn eyed the house suspiciously as Barclay slowed to a crawl, for lights showed behind closed curtains in two of the windows on the upper floor.
"The house is unoccupied tonight," Richter said, following Raeburn's sharp gaze. "Its residents have gone up to Hawick for a party. The lights have been left on as a precaution against burglars - as if that would stop me, if I wished to gain access. Look right! There's the bridge."
A flat wood-and-metal bridge spanned Hermitage Water just where the shoulder of the road widened slightly to permit tourist parking. Two of Richter's operatives were on hand to open the gates that secured both ends of the bridge, and Barclay dimmed the Land Rover's headlamps before easing the big vehicle almost noiselessly across the bridge, following Richter's directions around to the right, then into the shelter of the castle's blind side.
A second Land Rover equipped with a rooftop compartment was already in place, along with the sleek bulk of two powerful motorcycles parked close to the castle wall. Dim light streamed from the inside of the second Land Rover, barely illuminating a standing figure in a homburg and a voluminous scarf, just outside an open rear door. Seated in the car was a figure muffled under a dark blanket. Two more of Richter's henchmen were standing by in the background near the motorcycles, indistinguishable from one another in their snow-camouflage gear, and almost invisible.
The hatted figure turned as Barclay pulled in next to the other Land Rover and killed the engine, Mallory's handsome, dissipated features just discernible in the dim light. Raeburn alighted from the passenger side and approached, his casket under one arm, summoning the young physician with a curt gesture.
"How's our patient?" he inquired in a low voice.
Mallory glanced back at the figure slumped under the blanket, now just recognizable as Taliere.
"He's had his medicine. He won't give you any trouble."
"You'd better hope he doesn't," Angela muttered, as Barclay handed her out of the rear passenger seat. "We're only going to get one shot at this, so everything had better go as planned."
"If it doesn't, it won't be my fault!" Mallory retorted.
"Quiet, you two!" Raeburn snapped.
Gathering valises of personal gear from the back of the Land Rover, Raeburn and his associates made their way around the base of the walls to the postern entrance on the east side. The entryway gave access to the castle courtyard, its broken cobbles overshadowed by frowning walls of dull red stone. A makeshift canvas roof had been contrived to contain the murky light of a handful of hi-tech mini-spots set at strategic locations all around, their filtered glow washing the enclosure with a smoky amber that mimicked torchlight.
At the center of the courtyard, surrounding a large brazen cauldron, staves of rowan wood had been woven together to create a ritual facsimile of an execution pyre. Other necessities for the night's work had been assembled on the ground nearby, including a coiled length of heavy iron chain, a large jerrycan of oil, a roll of lead sheeting the height of a man, and several large suitcases.
Raeburn took stock of the assembled accoutrements, Angela ticking off items from a written list, then curtly nodded his approval. In the course of his brief inventory, Mallory and one of Richter's men brought in a glassy-eyed and stumbling Tal-iere, his blanket now trailing from his shoulders like a cloak over the flowing white Druid robes he had worn at Callanish. Raeburn fell silent as the old man was chivvied over to the cauldron and allowed to sink to his knees, turning then to the waiting Richter.
"Everything seems to be in order," he murmured. "You and your men can take your stations outside. Keep a close watch. I'll send for you when we're finished."
Richter and his men withdrew. The courtyard was as dank and frigid as the bottom of a frozen well, but Raeburn seemed hardly aware of the cold as he shed his outer garments to pull on a full-length hooded robe of black wool which Barclay produced from one of the suitcases. His trio of assistants likewise effected a change of attire, their robes embroidered on the left shoulder, like Raeburn's, with the silver-limned emblem of a snarling lynx head. In addition, betokening his status as senior of the group, Raeburn donned a disk-shaped medallion of beaten silver upon which the device of the lynx head had been executed in bold relief.
Once robed, Barclay and Angela made their way over to Taliere and pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. His wits dulled by narcotics, the old Druid offered no resistance as Angela whipped the blanket from his shoulders and replaced it with the feathered mantle he had worn at Callanish. Her features took on a vulpine sharpness as she lifted the bird-feather headdress from its carrying case and set it firmly on Taliere's salt-white head.
"Ecce homo,'' she sneered aside to Barclay, as they sat the Druid on a nearby block of stone. "The perfect offering for this momentous occasion."
Raeburn and Mallory, meanwhile, had retreated to the recess of a closed doorway, where Mallory was laying out items from his medical bag, by the light of an electric torch. Crouching down to sit on the doorsill beside Mallory, his back braced against the door frame, Raeburn cradled the casket in his lap, then bared his left arm and offered it to the physician. He paid little attention as Mallory applied a tourniquet above his elbow, mechanically clenching and unclenching his fist to pump up the vein as he mentally rehearsed the sequence of events to come.