The building has four turrets, one at each corner, and golden domes surmounting each turret. There are windows on two levels, about a dozen on each of the two sides Findhorn can see. The roof is steeply sloping and white with snow, the eaves projecting out over the walls. A massive, arched double door shimmers in the field of view, and above it is a large wooden circle enclosing a cross: the zodiacal Earth sign, and the adopted symbol of the Temple of Celestial Truth. In front of the big door three people are in conversation. They seem to be dressed in long black robes, but at this range it is impossible to make out any features. The Doberman is sniffing around their ankles.
'What do you think, Joe?' Findhorn asks.
'It gives me the creeps.'
'I mean…'
'I don't like the look of it. It's high risk.'
Findhorn glances at his watch but it isn't necessary. Already they are in the gloomy shadow of a big mountain and the temperature is plummeting. The Temple is still in red sunlight, but long black fingers are creeping towards it.
'Point of entry?'
The man nudges Findhorn aside, looks through the eyepiece of the powerful telescope again.
'They've gone in. I can't see the dog. Point of entry.' He pauses thoughtfully, a general studying the terrain. 'The flat-roofed building to the left.'
'The one with the helipad?'
'Aye. We can approach using these rock outcrops as cover, then snip through the wire and into the wee building, if it's empty, that is.'
'Then?'
The man stands up and starts to fold away the Questar. 'Then it gets difficult. A first-floor window if we're lucky. If not it has to be the roof.'
Findhorn thinks about the high, steep, snow-covered roof. He says, 'Stefi, you get back to the car.'
'No, I'll stay here. If you get lost I'll flash the torch.'
'Okay, people, let's go.'
'I don't think so,' the man says.
There is a stunned silence. He says, 'It's far too risky.'
'We have a deal. Ten thousand pounds to get us in and out undetected. Tonight.' The steel in Romella's voice takes Findhorn by surprise.
'Lady, yon perimeter fence and the dog are telling us something. These people are security minded, a fact which I do not like one little bit. There could be all sorts of nasty surprises in there. I don't know what you lot are into, but with my record, if I'm caught I go down for ten years.'
'Can't you do it?' Findhorn asks.
The man bristles. 'I can, but I'm not into kamikaze. You didn't tell me to expect a set-up like yon. I'm telling you this one is pure insanity.' He waved a hand towards the big building a mile away. 'It's no' exactly some suburban bungalow with PVC windows.'
Romella says, 'Twenty thousand pounds. And if you can't do it we'll get someone else.' Except that we're out of time to get anyone else.
Greed and prudence are battling it out in the man's head. Romella adds, 'Just as soon as we get back to Glasgow.'
Joe is balancing the odds. Cold is penetrating the marrow of Findhorn's bones. Then the burglar is saying, 'There's a showroom just up the road from where I live. It has a sweet wee Alfa Romeo in it, two-plus-two, open top, flamenco red. A fabulous bird trap. It costs twenty-six.'
'Get us in and out, undetected, and you'll be driving it tomorrow morning.'
In the near-dark, Joe is still weighing the odds. Then he exhales heavily and picks up his rucksack: 'Okay, okay. But if I give the word, don't ask any questions, just run.'
They cut left, leaving Stefi shivering behind the rock. They plough through deep snow and skirt boulders, taking a meandering path through hollows. Findhorn assumes they won't be seen in the dying light, at the same time imagines dark faces watching them from every window. It is a difficult, tiring walk. As they approach, it seems increasingly unlikely that they can have avoided detection. Snatches of Mike's typed words run through his mind, form a disturbing pastiche: '… accumulation of weapons… paranoid… aerosol attacks… body count…'
About two hundred yards from the fence, in the shelter of a massive, glacier-scored boulder, Joe motions them to a halt. The sun is still touching the top of the domes but otherwise the grounds are dark. Most of the windows are lit up, but, as they watch, shutters are closing over them. He rumbles around in a rucksack, produces night-vision binoculars, props his elbows on the boulder, scans the building. 'Bleedin' lights, can see eff all.' Then he is rumbling again in the bag. He distributes black silk gloves. 'Put these on. Now single file, follow me, and no talking.' Findhorn brings up the rear, his nervous system jangling and his feet painful with cold.
About thirty yards out, close to the perimeter fence, Joe stops. A light wind is freshening, and whistling gently through the fence, which is topped with barbed wire.
He produces a flat slab from his bag. 'Best fillet of steak. Cost me nine francs.'
'You got off light.'
Then Joe looks again through his binoculars, and, like a discus thrower, hurls the steak over the fence. A minute passes. Then he whispers, 'Run!' and in seconds they have covered the thirty yards to the wire. Strong wirecutters make a low gap in the fence and then they are through, crawling, and up against the rear wall of the flat building. Findhorn's heart is thumping in his chest. Romella is panting.
Joe stands up and tests a window. It is unlocked. He titters. The window squeaks loudly as he opens it and he curses quietly. Findhorn cringes. And then they help each other through the gap. There is warm air, and a smell of chlorine. The lights from the main building throw a ghostly glow through the cavernous swimming pool, and ripples of light are shimmering over the roof and walls from the water.
They creep past exercise bikes and treadmills, which, in the faint light, look like mediaeval instruments of torture. At the swimming-pool door, Joe uses a small flashlight to examine the lock. 'Kid's stuff,' he declares. His voice echoes. Romella holds the flashlight while Joe gets busy with a Swiss army knife. He uses its detachable toothpick and the long, thin awl-like blade.
Joe opens the door a couple of inches. The warm air from the swimming pool makes an instant mist with the outside cold. Directly ahead of them is a patch of black shadow where the round turret joins the wall. 'Move fast,' Joe whispers. They run, bent double, across thirty feet of exposed ground to the shelter of the shadow, leaving tracks in the deep snow. There is a narrow, dark window in the turret, about ten feet above the ground. It is protected by heavy internal shutters.
They pass the Doberman, lying in the snow. It raises its head momentarily. There is a dribble of froth at the side of its mouth and its breathing is noisy. Findhorn feels bad, hopes the animal will be okay.
Joe gives instructions in sign language and Findhorn finds himself supporting the burglar on his shoulders. After a minute the discomfort turns to an ache, and after another minute the ache is approaching pain, but then the weight is off his shoulders and he looks up to see Joe heaving himself in through the window.
Minutes pass.
Suddenly the perimeter lights come on. For a panicky moment Findhorn thinks they have been detected, has a brief fantasy image of klaxons sounding and jackbooted German guards shouting 'Achtung!' But the seconds pass, and there is only the whistle of the wind through the fencing, and Romella and Findhorn squeeze into the dark corner, as far as possible from the ocean of white light around them, while the hammering in their hearts subsides. There is the faintest hiss from above. A thick, knotted rope is dangling down. Findhorn goes first, turns to pull Romella unceremoniously in as she clambers over the windowsill.