Dagger Magic

Chapter Twenty-Seven

WHILE Raeburn and his pilot were winging their way over the Alps toward Zurich, Adam Sinclair was caught up in traffic on the approach to the Forth Road Bridge, coming into Edinburgh for his nine o'clock lecture. Crisis intervention was the morning's topic - an important aspect of psychiatric practice, but it also described much of his work with the Hunting Lodge, and certainly applied to the task awaiting him in Ireland. Humphrey had packed him a bag and was driving, which freed Adam to review his lecture notes, but slowing traffic soon had him glancing at his watch and then peering ahead in some concern, as Humphrey eased the Range Rover to a halt behind a long line of other cars making for the bridgehead.

"Looks like an accident up ahead, sir," Humphrey noted.

The distant flash of blue lights reminded Adam of his own accident approaching this bridge, little more than a year ago - no accident at all, as he later had learned, but an attempt by the Lodge of the Lynx to kill him. They had done him an unwitting favor, though they did not know it, for without the accident, he might never have met Ximena.

The Range Rover began to creep toward the lights, and Adam sat back with a faint smile curving at his lips, lecture notes temporarily forgotten. He thought about ringing Ximena when he got to the hospital - if he ever got to the hospital, in this traffic - but the timing was all off. It was just after midnight in San Francisco; and if she was not working the Emergency Room, she would be snatching some much-needed sleep, in between bouts of looking after her dying father. He wondered how much longer their relationship would stand the strain of separation.

The Range Rover finally rolled onto the bridge itself, and the cause of the delay at last became apparent. A holiday caravan had parted company with its tow-vehicle and ploughed laterally into the guardrail flanking the left-hand lane, blocking that lane and partially obstructing the other. No one appeared to be hurt - or if they had been, an ambulance must have already taken the victims away in the opposite direction - so at least Adam would not be obliged to stop and render medical assistance; but traffic officers in fluorescent orange windbreakers were diverting all in-bound traffic into the right-hand lane while workmen struggled to clear away the obstruction.

The sight of the officers from Traffic Division reminded Adam of Claire Crawford. He had looked in on her briefly the night before, when he checked in at the hospital, but there had been no time to follow up on their work with the forensic artist; nor would there be time today or even tomorrow. Nonetheless, her spirits had seemed much improved, even when he told her he must be away for a few days.

He tried not to dwell on the reason he must absent himself. The plans for that exercise were as well laid as could be done until he and his fellow Huntsmen actually arrived in Ireland. Meanwhile, he must not shortchange his patients or his students by letting himself be distracted from the morning's duties.

To that end, he returned to the review of his notes. Traffic opened up, once they eased past the knackered caravan, and Humphrey managed to make up the lost time and deposit his employer at the main hospital entrance with a full five minutes to spare.

"Thank you, Humphrey," Adam said as he tucked his notes into an inside coat pocket. "If you could take my bag up to my office and leave it there, I should just about make this lecture. I'll be in touch as I can. It may be Sunday before we get back."

"Very good, sir. And may I add, good hunting."

Experience and determination enabled Adam to make a reasonably good presentation, despite his growing distraction, and the question-and-answer period that followed was lively and thought-provoking. When he emerged from the hall some two hours later, still engaged in animated discussion with two of his students, a young aide in a candy-striped uniform was waiting to hand him a pink telephone message slip.

"Mrs. Fisken said it was urgent, Dr. Sinclair," she said, "and that you're to ring back right away."

His first sinking thought, as he unfolded the slip, was that some complication must have arisen over the arrangements he had made to cover his absence. He was hardly relieved when he read McLeod's name and number.

"Sorry, Doctors, I'll need to attend to this," he said, tucking the note into a pocket. "We'll continue our discussion on Monday."

When he had reached the refuge of his office, he tapped in McLeod's number at police headquarters with some apprehension.

"It's Adam," he said, at the sound of McLeod's voice. "Is there a problem?"

"For a change, no," came McLeod's reply, a touch of excitement in his tone. "It may take more than this to make your day, but I wanted to let you know before you left the hospital. Donald just brought me a report that Carlisle Police faxed in early this morning. Guess what? Last night, about an hour after pub-closing, a bloke by the name of Avery Melville turned himself in at a local police station. He's claiming to be the man responsible for a drunken hit-and-run accident that took place up here in Edinburgh about a year ago, on the A70 road to Lanark."

It took but half a heartbeat for Adam to realize the import of what McLeod seemed to be telling him.

"This is is the Claire Crawford case we're talking about?"

"The very same."

The sense of relief that flooded through him was mixed with equal parts of wonder and astonishment.

"Well done, Donald! I expect he's as pleased as the rest of us. But before I go running off to tell Claire about this development, have we done any double-checking? How close are the facts? Could this really be the hit-and-run driver who killed her husband?"

"It looks a dead certainty to me," McLeod said, on a note of grim triumph. "McSwain down in Carlisle says this Melville's looks match up with the sketch we put out. And the account he gave of himself coincides at every salient point with the story as Claire told it. No, I don't think there's much doubt that Melville's the perpetrator, all right. Hit-and-run drunk-driving isn't a sufficiently glamorous crime to inspire a false confession."

"I see your point," Adam allowed. "All the same, I wonder…"

"You wonder what?"

"I wonder about the timing. Assuming this Melville is the guilty party, what do you suppose impelled him to make a clean breast of things now, after remaining at large for so long?"

"I was wondering the same thing," came McLeod's reply, "and so was Donald. He rang Carlisle and asked if they'd fax him a transcript of Melville's confession. Want me to read it to you? The pertinent bit isn't very long."

"Please do."

"Ever since it happened," McLeod read aloud, "I've been hating myself. Probably the only reason I'm still here is that I haven't got the courage to take my own life. I've often thought about turning myself in, but I was afraid of having to face up to her - the woman I hit. Then a couple of days ago, something… I don't know, something changed. I don't know what; all I know is that I suddenly realized I wasn 't scared anymore. All I want now is to be out from under this weight of guilt.'"

"I see," Adam said, when McLeod finished reading. "Well. Off the record, I would have to say that it appears our last session with Claire may have produced something more than a sketch."

"The thought had occurred to me," McLeod agreed. "Are you going to tell her that?''

"I am, indeed. She deserves to know that the wheels of justice do, indeed, grind exceedingly fine - and she's been a worthy instrument, if what she did helped Melville find the courage to face the consequences of his actions. There may be hope for both of them now."

Claire's reaction to the news did credit to her newfound freedom of spirit. After weeping briefly in Adam's arms out of sheer relief, she pulled herself together and, wiping away her tears, bravely raised her face to his.

"Dr. Sinclair, I feel as if you've lifted an enormous weight from my shoulders," she said, squaring those shoulders and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

He smiled and pulled a chair closer, to sit knee to knee before her wheelchair.

"I think it's you who've done the lifting," he said gently. "How do you feel about what's happened?"

"Only relieved - and thankful," she replied. "I thought I'd feel elated, but it isn't that. I feel - sorry for him - even after all the pain he's caused me."

She glanced down at her hands, clasped in her lap and toying with her tissue.

"It was so easy to hate this man when I hadn't seen his face," she went on more slowly. "But once I saw him clearly, it was obvious that he wasn't the monster I'd envisioned - just someone who'd let his own weaknesses betray him once too often. Maybe that's always the thing about hatred - that it's blind. And being blind, it feeds on illusions. Give me the truth any day, and let me see things for what they are."

"That's an important insight," Adam said. "Tell me this, then: On Wednesday, I asked you to consider what you might want to say to this man, if the law should ever find him out. Now that he's turned himself in of his own accord, I'd like to ask you that question again."

A sad, wistful smile touched Claire's lips. "To be truthful, I don't really know. Somehow it doesn't seem as important anymore. What I maybe ought to say is something along the lines of, 'I realize you didn't mean to hurt my husband and me. I can't ever forget the husband and the child that I lost, but if I didn't at least try to forgive you, I would lose myself as well.' "

Her words echoed those spoken to him by Annet Maxwell in the churchyard of Hawick: Surely we were better advised, for the good of our own souls, tae forgive rather than tae demand retribution. It was conclusive proof, if he needed it, that Claire Crawford had successfully reintegrated her past lives with her present. Smiling, he reached over and patted her hand.

"I hope you realize how far you've come," he said quietly. "We'll talk more about this when I get back. Meanwhile, I've arranged for a professional colleague of mine to look in on you while I'm gone - a clergyman, actually." He took out a business card and jotted Christopher's name and telephone number on the back. "He's an Episcopal priest; has a parish out in Kinross, but he does a bit of counselling as well. I think you'll like him. And when I get back, we'll talk about when you think you might be ready to go home."

Claire looked slightly startled. "You mean, I can decide?"

"We'll give it a few days, but yes, I think so. My major caution would be to deal gently with yourself in these next few days, after the euphoria wears off, and don't try to do too much too soon."

A shy but pleased smile lit Claire's face, giving Adam a glimpse of the pretty woman she had been before her accident.

"Can I call Ishbel and tell her the news?" she asked.

"Of course you can. I'm sure she'll be as pleased as you are."

Still smiling, she hugged her arms to her shoulders in wonderment. "Dr. Sinclair, I don't know how to thank you. I wish - I wish you didn't have to go away right now. But since you do, I hope everything goes well for you."

So do I, Adam thought as he bade his patient farewell and rose to depart, for resolution of the Irish affair was apt to be of a totally different level of magnitude than what he had managed to accomplish with Claire.

"This thing you bought in Glasgow," said Peregrine to his wife as they headed toward Edinburgh Airport a few hours later. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

Julia Lovat clucked her tongue in mild derision. "Of course it's bigger than a breadbox. If it were smaller than a breadbox, I wouldn't have had to make arrangements for having it delivered."

"Just checking," said her husband. "Is it bigger than a fridge-freezer?''

Julia considered. "Equal volume, different proportions. And please look out for that farm machine."

The machine in question was a heavy-duty tractor towing a seed-drill behind it, just coming out of the Gogar Roundabout ahead of them. It was rumbling along at a snail's pace, its bulky wheels overlapping the broken yellow line at the center of the westbound carriageway.

"He's got a perfectly good lane of his own," Peregrine complained loftily. "I don't see why he should want half of mine as well. And what's a combo like that doing out on the city bypass, anyway?"

"Bypassing the city, I would imagine," Julia said drily. "Even farmers occasionally have to get from A to B." Pausing to whip a glance over her shoulder, she added, "Here's your chance to overtake, if you want to."

"Just watch me," said Peregrine. "This is what Morris Minors were made for."

The Morris Minor in question was the Lovats' workhorse vehicle, a miniature estate wagon with wood-panelled sides and enough space in the rear to lay paintings flat and accommodate Peregrine's artist's paraphernalia. Today it held only an olive-green canvas carryall, his sketchbox, and a green waxed jacket. When Peregrine applied pressure to the accelerator, the little car leapt forward, bypassing the tractor with a clear yard to spare. A sign pointing the way to the Turn-house Airport Exit loomed ahead.

"And about time!" Peregrine declared.

He decelerated into the exit lane just as a British Midlands jet roared in low overhead on its way to land. Julia glanced at her watch.

"It's only half past two," she announced. "You've still got a bit of time to spare, if you want to keep guessing."

Peregrine had been relying on the game to provide a distraction from darker, more unsettling thoughts about his impending trip. Concerning its object, he had told Julia as much of the truth as he dared - that it had to do with the body they had found, now known to be that of an Irish Fisheries officer named Michael Scanlan. It was police business, and Peregrine had been asked to assist McLeod and Adam. He had mentioned the Kriegsmarine flag found on Scanlan's body, and that they hoped to find the German U-boat from which it came, but of the Black Terma he had said nothing. There seemed to him no point in acquainting his wife with the more ominous aspects of their quest, when there was nothing she could hope to do to offset the danger.

"Well?" Julia asked, on a patient note of challenge. "Don't you have any more questions to ask me about our mystery acquisition?"

Peregrine sighed. "Wouldn't you rather just put me out of my misery and tell me what it is?'' "Where's the fun in that?" Julia demanded. "No, if you're determined to be lazy, you'll just have to wait until you get back. You are planning to come back, aren't you?"

The sudden shift in his wife's tone of voice caught Peregrine off guard. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A serious one," Julia replied. "Is there anyone out there who might object to your going in search of a Nazi ghost-sub?"

The question left Peregrine feeling more than a little disconcerted.

"Nobody I could put a name to," he said guardedly. "But you needn't worry; Adam will see to it that I stay out of trouble. If you don't believe me, just look at Noel. He's been Adam's Second for years, and he's never come to any serious harm."

"There's always a first time," Julia said. "Do me a favor, darling, and don't let this occasion be the one that breaks the record."

Peregrine reached over and lightly stroked her cheek. "I won't," he promised. "Especially now that I've got you to come home to."

After leaving the Morris in one of the outlying car parks, husband and wife made their way arm-in-arm to the terminal building, Peregrine wearing his jacket and with the carryall

slung over his shoulder, Julia carrying his sketchbox. They found McLeod pacing up and down in the vicinity of the Aer Lingus service desk. A navy-blue duffel was pushed up close against the counter, with a twin to Peregrine's waxed jacket laid atop it.

" 'Lo, Noel. Where's Adam?" Peregrine asked.

McLeod shrugged and gave Julia a peck on the cheek. "On his way here, I presume. I've gone ahead and picked up all our tickets, just in case he's running late - "

"Isn't that him now, just getting out of that taxi?" Julia asked, pointing out through the plate-glass wall of the concourse.

An old-fashioned black taxi was just disgorging a fare at the curb, and the tall figure in a grey three-piece suit was unmistakable.

"It's about time," McLeod muttered, in undisguised relief.

Any further comment was drowned out by the public address system, coming on to deliver a boarding announcement.

"Is that our flight?"

"Aye."

While McLeod fidgeted, Peregrine took the opportunity to draw his wife aside for a proper goodbye kiss, then wistfully watched her departing figure until McLeod came over to tell him of the latest development in the Claire Crawford case. A moment later, Adam joined them, a lightweight leather carry-on case in one hand and a medical bag in the other. The three men traded greetings on the way to the airport security checkpoint. When McLeod produced his police identification, he and his companions, together with their bags, were whisked through the gate and onto the waiting plane.

Conversation in flight was sparse, of necessity. Peregrine had the window seat, and spent his time peering out at the grey cloud-cover, thinking about Claire Crawford and trying not to think about Michael Scanlan, all too aware that the flag for which Scanlan had paid with his life was still tucked into his sketchbox, right under his seat. Beside Peregrine, McLeod had lain back in his seat as soon as they were air- borne, eyes closed and arms folded across his chest with the air of a seasoned campaigner taking what rest he could before an expected engagement.

On the aisle, Adam gave every outward appearance of calm, but Peregrine noticed that one forefinger kept tracing spirals on the arm of his seat in a gesture that was almost ritual in its formal repetition. He wondered if the pattern might represent some kind of mnemonic device, reinforcing the teaching Adam had been given at the hands of Tseten and Julian. Adam was wearing his ring, as was McLeod, and Peregrine surreptitiously dug his from his pocket and slipped it on, just before they landed.

The plane touched down at Belfast City Airport just on an hour after takeoff. Deplaning with the rest of the passengers, Adam and his companions made their way through to the arrivals hall. Here they were hailed by a stoutly built man in a tweed jacket, with a flat cloth cap perched jauntily atop a thatch of snow-white hair. With him was a pert, grey-eyed woman in designer jeans and a rust-colored pullover under her navy duffel coat, whose abundant auburn hair was dramatically threaded with silver. Smiling, Adam strode forward to meet the pair, shifting his medical bag under one arm to free a hand.

"Hello, Aoife," he said, saluting the woman on both cheeks. "It's good to see you again, but we've got to stop meeting like this! And Magnus," he went on, turning to trade handshakes with the man. "How is life treating you, now that you're supposedly retired?"

The white-haired man grinned. "If you can believe it, I'm busier now than ever I was while I was still with the Force." His rich baritone carried the distinctive lilt of Ulster.

"He isn't joking," Aoife said in the same accent. "He's thinking of running for Parliament. I keep telling him he must be mad!"

"Someone's got to take a stand," Magnus returned.

"Aye, they do," Adam agreed, turning to make introductions. "You both remember Noel, of course, from the last time we had business in common, but you won't have met the latest addition to our ranks. This is Peregrine Lovat, a professional portrait artist with a rather interesting sideline in historical studies. Peregrine, I'd like you to meet Aoife Kinneally, my opposite number here in Northern Ireland, and Magnus Buchanan, her Second. Aoife's a stringer for Sky News. Until recently, Magnus was with the Royal Ulster Constabulary."

To Peregrine's discerning gaze, both members of the Irish Hunting Lodge displayed a characteristic aura of subtle, overlapping images - proof of their far-reaching personal pasts. Resisting his instinctive urge to pursue and capture those images, Peregrine concentrated instead on upholding his part in the exchange of civilities as they headed out of the terminal building. A travel-worn red Hi-Ace passenger van stood at the curb, casually watched over by a young RUC officer wearing body armor and a pistol, and carrying a compact submachine gun. At a nod from Magnus, he faded on along the road.

"My son's set of wheels," Aoife explained as she unlocked the back door so they could stow their luggage. "It was either this or the Carerra, on such short notice, and I wasn't sure how much gear you might bring."

"I'm grateful for transport in any form, Aoife," Adam said as he stashed his bags. "Before this night is over, I'm probably going to owe you half a score of favors."

Aoife laughed, a deep chuckle. "I'll remember that, the next time my editor hits me up with a demand for a personal interest story. In the meantime, we'd better be on our way. You did indicate that the time clock in this affair is running."

They closed up the back and piled into the van. Upon leaving the airport, Aoife headed west, skirting Belfast itself and picking up the M2 motorway north and westward toward Antrim. From the seat beside her, Adam spent the next half hour updating their Irish allies and outlining his battle plan.

"Our timetable is tight, then," the Irish chief said, at the end of Adam's briefing. "Fortunately, all our physical arrangements are in place; we just need to nail down the exact location. We'll stop at my house - it's on the way - and you can change clothes as well. I hope you brought warm things, because it's apt to be cold, out there in the West."

Very shortly, they were turning off the motorway to Tem-plepatrick, a pleasant village not far from the town of Antrim.

Aoife's home was at one end of a narrow lane - a substantial stone-built cottage with a detached garage flanking one garden wall. Leaving the van parked in the drive, she shepherded her guests and their bags through a wicket gate into a lushly tangled garden, where pink and white roses climbed untrammelled through thickets of flowering brambles. A mossy path meandered to a side door to the house. Entering, Adam and his companions found themselves in a tiled service porch, between a washer and dryer on one side and an array of coat-hooks and Wellie boots on the other.

"Just leave your coats anywhere you see a space," Aoife said over her shoulder, shrugging out of her own. "Adam, you and Noel can go on through to the living room to change clothes while I put the kettle on. The toilet's beyond and to the right, if you need one."

Peregrine was already dressed for the coming foray, in a turtleneck and navy guernsey over denim jeans and sturdy hiking boots, so he merely went on into the big country kitchen and subsided onto a chair with his sketchbox as Adam and McLeod disappeared in the indicated direction. Aoife had made tea and was pouring it into two large thermos flasks when the pair returned, Adam wearing a dark tweed jacket over a polo-necked sweater and cords. McLeod was less formally attired in a navy fatigue sweater and baggy green army surplus trousers bedecked with multiple pockets.

The inspector ducked out to hang Adam's waxed jacket on a peg beside his own and Peregrine's, while Adam came and laid an Ordnance Survey map on the big kitchen table and sat down beside Magnus. A red Aga cooker set into the hearth of a former fireplace provided both a focal point and welcome warmth in the large room.

"Do you need more space, or can this be done right here?" Aoife asked as Adam began unfolding his map.

"This should be fine," Adam said. "As I indicated on the phone last night, we know where Scanlan and his partner were patrolling, so the sub has to be somewhere along here." He indicated a section of Donegal coast centered on Sheep Haven. "This is where their land backup last made contact, and their boat was later found up by Malin." His hand swept up the coast.

"So she's somewhere along here. And here's what we're looking for." He tossed a photo of a Type VII C German submarine in the center of the map that Peregrine had found and photocopied earlier that morning.

"Now, we do have a flag that we believe came from the sub, that we'd hoped to use as a link. The complicating factor is that someone didn't want the sub to be found, and put a rather impressive whammy on it to make sure of that. I've been given a method for getting past that, but I'll need a bit of help.''

While he explained what he proposed, Peregrine opened his sketchbox on his lap and produced the flag, wrapped in its plastic bag. He laid it on the map and set the sketchbox at his feet as Adam delved into a pocket of his tweed jacket and produced Tseten's rosary, which he laid atop the map.

"Now, we're all only too well aware of the evil this flag came to betoken," Adam said, dumping the flag out of its bag without touching it, and laying the empty bag beside his chair. "However, I'm given to understand that Tseten's mala can be used as a buffer, to keep the negative energies associated with the flag from interfering with my tracking function. So Aoife, I'll ask you to put some protection on me and then lay the flag around my shoulders."

Aoife nodded, coming around behind him as he took up Tseten's rosary and wound it around his left wrist, then turned his palms upward in his lap. His eyes closed as Aoife briefly set her hands on his shoulders and then extended both hands palm-downward a few inches above his head, the fingertips overlapped. Peregrine caught the wink of a dark emerald at the heart of the gold Claddagh ring on her right hand, and suddenly realized that the green stone in Magnus's signet was also a cloudy emerald, engraved with his coat of arms.

"Ye holy ministers of grace, rulers of the four cardinal elements, riders upon the winds of Heaven, confer upon this your servant the benefits of your guidance and hold him inviolate against the principles of darkness," Aoife murmured, eyes closed and face uplifted in an attitude of supplication.' 'Though he walk for a time in the valley of the shadow of death, let not that shadow fall upon his footsteps, but let the Light be his companion, to his soul's comfort and salvation. Amen, so be it."

She bowed her head, as did Adam, and Peregrine stifled a gasp to see a spark of scintillating fire spring into being beneath the crossing of her hands. As she slowly drew her hands apart, the spark blossomed into a dancing wreath of colored flame that flickered blue and red, gold and green, descending to encircle Adam's brow in a prismatic coronal. An instant it hovered there, before contracting and descending as a single tongue of flame to glow over his heart. Then it dispersed toward his extremities, thinning out as it travelled, until there was nothing more to be seen of it but a rainbow shimmer clinging about his fingertips.

Aoife lowered her hands until they came to rest lightly on the crown of Adam's head. Then, with a final whispered benediction, she took them away. Adam knew that instant, despite his closed eyes. The moment of release was accompanied by a sense of lightness, and he drew a deep, lingering breath to savor gratefully a newfound sense of being strongly protected. That sense of protection was damped but little as Aoife took up the Nazi flag and shook it out, laying it like a stole around his shoulders.

It was like shouldering some noisome living creature, slick, venomous, and cold. His skin crawled at its touch, but the chill had no power to penetrate. Drawing strength from the unseen sources of protection he could feel surrounding him, eyes still closed, he drew off his Adept ring and laid it on the table, setting the tips of both forefingers lightly upon it. He could feel the mala tingling about his left wrist as he projected his consciousness down through his arms and into his fingertips, to wrap around the focus of the ring.

"That which you bear comes from that which you seek," Aoife murmured, lightly touching her hands to his shoulders. "Beneath your hands lies a map encompassing the location of that which you seek. Picture the submarine now, in as complete detail as you can. Let its image form in your mind's eye, and let the link that will lead you back to it focus through the ring beneath your fingertips, drawing it to the place where the submarine now lies - as above, so below."

Adam paused a moment to draw a deep breath, calling up Peregrine's photo of the U-boat, visualizing as much detail as he could. The tingling in the mala increased almost to the point of discomfort, but he refused to back off. Projecting his vision into the image, he narrowed his interior focus until he could read the serial number painted on the conning tower: 656.

Recognition of this detail was accompanied by a slight tug at the ring beneath his fingertips. Obedient to that directive, Adam let his fingers exert the lightest of pressure to push the ring across the map.

"Keep the image of the submarine in your mind's eye," Aoife's voice urged. "Let the link of the flag draw you toward its home, toward the vessel where that flag once flew…."

The ring moved more, somewhat jerkily, then did not seem to want to move any more.

"Tory Sound," came Magnus's voice from off to one side, as hands lifted Adam's hands, though he did not open his eyes. "Horn Head."

"It's plausible," McLeod said. "There's Sheep Haven, where Scanlan's backup lost him."

"Aye, and there was quite a lot of submarine activity in those waters during the war," Magnus replied. "The bottom's littered with wrecks."

"Let's try it again," Aoife said. "Peregrine, turn the map, so it's oriented differently, and let's see if he hits that same location again."

Adam had to stretch across the map the second time, before the ring seemed content to stop. No one commented as his hands again were raised and the rustle of paper told of the map being turned again. Adam could not tell from their reaction whether he had confirmed his first hit or not.

"Let's give it one more try," Aoife murmured, letting his hands rest on the map again.

The third time, when the ring came to rest, Adam opened his eyes and immediately leaned forward to look underneath his hands. His ring encircled Horn Head.

"Three hits," McLeod murmured, looking pleased with his chiefs performance. "It looks like that's where we're going."

A little distractedly, Adam slid his ring back onto his finger and pulled the Nazi flag from his shoulders, handing it off to Peregrine to fold and return to its plastic bag.

"How far is that from where we are?" he asked, glancing up at Magnus and Aoife as he unwound Tseten's mala and dropped it back into his pocket.

"About two hours to where we can pick up the boat we've arranged," the Irish Second replied. "Aoife's nephew keeps a thirty-foot cabin cruiser at Portstewart. We had him run it over to Malin Head last night. From Malin, it's only about twenty-five nautical miles to Horn Head - say, another couple of hours."

"And it's nearly six now," Adam said. "That puts us on target around ten. What about dealing with the sub, once we locate it? At very least, I expect we'll need to blow some hatches to get in; and probably it would be best to just destroy it, once we've secured the cargo. I don't think it would serve either government's interests if its existence were to become known."

"We've provided for that," Aoife said. "Magnus had to call in some heavy-duty favors, but one of our contacts with the security forces has lined up some appropriate ordnance - nothing fancy, but it ought to do the job on both counts. Magnus can supply the know-how, of course."

"I did a stint with bomb disposal," Magnus offered, at Peregrine's startled glance. "That was back in my young and foolish days. Now and then, though, the experience does come in handy."

He turned to Adam. "There wasn't time for our man to deliver the goodies here, but he's going to meet us en route - which means we ought to get moving."

Rising, Adam acknowledged this information with a sober nod and began folding up his map.

"I can't thank you enough for all your help," he said, as McLeod signalled Peregrine to join him, already heading for the service porch, and their jackets. ' 'This operation would have been doomed at the outset without your assistance."

"Think nothing of it," Aoife said with a tight smile. "Forewarned is forearmed. If you hadn't been in a position to give us advance notice of the danger on our doorstep, Magnus and I and the rest of our people might have found ourselves with real trouble on our hands."

"I only wish I could have posted the warning sooner," said Adam. "As it is, we've still got a close race to run."