The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (54 page)

They could see the Forth Bridge ahead, this one the railroad bridge rather than the multi-lane one slightly farther to the west that carried vehicular traffic across the Firth of Forth. McLeod braked hard coming into the last curve before the road passed under it, slowing more as they caught sight of the dozens of mostly police vehicles gathered haphazardly just to the west side of it. Down on the beach immediately under the bridge, they could see dozens of men gathered apparently randomly along the shore, many wearing anoraks with POLICE stenciled across the back. McLeod swore softly under his breath as he nosed the BMW into a slot next to a much larger Ford Granada, also black.

“Chief superintendent’s car, also a high-ranking Mason,” he muttered, before the three of them got out. “He almost never goes out on a call. He was
not
on my short-list. This could get very sticky.”

In tight-lipped silence McLeod led them past the police lines and down onto the beach directly under the bridge, where a tarpaulin covered all but one up-turned hand of what undoubtedly was the victim. Donald Cochrane was among those standing uneasily to one side, and seemed oddly to be giving a statement to a uniformed sergeant. As he saw McLeod approaching with Adam and Peregrine, doing a double-take as he recognized Adam, he extricated himself from the interview with some difficulty and came rushing over.

“Am I glad you’re here!” he said under his breath. “And Sir Adam—”

“We’ll explain later,” Adam murmured. “What’s going on here?” Cochrane grimaced and turned desperate eyes to McLeod. “It’s Inspector Napier, sir. Whoever did it copied all the classic penalties. But he wasn’t even a Mason. He
hated
us—”

McLeod exhaled expressively, and Adam exchanged a warning glance with Peregrine.

“Well, at least it
wasn’t
one of ours, this time,” McLeod rumbled. “In a way, though, that’s worse, because we’re the ones who’ll be blamed.”

“We already are, sir,” Cochrane murmured, glancing back at the sergeant waiting impatiently. “They’ve already been asking where I was last night, and why I wasn’t at Lodge.”

“Get back, then, lad, and keep them occupied for a bit while we catch a quick look at the victim,” McLeod said, easing past Cochrane and heading toward the tarp.

Adam and Peregrine followed, Adam keenly scanning the men around them, aware that they were being watched with varying degrees of interest and hostility. Peregrine found the situation far more taut than any of the crime scenes he had visited hitherto with Adam and McLeod—perhaps because some of the men were looking at
him
as if they thought he might be a suspect.

The victim had not been moved, but a forensic crew were preparing to do so, since the tide was coming back in. As predicted, he had been staked out between the high and low water lines, ankles and wrists anchored to stakes driven into the sand. Peregrine hastily averted his eyes as he realized the man had been disemboweled. Adam walked over with McLeod to take a closer look at the victim’s face and confirmed that the dead man was, indeed, Charles Napier.

It was hard to say which of the wounds had killed him. The gash in the lower abdomen showed a whitish tangle of entrails where his intestines had been dragged from the wound, nearly to his feet, and his throat had been slit ear to ear. The incredulous and anguished expression on his face suggested that he had known exactly what was happening to him for quite some time before he died, but the gaping mouth displayed only a stump of a tongue.

“Jesus,” McLeod whispered, as he dropped the tarpaulin back over the man’s face and turned away, white-faced.

Adam glanced quickly at Peregrine as the forensic team moved in with a stretcher and body bag and set about their work, but the artist, though whey-faced, was staring at the proceedings with rigid attention, perhaps seeing beyond the immediacy of the present scene, hopefully storing the images until he could get them on paper later on. Adam had already noticed some darkling looks being directed at McLeod’s back from the definitely non-Masonic contingent gradually polarizing on the beach, and took McLeod’s elbow, starting to draw him and Peregrine away from the immediate scene.

“This is going to be a difficult one to defuse,” he murmured. “They’re forming into two camps. I think we’d better scare up some of those open-minded Masonic superiors you mentioned last night.”

“Too late, they’ve already found us,” McLeod replied, glancing meaningfully beyond Adam at the distinguished-looking, grey-haired man coming toward him, surrounded by a phalanx of uniformed officers, a few of them conspicuously armed. “Whatever either of you do, don’t offer anything unless asked and don’t resist.”

They stood their ground as the men approached. Their leader eyed both Adam and Peregrine as he came to a halt, his men surging in to surround them. He was wearing civilian clothes, but Adam guessed he might be the chief superintendent by whose car they had parked. When McLeod did not back down from his gaze, he gave McLeod a nod, pulling off a glove to flick it impatiently against his other hand.

“Detective Chief Inspector McLeod,” he said quietly, grey eyes as cold as the wintry water of the Firth behind him.
“Brother
McLeod.” There was a Masonic ring on the hand that flicked the glove. “I trust that you had no part of this.”

“I should hope you’d have no doubts in that regard, sir,” McLeod replied, not batting an eye.

“I should hope not, too,” the other replied. “However, it has not escaped my notice that whenever anything has happened to one of our brethren lately, you always seem to be close at hand—and your friends as well. I’ll ask you to come along quietly, but I’m perfectly willing to place you under arrest if you prefer.”

“We’ll come quietly, sir,” McLeod said.

“A wise decision.” The man shifted his gaze to Adam. “You’re Sir Adam Sinclair, aren’t you? Rumor had it yesterday that you were dead.”

“I’m Sinclair,” Adam admitted. “And obviously I’m not dead.”

“No, and I can’t help wondering whether there’s a connection between the fact that you aren’t and Napier is. And you’re Lovat, the artist,” he went on, shifting his attention to Peregrine.

Peregrine said nothing, only jerking his chin in agreement, hoping he did not look as owl-eyed as he felt.

“Very well,” the man said, glancing aside to call up four men kitted out in the black attire of special weapons experts. “You’ll go with these officers, and I’ll get back to you in a few hours. Inspector Crawford, go with them, please.”

Another, younger plain-clothes man fell in with them as the four officers escorted McLeod, Adam, and Peregrine to a closed police van parked up on the road. Half an hour later, they had been whisked through a rear entrance of police headquarters and down into the bowels of the building, where they were left in a locked room that, to Peregrine’s way of thinking, all too closely resembled a cell.

“What’s happening? What are they going to do with us?” Peregrine asked, when the clang of closing doors in the corridor outside had faded into silence.

As Adam held one finger to his lips and shook his head, McLeod pointed silently to tiny protuberances in the corners of the room and made it clear that they contained microphones.

“We just wait, laddie,” the inspector said. “Don’t worry. We’re in good hands.”

They settled in then to wait, taking turns catching cat-naps, for Adam made it clear that sleep might be at all too dear a premium once things started moving again. Peregrine toyed with the idea of sketching what he had seen down on the beach, but there had been a presence there that did not want to be drawn, very possibly Raeburn himself, and Peregrine gave it up after a while, until he could try it again in a setting less personally threatening. The man named Crawford brought them sandwiches and coffee around one and brought them out one at a time to use toilets down the hall, but he made it clear that he had been instructed not to talk to them.

Shortly after two, the chief superintendent came back in with another man of similar age, not a police officer, whom McLeod recognized as probably the top-ranking Freemason in Edinburgh and one of the senior Grand Officers for Scotland.

“Please don’t get up, Mr. McLeod,” he said, gesturing for them to stay seated as he and the chief superintendent came and pulled out chairs opposite the three. “I gather that you know who I am, but I’d prefer not to use names at this meeting. I shan’t use police or Masonic titles, and you may refer to me as just ‘sir.’ Agreed?”

As the newcomers settled, “Sir” setting a portable tape recorder on the table. between them, McLeod exchanged a glance with Adam, who nodded for him to go ahead.

“Agreed—’Sir.’”

“Thank you.” The man switched on the recorder and sat back.

“Now. It
has not escaped the notice of our mutual superiors that there have been some extremely strange goings-on over the last few weeks, centered around the deaths of a number of our Brethren. Interestingly enough, you and your two companions here always seem to be in the thick of it. This leads us to suspect that you know far more about these incidents than you have so far seen fit to share with anyone. Perhaps you would be so good as to elucidate.”

McLeod shifted somewhat uneasily in his seat, bound by his fraternal oaths to render an account as ordered, but uncertain how much or how little to say, now that the moment had come. Adam had been expecting something like this, from the moment the chief superintendent first approached them at the bridge. Seeing that his Second was still weighing his words, Adam took it upon himself to intervene.

“Forgive me if I interpose at this point,” he said, with a glance at McLeod, “but as the person most deeply accountable in this instance, perhaps I’m the one best qualified to clarify certain aspects of these incidents to which you refer. If we haven’t come to you voluntarily before now, it’s only because we were still in search of an explanation ourselves. I don’t pretend for an instant that what I’m about to say will sound logical or even credible—but I hope you and those to whom you will report,” he gestured toward the recorder, “will nonetheless bear with me.”

So saying, he propped his elbows lightly on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers gracefully together. Peregrine noticed that he was wearing his ring, and it gleamed darkly against his black turtleneck sweater, underlining his authority, if only in Peregrine’s eyes.

“Now. The press have been dancing around the suggestion of supernatural intervention—and Noel has been trying to steer them in other directions, because that’s his job, on several levels. It isn’t appropriate for me to go into detail, but those who have targeted your Order as their enemies have done so at least partially because of the nature of your esoteric work in maintaining the Temple the true edifice your enemies are seeking to destroy.

“Oh, yes,” he went on with a nod, seeing the startled glint in both men’s eyes. “Though obviously I’m not acquainted with the intimate details of your sacred mysteries, not being a Mason myself, I am nonetheless aware of the
kind
of work you do. As it happens, my own colleagues and I are engaged in a similar line of work—not identical to yours, but certainly complementary to it. Which is how we first became aware of the danger that has been hanging over you and your brethren these last two months—a danger we have since been laboring to identify and counter.”

Seeing that he had the men’s full attention now, he went on to brief them on the essentials of what he and his associates had been able to piece together concerning the activities of the Lodge of the Lynx, outlining his theory of how the charged medallions acted as homing devices to call down the lightning strikes. He omitted only his private speculations concerning the possible identity of the Head-Master apparently directing the Lynx and any mention of the Hunting Lodge itself. By the time he had finished his account, both his listeners were looking slightly shell-shocked.

“Sir” glanced at his colleagues, then at Adam.

“As you warned,” he said, “all of this sounds incredible, but I don’t feel myself competent to make a unilateral decision on behalf of the Brotherhood. If you’ll excuse me, we’ll get back to you as quickly as we can.”

So saying, he switched off the recorder and got to his feet, his colleagues hurrying to open the door, which closed with a clang behind them.

“Damned high-handed of them, if you ask me,” Peregrine muttered. “You’d think we were criminals.”

“Relax, Peregrine,” Adam replied. “This is all new to them. We’ve had weeks to get used to the idea gradually. I have no doubt, however, that when they take this information to
their
superiors,” he gestured meaningfully toward the hidden microphones, “we’ll gain a hearing by someone empowered to act upon it.”

On that note, they settled down to wait again. More sandwiches arrived at around seven, with another foray to the facilities, and at about eight, the chief superintendent reappeared.

‘’I’m instructed to request that the three of you come along with me, no questions asked. I’m also instructed to assure you, on the level, that no harm will come to you. There’s someone who wishes to speak with you.”

The words were affably spoken, but the entire situation was beginning to get on Peregrine’s nerves. He threw an uncertain glance in Adam’s direction, but Adam’s expression was studiously neutral. McLeod, however, seemed to catch some hint of his uneasiness.

“Not to worry, Mr. Lovat,” he said over his shoulder, as he gathered up his coat and hat. “I promise you there’s nothing worse in store for you than a cup of coffee and a bit of conversation.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,
the three of them found themselves sitting blindfolded in the back of a closed van, speeding along unknown roads. Peregrine was somewhat reassured by the presence of Adam and McLeod on either side of him, but he had no idea where they were going. He thought Crawford was driving; he knew that the four black-clad special weapons men were sitting across from them. He felt very helpless and not a little intimidated, even though the men had not been anything but courteous and coolly detached. He wanted to believe he was in no danger—and Adam and McLeod did not seem particularly concerned—but the situation made him nervous and uncomfortable all the same.

They drove for nearly two hours—which could have taken them anywhere over a very large area of Scotland or even into England. By the time the van slowed to a halt, Peregrine was practically squirming in his seat. It was a profound relief to hear the clang of the rear doors opening and feel the sudden, chill bite of outside air, even though he had no idea what came next.

They took Adam out first. Then strong hands were guiding Peregrine toward the back of the van, helping him down. He felt the shift of gravel underfoot, and breathed a sigh of relief as someone loosened his blindfold from behind and plucked it away. Blinking around in the sudden glare of headlights from another vehicle pulled up behind the van, he saw they were standing in front of stone steps leading up to what looked to be a substantial stone house.

He groped in his pocket for his glasses and slipped them on for a better look. The house appeared to be a Victorian or Edwardian game lodge, with dark conifers looming close at either side; he could smell the tang of pine along with the clean scent of new-fallen snow. From somewhere toward the rear of the house, the gurgle of running water suggested the presence of a small stream.

McLeod jumped down on the gravel beside them next, blindfold already pulled off, and gave Peregrine a thumbs-up sign of reassurance before putting his own glasses back on. Their escort officers slammed the van doors, then began shepherding them up the snow-dusted steps.

“Don’t be alarmed by anything you see,” Adam said aside to him, in an undertone. “I assure you,
I’m
not.”

Inside, they were met by a militant-looking man in a butler’s uniform, who inspected them dispassionately, exchanged a few low-spoken words with one of the escorts, then conducted the party as a group down a long corridor and through a set of double doors, into a large half-timbered room with the aspect and dimensions of a hunting hall.

The far wall was adorned with a number of fine stags’ heads and other trophies of the hunt, but Peregrine was not disposed to admire any of them. As their escort walked them forward, his eyes were all for the dozen men who were sitting on the other side of a long table that ran the width of the floor in front of a great, grey stone hearth. All of them were wearing Masonic collars and aprons over their clothes, even the three or four in police uniforms, one of whom was of very high rank, indeed. The chief superintendent and Crawford sat at one end, the other Mason who had interviewed them earlier at the other. In the center, in a place of obvious dignity, sat a silver-haired man with keen blue eyes who wore the regalia of a Masonic Grand Master.

“Worshipful Master,” said McLeod’s chief superintendent, as the party halted, “may I present Brother Noel McLeod, Sir Adam Sinclair, and Mr. Peregrine Lovat.”

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” the Master said. “I believe I may have met Brother McLeod once at Grand Lodge. Sir Adam, I knew your father and grandfather well.”

Adam inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, saying nothing. At a sign from the Master, two of the subordinate members of the Edinburgh escort brought straight-backed chairs and set them behind Adam, McLeod, and Peregrine. All four of the men in black then retired smartly from the hall, leaving the three standing alone before this Masonic tribunal. The Master folded graceful hands on the table before him, but he did not invite them to sit.

“Gentlemen, I have listened to the recording of your earlier interview with two of my esteemed Brethren,” he said. “Since you have come of your own free will, to render service, you are welcome among us. Before we may proceed, however, I must insist that nothing said here goes beyond these walls—not even the fact that this meeting is taking place. Brother McLeod is already bound by his obligations to keep silence, but I must have your assurance, Sir Adam, and yours, Mr. Lovat. Will you swear on the Volume of Sacred Law to abide by this condition?”

“I will,” Adam said.

Peregrine gulped and found his voice. “So will I,” he murmured.

At a sign from the Master, Crawford fetched a Bible from a stand at his end of the table and brought it around to present it to Adam and Peregrine in turn. When they had laid their hands upon it and repeated the required oath after him, the Master gestured for them to be seated, once again focusing his attention on Adam.

“Now, tell us more of the danger you perceive and the alliance you propose to deal with it,” he said gravely.

Thus invited, Adam reiterated the basic information he had offered his earlier inquisitors, then proceeded to outline a basic strategy for how to proceed. When he had finished, the Master sat silent for a long moment, then glanced at McLeod.

“Do you concur with what Sir Adam has just told us?”

“I do, sir, in every respect,” McLeod said. “He is a man of probity and honor, well-known to me. He has the tongue of good report.”

“I see,” said the Master. “As a Master Mason, what is your personal recommendation in this matter?”

“Worshipful Master, it’s as clear to me as it must be to you that the sooner we join forces, the better our chances of overthrowing the designs of our common enemy,” McLeod said bluntly. “Sir Adam is not a novice in the realm of esoteric work. He knows whereof he speaks. I would therefore urge that the Brotherhood ally itself with those he has at his command. And I would further recommend that he be given authority to direct our combined forces.”

The Master raised an elegant grey eyebrow. “A strong endorsement, Brother McLeod. Are you aware what you’re suggesting?”

“I am, Worshipful Master.”

“I see.” The Master shifted his gaze to Adam. “And you, Sir Adam—would you be prepared to do as Brother McLeod suggests, to command a joint venture, your people and mine?”

“If such an arrangement meets with your approval, sir, I am,” Adam said.

Their eyes met. It seemed to Peregrine, watching, that each man was taking the full measure of the other. He was not surprised when, after long scrutiny, the Master withdrew his gaze first, apparently satisfied by what he had seen.

“I am inclined to accept Brother McLeod’s proposal—and yours,” he told Adam, “but my office requires that I address certain difficulties that have yet to be overcome. Did you never consider becoming a Mason yourself?”

“I have considered it, yes,” Adam said. “If you knew my father and grandfather, then you also must know that either would have sponsored me gladly, had I asked.”

“And why did you not do so?”

“The demands of my profession, coupled with my other commitments, have always been such that I was reluctant to seek membership where I could not offer commensurate service,” Adam said truthfully.

“A worthy enough reservation,” the Master agreed. “How, though, if you were to find yourself in a position to render one unique service that would answer for a lifetime of lesser calling? But you must ask, Sir Adam, for I may not.”

Slowly Adam stood, McLeod rising as well, though the latter signaled Peregrine to remain seated.

“Worshipful Master,” Adam said quietly, “of my own free will and volition, I ask that you do me the very great honor of admitting me to the Brotherhood of Freemasonry, of such level as will fit me to render you this service.”

As Peregrine swallowed hard, the Master gave Adam a faint, satisfied smile and nodded.

“Are you willing to take the obligations of our Brotherhood, according to law and custom?” he asked.

It was not simple courtesies they exchanged, Peregrine suddenly realized. Adam’s acceptance of Masonic membership was a key factor in rendering him suitable, in the Brethren’s eyes, to head a joint command.

“Saving obligations already sworn before another Tribunal, I am willing,” Adam said.

Standing, the Master gave a slight signal to Crawford and turned his attention to the wide-eyed Peregrine.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave us now, Mr. Lovat,” he said in a tone of genial command. “Brother Crawford will escort you to the library. Your companions will fetch you back when we have concluded our business here.”

When Adam reinforced this injunction with a look, Peregrine had no option but to obey. Going reluctantly with Crawford, who left him alone in the library, he alternately paced and fretted for the better part of an hour. Eventually, however, he heard a light, firm tread approaching the door that he recognized as Adam’s. A moment later, Peregrine’s Masonic minder opened the door to admit McLeod and then Adam himself.

“Before you ask,” the latter told Peregrine with a wry smile, “suffice it to say that I have been inducted into the Brotherhood of Freemasonry as a Master Mason and entrusted with the attendant signs, words, grips, and tokens. The Master—who is Grand Master of all Scotland, by the way, and was a very good friend of my father’s—the Master informs me that it’s called ‘making one a Mason at sight’. Apparently it isn’t often done, but it does save a great deal of time.”

McLeod allowed himself a hearty chuckle at the look on Peregrine’s face.

“As the Grand Master’s just-appointed special deputy, it also now gives him full authority to direct the appropriate resources of the Masonic Fraternity, in addition to our own resources,” he said.

“But, come on back down to the great hall now,” Adam said, laughing. “I’m reliably informed that the butler who met us so imposingly at the front door has had his minions slaving this last hour and more to prepare us a hot supper before we settle down to serious planning. And just as well, too, because sandwiches are not sufficient for what we still have to do tonight. Now that we’ve got reinforcements at hand, the game truly is afoot!”

* * *

Meanwhile, amid the opposition in that game, Francis Raeburn was attempting to explain to his superior just what had gone wrong at Melrose. Just returned by’ helicopter, after winding up the loose ends left in the wake of Napier’s execution, he was personally revitalized by the energy drunk from Napier’s death throes—and determined not to accept any blame for Napier’s ill judgment.

“Yet, it was you who had charge of the lightnings!” the Head-Master rasped. “Why did you not hold back?”

The white-robed Raeburn, kneeling in token submission in the midst of the Head-Master’s cowering circle of acolytes, did not flinch before his superior’s wrath.

“The opportunity was already lost to accomplish what originally was intended,” he said reasonably. “By the time Napier informed me of what he had done, it was too late to retrieve the medallion and position it in the abbey before the Masons moved out. Given the change of circumstances, it seemed most expedient to go with the plan as Napier had changed it. The strike on Sinclair’s car was precise and powerful. I cannot explain how he managed to detect the danger in time to escape, but attacking him in this manner, without due preparation, was not my first choice.”

“Wasted, wasted . . . “ the Head-Master muttered, in senile petulance. “We could have given hundreds to Taranis—and then for Sinclair to elude us again . . .”

“I fear it may come to a matter of
us
eluding
him,
Head-Master,” Raeburn said uneasily. “He surfaced briefly this morning as I guessed he might—he and McLeod and Lovat. Unfortunately, the Freemasons appear finally to have made a connection between those three and the misfortunes that have befallen so many of their brethren in recent weeks. All three were taken into police custody before I could take any action. I’d hoped it was an arrest, which at least would keep them out of commission for a while, but my agents were unable to confirm any official police action in the matter. Apparently they’ve not been charged with anything—which leads me to believe they are actually in Masonic custody rather than police. There was a limit to how far I dared pursue the matter.”

“Then it means the Freemasons are listening to what Sinclair has to say, and it’s only a matter of time before he convinces them to become his allies,” the Head-Master said. “Ah, he’s canny, this Master of the Hunt. One must wonder whether it was he and his who intruded on our perimeter defenses last week.”

“So we must assume,” Raeburn replied. “And if so, they’ll be back, probably with reinforcements.”

“Aye, and in the next two days, if they hope to harness the momentum of the waxing moon,” the Head-Master replied. “We must make preparations to ensure that Taranis will be ready for them—an even more acceptable sacrifice to his glory!”

* * *

That night, Adam began briefing his new allies in further detail on the form he wished the Masonic support to take in the coming assault on the enemy. The Master had decided that the full details of the campaign should not go beyond those present and a few carefully selected additional participants yet to be determined, though he was set to order a general working for their support, once a form was determined. After the supper break, the great hall took on the aspect of a war room, with maps spread out at one end of the long table and rosters of possible recruits taking shape at the other. McLeod was in the thick of it, acting as Adam’s lieutenant to interface with the Masons, many of whom he knew.