Katherine Kurtz – Adept 03 – The Templar Treasure

 

 

 

A SECRET BROTHERHOOD. AN ANCIENT EVIL…

Mystic and historian, Sir Adam Sinclair is Master of the Hunt, leader of a secret brotherhood at war with the dark and unholy Powers that menace our world.  Now an urgent summons sets the Adept on a life-or-death search for the Seal of Solomon, an ancient bronze artifact that can bind – or unleash – the demons of old.

Guarded for centuries by the legendary Knights Templar, the Seal has been stolen by ruthless and dangerous forces.

If humanity is to survive, Sinclair must complete the quest for…

THE TEMPLAR TREASURE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE ADEPT: THE TEMPLAR TREASURE

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the authors

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace mass market edition / July 1993

Copyright © 1993 by Bill Fawcett and Associates and Katherine Kurtz. Cover art by Bryant Eastman.

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 0-441-00.345-1

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For

Dr. Sheila Rossi,

who taught Adam Sinclair

much of what he knows about hypnosis,

and also for Christine Hackett and Suzanne Eberle

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful thanks are owed to the following people, whose assistance was invaluable in filling out much of the rich background for this book:

Ms. Kirsty Beck, for technical information concerning not only Hebrew art objects of the First Temple Period but also archaeological methods of dating such artifacts;

Cantor Alwyn Shulman, Dublin and Terenure Hebrew Congregations, and Dr. Jay Barry Azneer, D.O. for insights into Jewish funeral practices;

Mr. Donald Little, administrator of Fyvie Castle on behalf of the National Trust for Scotland, and his wife, Liz, for their generosity in allowing us to spend five hours of their precious time exploring Fyvie;

Mr. Brian Nodes, administrator at BlairCastle, for opening up Earl John’s Room after the end of season and allowing a private look at Bonnie Dundee’s breastplate and morion;

Dr. Martin Hardgrave, for sharing with us a resident’s knowledge of the city of York;

Dr. Ernan J. Gallagher, Ireland, and Dr. A. V. Davidson, Scotland, for technical medical advice;

Dr. Richard Oram, for his continuing guidance on questions of Scottish history;

Mr. Kenneth Fraser of the St. Andrews University Library, for his ongoing assistance in matters of general research;

And the staff of the St. Andrews Tourist Information Bureau, for their cheerful readiness to dig up all manner of information not covered by the guidebooks.

prologue

THE Yorkshire home of Professor Nathan Fiennes was fitted with the latest in household security systems. Ritchie Logan even knew what kind, because the company installing it had seen fit to publicize the fact by fixing a bright red box to the gable end of the house, marked with their company logo. Such displays were intended to deter casual thieves – and maybe they did deter amateurs and opportunists – but Logan was a professional. As far as he was concerned, knowing in advance that the house was wired only served to make his job easier.  But then, the promise of easy pickings had been one of the attractions of this job. Besides being offered a handsome cash retainer merely to breach the house’s security and open the safe, Logan had been assured that he might have his pick of the jewellery and other valuables kept there. The man who’d engaged him for this job, sitting in the passenger seat of the rented Volvo, was after something else entirely – some kind of archaeological artifact.

Logan cruised slowly past the cul-de-sac where the house lay, and noted with satisfaction that nothing had changed. Half an hour before, from a vantage point on the main road, he and his employer had watched the owners and their dinner guests leave, all of them dressed for the theatre as anticipated. If no one returned in the time it took to make one more long orbit around the city walls, Logan felt reasonably confident that the house would remain empty for at least another two to three hours. As he swung into Monkgate, heading toward the city, he stole a sidelong glance at the man sitting next to him.  He still had not figured out Monsieur Henri Gerard. The Frenchman looked nothing like the sort of man likely to hire a professional cat burglar. Had Logan seen him on the street, he would have pegged Gerard as someone hoping one day to make a name for himself in law or politics – conservatively well dressed and respectable-looking, probably approaching forty, with sleek, dark hair brushed straight back from a high forehead and a dapper moustache trimmed pencil-thin in a style reminiscent of a young Maurice Chevalier. This Gallic impression was heightened by the continental cut of his dark suit and the fact that he spoke English with a Parisian inflection.

He was an odd duck, Logan decided, as he eased the big car along Lord Mayor’s Walk and then swung left into Gillygate, skirting the city’s medieval walls.  From the very beginning, Gerard had made it clear that his sole purpose in coming to England was to acquire an antique bronze seal currently in the possession of the owner of the house targeted for tonight’s venture. According to Gerard, the seal was of value only to a historian like himself. If that was true, it would confirm Logan’s suspicion that the Frenchman was one of those academic fanatics who would do literally anything in order to steal a march on a rival scholar – in this case, Dr. Nathan Fiennes, a distinguished philosopher presently lecturing at the University of York.

None of this had anything to do with Logan, of course. And even if Gerard was lying, and the seal was worth more than he was letting on, Logan was prepared to let him have it, provided that the rest of the takings were as lucrative as the Frenchman had made out. Finding a suitable buyer for a stolen museum piece was always a time-consuming enterprise, requiring far more work than Logan was willing to invest when there were much quicker profits to be made on more conventional commodities.

The only real catch in the arrangement was that Gerard had insisted on taking part in the burglary. Logan would have much preferred to do the job alone, but the Frenchman had argued with some heat that he had to be present to authenticate the seal, on the chance that Fiennes might have had a copy made.  Logan could think of no reason why Fiennes should have wanted to do anything of the sort; but then again, academics of Gerard’s caliber were seemingly a breed apart. And since, in any case, Gerard was already paying for the privilege of sharing the risks, Logan had resigned himself to the necessity of having the Frenchman along for company.

He just hoped that Gerard wouldn’t do anything stupid that might risk their getting caught.

They crawled past the vast, floodlit pile that was York Minster, with the delicate tracery of its spires and towers bright against the starry backdrop of a mid-September night. On through the night-hushed streets they wove, emerging through the Monk Bar Gate and picking up speed as they headed back along Monkgate again. Half a mile northeast of the historic city center, as Logan made the turn into the darker, quieter streets of an established residential suburb, Gerard sat forward, apparently unaware how his eagerness showed.  “Just relax,” Logan told his employer. “From here on out, we’ve got to look like we belong to this neighborhood. We don’t want to do anything to draw attention to ourselves.”

The Fiennes house was one of three detached stone villas that stood at the bottom of a crescent-shaped cul-de-sac. Alert but relaxed, Logan drove on around the corner into the adjoining street and parked the Volvo at the curb in an island of shadow between two streetlamps. The two men alighted unhurriedly from the car and set off up the sidewalk at a leisurely pace. A casual observer, noting their conservatively cut trenchcoats and expensive leather briefcases, would have taken them for two businessmen out to pay a social call on a friend.  They used a public footpath to cut back in the direction of their goal across the narrow, grassy common that ran between the two opposing rows of back gardens. The Fienneses’ property was enclosed by a high wall, but the lock on the garden gate yielded readily to Logan’s expert manipulations with a lock pick. He let himself inside and swiftly beckoned Gerard to follow, pulling the gate to but not latched. Crouching low in the shrubbery flanking the wall, the two paused to don black balaclava helmets and tight-fitting surgical gloves before making their way stealthily up the flagstoned walk to the conservatory at the rear of the house.

Gerard watched in tight-lipped anticipation as Logan took a specialized assortment of implements from his briefcase and set himself to disabling the alarm system, his work illuminated by a tiny pencil-flash held between his teeth. In less than a minute they were inside the conservatory. A glass sliding door leading into the house yielded in a matter of seconds, after which Logan led his employer stealthily into the narrow confines of the downstairs hall, where a small lamp glowed on a side table. Gerard made a darting movement toward the foot of the staircase, only to feel Logan’s restraining hand catch at his sleeve.

“Not so fast,” the thief whispered. “The stuff in the safe isn’t going anywhere, is it? Then slow down, and let’s do this thing according to plan.” Nodding somewhat sullenly, Gerard dropped back to let Logan precede him up the stairs, toward where an overhead light dimly illuminated the upstairs landing.  The upper regions of the house were silent except for the hollow ticking of a grandfather clock standing against the wall just outside the study. An ornate mezuzah of finely wrought silver graced the right-hand lintel of the study door, and Logan grinned thinly to himself as he pried it off and slipped it into his pocket. The door swung back on silent hinges as Logan led the way across the threshold into a large square room redolent of pipe tobacco and book bindings.  Light spilled from the landing through the open doorway. The room’s only window lay directly opposite, with a large desk set before it. The curtains were standing open, affording a darkling view of the garden below.  “Get the curtains,” Logan ordered, moving to the left, where the entire wall was taken up by an immense built-in bookcase. When Gerard had complied, Logan shone the beam of his electric torch along the fourth shelf from the top until its light picked up a mousy-looking set of commentaries on the Talmud.  “I’ve found the benchmark texts you said to look for,” he reported in a clipped undertone, turning to set his briefcase on a corner of the desk. “Come and hold the light while I lift them out.”

As keen as his associate to get on with the job, Gerard made haste to comply, setting his own case on the desk’s chair. Logan removed the books from their place and set them aside on the desk. The cavity left behind on the shelf was backed not with walnut panelling, but with the metal door to a small wall safe fitted with an old-fashioned combination lock.

“Well, well, this thing’s practically an antique in itself,” the thief exclaimed in tones of scornful satisfaction. “Let’s arrange for a little more light on the subject, and we’ll be in and out before you know it.” There was a goosenecked reading lamp on the desk. Logan angled it round so that the shaded bulb was pointing toward the safe before switching it on. Then, taking a stethoscope out of his case, he pushed back his balaclava helmet and donned the earpieces with workmanlike efficiency.  “Go out in the hall and keep watch,” he directed over his shoulder. “If you hear anything suspicious, sing out.”

Much as it galled him to take orders from his English hireling, Gerard knew it was a sensible precaution. Suppressing a pang of irritation, he retreated to the hall while Logan gave his attention to dialling up the opening combination. The seconds ticked away with what seemed like maddening slowness. Gerard was about to inquire sharply how much longer the operation was likely to take when there was a muffled exclamation of triumph from inside the office.  “Got it!”

Gerard rushed back into the room to find Logan opening velvet-covered jewellers’ boxes into his briefcase. A diamond tiara and a necklace dripping with diamonds and emeralds already gleamed in the glancing light of the goosenecked lamp, and a pair of diamond clips and a string of pearls quickly joined them, their boxes tossed onto a growing pile on the floor as Logan riffled through a sheaf of negotiable bonds with obvious satisfaction. Lying next to the briefcase was a battered wooden box the size of a small, thick book, its lid inlaid with Hebrew characters.

“Is that what you’re looking for?” Logan said drily at Gerard’s gasp, indicating the box with a jerk of his chin.

Heart pounding, Gerard pounced on the box and flipped it open. Inside, pillowed on faded crimson velvet, was an oval of age-blackened bronze nearly the size of a man’s palm, pivot-mounted between the arms of a heavy arc of the same dark metal. The device deeply etched into the face of the disc was that of a six-pointed star made of interlocking triangles, surrounded by a serpentine scroll of Qabalistic script.

Almost reverently Gerard allowed himself to touch the seal with one trembling forefinger. It still staggered him to reflect that the seal – the seal – had been in the Fiennes family for so many generations without any of its keepers even suspecting the incalculable potency vested in the object they had in their possession.

“Oh, yes,” he breathed, licking his lips like a wolf who scents meat. “But I must be sure.”

All but quivering with eagerness, he took a jeweller’s loupe from the breast pocket of his suit coat and adjusted it in his eye, at the same time lifting the seal from its box with his free hand and moving over into the light. A brief examination of the face of the seal confirmed that the design had been etched with a tracer rather than a graver – circumstantial evidence, at least, that the piece had been crafted prior to 800 b.c. But the real proof Gerard was looking for was a recent telltale scratch on the inside of the mounting.  To the sound of more loot going into Logan’s case, Gerard rotated the seal in the glare of the lamp. His breath caught in his throat as his searching gaze found what he was seeking – the scratch he himself had made a few months back, in the course of taking a sample shaving of the metal. Subsequent photomicrographic analysis of the shaving had confirmed the seal’s genuine antiquity. And now it was in his hands at last!

“We can go now,” he murmured, smiling almost dreamily as he laid the seal reverently back in its box and closed the lid. “This is, indeed, the piece.” In that same instant, Logan suddenly stiffened in a listening attitude, his manner all at once apprehensive and alert.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Gerard demanded in a startled undertone.

“Car in the driveway,” Logan muttered.

“That’s imposs – “

Logan gestured vehemently for silence. An instant later, they heard a pair of car doors open and slam, and then the patter of footsteps coming up the front walk, high heels and leather soles, making for the front door.  “Must’ve been a bad show,” Logan said, already snapping his briefcase shut and heading for the door, pulling his balaclava back into place. “We’ve got maybe forty seconds to get the hell out of here!”

His hand was already on the study door. Gerard looked stunned, but likewise went into action. Gripping the wooden box tightly in his right hand, he made a clumsy left-handed grab for his own carrying case, but his gloved fingers miscued and it slipped from his grasp, striking the carpet with a muffled thud and bouncing out of reach under the chair.

Logan fetched up with a virulent whispered curse as Gerard scrambled to retrieve the case. From downstairs came the rattle of a key being turned in the front door lock. Showing teeth like a pit bull terrier, Logan gently closed the study door as the one below in the vestibule creaked open. A woman’s voice, slightly muffled, floated up to them from the ground floor in tones of indulgent reproof.  “Honestly, Nathan, you really shouldn’t have let David Wolfson talk you into having burgundy with the meal. I probably shouldn’t even keep it in the house any more. You know perfectly well what red wine does to your digestion these days!”

Gerard recognized the voice as that of Rachel Fiennes. Her admonition drew a rueful groan from her husband.

“I know, I know,” the intruders heard him say. “I was hoping that just this once – But I’m far more distressed that I made you miss out on the second half of the performance.”

“Don’t give it another thought, my dear,” came Rachel’s amiable reply. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never been all that fond of Ibsen anyway. You’d probably better have a couple of your stomach tablets, though. Where are they, in your desk upstairs? All right, you go on into the parlor and sit down, and I’ll go fetch them for you.”

As soft footbeats mounted the stairs, Logan made a dive for the study lamp and switched it off. Catching Gerard by the sleeve, he hurried them both over to the wall on the blind side of the doorway, shrinking back as Mrs. Fiennes drew even with the threshold outside. The porcelain knob turned over with a rattle, and the door swung open.

Light spilling in from the hallway showed up the opened safe and the tumble of books on the desk. Seeing it, Rachel gave a startled gasp and faltered abruptly to a standstill. In the same instant a lithe, dark figure lunged at her from behind the door and grabbed one wrist, jerking her into the room. She had just enough presence of mind to utter a shriek of alarm before her captor dealt her a heavy backhand blow that hurled her bruisingly against the inside wall.  In the parlor below, Nathan started up at the sound of his wife’s scream. He heaved himself up out of his armchair and rushed out into the hall as two men in dark suits and balaclava helmets came thundering down the stairs. Both of them were carrying briefcases, and the taller of the pair was clutching a small wooden box to his chest with one gloved hand. With a sudden, terrible clarity of perception, Nathan recognized it as the box in which he habitually kept the seal he had inherited from his father.

Not thinking of the possible consequences, he snatched his walking stick from the stand by the door and charged forward in a desperate attempt to stop the thieves. The blow he aimed at the man with the box went wide by a whistling inch. Before he could swing again, the second intruder slammed him in the temple with a sharp corner of his briefcase and wrenched the stick from his hand. Even as Nathan recoiled with a cry, instinctively flinging up an arm to the pain, the intruder took an overhead swing with the cane and dealt him a brutal crack across the back of his head.

Red agony exploded inside his skull. With a choked moan, he reeled aside and collided with the stairpost. Before he could catch his balance, the intruder struck him a second blow with the cane and shouldered him roughly out of the way. As Nathan crumpled to the floor, still clinging to the stairpost, he heard their footsteps clattering past him out the door and down the front path.  The throbbing pain in his head was like repeated thrusts from a red-hot dagger.  He put a hand to his temple and it came away sticky with blood. Groaning aloud, he made an effort to pull himself up only to slump down again in defeat. All but blind, he sensed movement above him, coming down the stairs, and heard his wife calling his name on a frantic note of inquiry. Clinging to consciousness with all the strength of will he could muster, he gasped out, “Rachel, the Seal! The thieves took the Seal!”

Rachel dropped to her knees beside him. He could hear her sobbing distractedly as she tried to loosen his tie.

“Nathan, be still! Please don’t try to talk!” she begged. “Just stay there and don’t move while I call an ambulance.”

“No, wait!” Sensing she was about to move away from him, he groped for her hand and clung to it. “Rachel, you must listen!” he rasped, hoping with all his heart that his strength would hold out long enough to get this vital message across.  “Things about the Seal you don’t know – dangerous things. It’s got to be recovered, at all cost! Call Sir Adam Sinclair and tell him what’s happened.  Tell him I’ve got to talk to him. Promise me you’ll call him tonight….” His hold on awareness was slipping as he spoke. Rachel’s voice came filtered through the haze, tearful and pleading.

“I will, Nathan. I’ll do anything you ask. Just please, please lie still and let me go call for help.”

Nathan struggled a moment longer, striving for the strength to reassure her. But this time the darkness won out and overwhelmed him.

chapter one

“HYPNOTIC age regression,” said Sir Adam Sinclair, can be an exceedingly useful diagnostic tool for the psychiatric physician. If we accept that the majority of psychiatric disorders, whether neurotic or psychotic in their intensity, are to some degree rooted in the patient’s personal past, then the value of gaining access to that past becomes immediately apparent. At the very least,” he continued, keenly surveying the youthful upturned faces of his listeners, “hypnotic regression provides for the detailed retrieval and review of a wide range of personal data that might otherwise be inaccessible to the individual concerned, if only through the natural and inevitable clouding of the memory owing to passage of time. At its most useful, regression can provide the very key with which to unlock the shackles of a mind fettered by its own repressions.”

He was lecturing to his regular Monday afternoon class at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, a mixed bag composed mainly of white-coated junior doctors on their psychiatric rotation but also including two social service workers, a retired university lecturer, and a woman deacon training for chaplaincy in the Episcopal Church. Their expressions reflected a gamut of reactions ranging from sober acknowledgement to skepticism, the latter of which was only to be expected and even encouraged, especially right after lunch.

“Dr. Sinclair,” said a stocky, bespectacled young man sitting in the first row, as he flung up a hand. “I can see the possible usefulness of regressing a patient to an earlier age, but – is it true that you’ve even managed to regress some of your own patients as far back as other previous lives?” The question generated a minor stir of excitement. The dashing and elegant Dr.  Sinclair had a reputation as something of an adventurer in the field of psychiatric therapy and practice, no doubt enhanced by his occasionally sensational association with Lothian and Borders Police as a psychiatric consultant. Had his audience known the true range of his knowledge and experience in the field now under discussion, the excitement might have turned to amazement, disbelief, and even fear.

Adam smiled indulgently. “It’s certainly been my experience that such regressions are possible,” he acknowledged easily.

His questioner looked astonished to have gotten an affirmative answer.

“Well, did you set out deliberately to induce these past-life regressions?” “Yes, Mr. Huntley, I did,” Adam said mildly. “And you needn’t look so scandalized. I am certainly not the first hypnotherapist to do so.”

“But – “

“Let’s review a few notable case studies, shall we, and then you can draw your own conclusions,” Adam offered, coming around to sit informally on the front of the desk. His crisply starched white lab coat was open casually over a three-piece navy suit of impeccable cut, with the mellow glint of an antique gold watch-fob swagged across the front of the vest. With his classic good looks and dark hair silvering at the temples, he might have been a media personality rather than the eminent psychiatrist he was.

“I’ll first mention the studies carried out in the seventies by Arnold Bloxham and Joe Keeton,” Adam went on. “Bloxham was able to regress one of his subjects, a woman named Jane Evans, through no fewer than six previous lives, including that of a medieval Jewess named Rebecca who was killed in a pogrom that took place in York in 1190. ‘Rebecca’ was able to render a graphic description of the church crypt in which she and her child were trapped and subsequently murdered by the angry mob. After listening to a recording of ‘Rebecca’s’ account, Professor Barrie Dob-son of the University of York ventured the opinion that the church most closely answering her description was St.  Mary’s Castlegate – except for the fact that the church didn’t have a crypt.” “I’ve heard of that case,” said a white-coated young woman in the back. “The BBC featured it in a special exploring the possibility of reincarnation.” “Leave it to the Beeb to waste good airtime on rubbish,” said an intense, sharp-featured young man beside her. “They didn’t take it seriously, did they?” “Actually, they concluded that the evidence was inconclusive,” his classmate allowed. “Six months later, however, a workman doing some renovation work on the church accidentally broke through into a previously unknown chamber that might well have been a medieval crypt.”

“I remember reading about that in the papers,” said one of the social workers.  “Didn’t the chamber, or crypt, or whatever it was, get bricked back up before any archaeologists could come and take a closer look?” “An unfortunate bureaucratic glitch,” Adam agreed, easing back into the exchange. “Perhaps one day, that part of the investigation will be completed.  Nonetheless, the circumstantial evidence would still seem to suggest that Jane Evans, through ‘Rebecca,’ had access to historical information unknown to present-day authorities.”

One of the students in the front row was tapping her pen against her front teeth. “Wasn’t there also an American psychiatrist from Virginia who did a lot of work on spontaneous past-life regressions in very young children?” she asked.  “That’s right,” Adam said. “His name is Dr. Ian Stevenson. His most celebrated case involved a five-year-old Lebanese boy whose people claimed he was the reincarnation of a man called Ibrahim, who had died recently in a neighboring town. When Stevenson examined the boy, he found that the child possessed an inexplicably intimate knowledge of Ibrahim’s personal life, besides exhibiting certain behavioral traits which Ibrahim’s surviving family swore were consistent with those of their deceased relative. Stevenson later published this and other findings under the title Twenty Cases Suggestive of Reincarnation.” “What a load of bunk!” exclaimed one of the students in the front row. “How can he call himself a serious scientist?”

“I assure you that Stevenson did not use the term lightly,” Adam said mildly.  “In his estimation, the evidence was strong enough to constitute a case for speculation, at very least.”

“Evidence for reincarnation… ,” another of his students mused. “Is that what you’re looking for when you attempt to do past-life regressions with your own patients?” she asked bluntly.

“What I’m looking for,” Adam said with a droll smile, “is information that will help me arrive at an effective diagnosis. If the unconscious can allow me access to vital information by couching it in terms of past-life experiences that have bearing on the patient’s present problems, then it behooves me, as a physician, to treat ‘memories’ of these past-life experiences as if they were real, and to deal with the patient accordingly. I think that no one would argue that experiences of the mind are any less ‘real’ than experiences of the physical body. Indeed, in some cases, they can be more vivid, as in the instance of phantom limb pain, long after an amputation.”

“But that’s a physiological reaction of damaged nerve-ways,” a young man objected.

“In part, perhaps,” Adam agreed. “But who is to say exactly where the lines are drawn between body, mind, and spirit?”

A striking brunette in the front row rolled her eyes and put down her pen.  “I knew it was only a matter of time before someone came up with one of the V words,” she muttered, then glanced at the woman deacon in friendly challenge.  “Lorna, care to tell us what the God Squad has to say about spirit, or soul, and the matter of reincarnation?”

“Certainly,” Lorna replied, “though I’m not certain I have any answers. Would you prefer an Eastern or a Western bias?”

“Perhaps you might share both points of view,” Adam said.  “Very well.” As all eyes flicked briefly from Lorna to Adam and back again, she settled herself composedly in her chair, collecting her thoughts. Her very name, Lorna Liu, proclaimed her mixed Scottish and Asian heritage, and her appearance combined the most graceful attributes of both, enhanced by the clerical collar she wore with her conservative grey suit.

“I’d be less than honest if I said I wasn’t impressed with the way the case for reincarnation is being argued,” she said amiably, “but I think it’s time that someone pointed out that the question is not so much a scientific issue as a theological one. Let’s take Buddhism and Christianity, since those are my background. While the two theologies have many views in common, especially with regard to ethics and morality, they differ rather drastically in their respective concepts of personal salvation.”

Seeing that she had the attention of the rest of the room, she went on in the same reflective tone.

“Buddhists believe that the whole material world is nothing but mere illusion – maya – and can only be transcended in most cases at the cost of repeated lifetimes spent in pursuit of personal enlightenment. Sometimes this is visualized as a wheel, escape from which becomes the goal of the enlightened individual.

“Christians, by contrast, believe that matter and spirit are inextricably bound together as a consequence of divine creation, and are likewise simultaneously eligible for redemption – not through some long-drawn refining process of repeated existences, but as a direct consequence of divine atonement through the sacrificial death and resurrection of Christ, the God Incarnate. As a Christian, I must confess I see no logical way of bridging the gap between my religious convictions and the concept of reincarnation as a fact of existence. If anyone else can suggest a means of resolution, I would be very grateful to hear what he or she might have to say.”

Thoughtful silence settled for a few seconds as the rest of the group wrestled with the problem, after which the bespectacled Mr. Huntley said bluntly, “I don’t see how there can be a resolution. One point of view or the other has got to be wrong.”

“If not both,” said the retired lecturer with a touch of skepticism. As all eyes turned to him, he added, “I admit quite freely to being an agnostic, Dr.  Sinclair. But whether or not there’s a spiritual dimension to our existence, I find the notion of reincarnation messy and illogical. Where, for example, do souls get stored when they’re not in use? When a given soul attains enlightenment and escapes from the wheel, is another soul immediately created to take its place? If so, who or what determines whether a newly conceived infant receives a virgin soul or one that has been around for a while? If not, will we one day run into a shortage of souls? Do souls get recycled more quickly when there’s a population explosion, as there is at the moment?” He broke off with an ironic gesture of disclaimer.

“Maybe not everyone gets reincarnated,” a new voice said thoughtfully. “Maybe it only happens in special cases.”

Adam glanced toward the speaker and raised an eyebrow. Avril Peterson’s academic standing might not be the highest in her class, but this was not the first time he had seen her display a flash of intuitive insight.

“Ms. Peterson, I do believe you may have offered us a possible solution to this theological paradox,” he said, his smile warming. Transferring his attention to the group at large, he went on to elucidate.

“Allow me to acquaint you with a possible key to be found in Judaic tradition associated with the Qabalah, which is a body of Jewish mystical doctrine. A very learned friend of mine who is a scholar in such matters once confided to me that a true knowledge of the inner meaning of the Qabalah was not to be acquired through the study of books, but rather through the agency of special ministers whose sacred office it was to transmit ‘the teaching’ from one generation to the next. According to apocalyptic Hebrew legend, mankind was first instructed in the Qabalah by the archangel Metratron, who is legendarily identified as the transfigured Enoch – the man who, according to Genesis, ‘walked with God’ and did not taste death. Metratron is said to have subsequently manifested himself throughout history as various great teachers, including Melchizedek, the priest-king whose encounter with Abraham foreshadows the Eucharist, because he offered bread and wine.

“By more conventional reckoning,” Adam went on, “we might regard Metratron as an

archetypal figure – a symbol, if you like, of all others of his kind. There’s a

rather fascinating passage at the beginning of the sixth chapter of Genesis

which speaks of there being intercourse between ‘giants’ – a tantalizing

reference to beings apparently inferior to God, but superior to humankind – and

the ‘daughters of men.’ The children born of these liaisons are described by the King James Bible as mighty men which were of old, men of renown.  “If we accept that such legends, along with myths and the contents of certain dreams, are expressive of nonempirical truths – truths known to the psyche, but inaccessible by empirical means – then it becomes feasible to consider as a possible vehicle of truth Ms. Peterson’s notion that reincarnation is confined to a selected handful of individuals recruited by the angels and thereafter entrusted with the task of imparting sacred knowledge, generation after generation.

“These individuals thus become bearers of the divine light of truth, in the Promethean sense,” he concluded, “but the lifetime experiences for such individuals might well be likened to the projections thrown off through the apertures of a magic lantern – emanations of light manifested in different places, but derived from the same common source. What is withdrawn at the death of the physical body is the projection, rather than the essence. The light itself continues to burn undiminished, until another aperture opens in the fabric of time.”

His audience had been listening with rapt fascination, caught up in the near hypnotic intensity for which Dr. Adam Sinclair was famous, and now the old lecturer nodded grudging approval.

“You appear to have thought the matter through very thoroughly, Dr. Sinclair,” he admitted. “Are we to take it then, that you personally subscribe to the belief you’ve just outlined in such poetic terms?”

“You may take it,” Adam said lightly, “that we have come as close as we can to providing Ms. Liu with the theological resolution she was seeking. Speaking more clinically, from the standpoint of a psychotherapist, I would say that whatever we may personally come to believe about the nature of past-life regressions, when we encounter such regressions in our patients, it behooves everyone concerned to treat such memories as a valid aspect of the patients’ total experience.”

He would have continued but for a rap at the lecture room door. He glanced in that direction as the door opened and one of the hospital administrators poked his head around the door frame.

“Sorry to interrupt your lecture, Dr. Sinclair, but I have a telephone message for you. They said it was rather urgent.”

Coming forward, he handed Adam a folded piece of hospital memo paper. Inside, written in a neat secretarial hand, was a single sentence: Sir Adam: Humphrey requests that you phone home immediately.

Conscious of a sudden feeling of foreboding, Adam consulted his pocket watch, then directed his attention back to his class as he stood.  “My apologies, but it seems I’m going to be obliged to cut this lecture short,” he said smoothly, pocketing watch and note. “Please feel free to carry on in my absence, but we’ll plan to resume the discussion next time.” Five minutes later, seated behind the desk in his office, he was listening soberly as Humphrey, his butler and personal valet, relayed the news about Nathan Fiennes.

“Mrs. Fiennes said that emergency surgery was performed during the night to alleviate pressure on the brain, but his condition is deteriorating,” Humphrey concluded. “Apparently he asked for you immediately after the attack. Mrs.  Fiennes was quite agitated that you should come, if at all possible.” The account, as it unfolded, struck Adam as oddly coincidental, for though he had not thought about his old mentor in some time, it had been Nathan to whom he was referring when he spoke of the Qabalah during his interrupted lecture. He had to wonder whether the old man’s worsening condition, coupled with his specific request for Adam’s presence, perhaps partially explained why Adam should have been thinking about Nathan only minutes before.  “Thank you for relaying that, Humphrey,” Adam said, when Humphrey had finished.  “I’ll go, of course. I don’t suppose you had time to check with the airlines to see what flights are available?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, sir. Air UK has a four-fifteen flight into Leeds-Bradford, which is the airport nearest to York itself. There were still seats available ten minutes ago. Shall I book you one, sir?” “Yes, do that, please,” Adam said. “On second thought, book two seats. If Inspector McLeod can get away, I’m going to ask him to accompany me. Since there’s a police aspect to this, it may be that he can facilitate interface with the Yorkshire constabulary.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I pack you an overnight bag and meet you at the airport?” Adam glanced at his gold pocket watch and grimaced. “Good idea. It’s going to be tight to make that flight. See you when I get there, Humphrey.” His next phone call was to the Fiennes residence in York, but there was no response. After the seventh ring, Adam abandoned the attempt and dialled the number assigned to police headquarters in Edinburgh.  “Good afternoon. Sir Adam Sinclair calling. Please put me through to Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod.”

He did not often invoke his title, but as usual, it got him the desired result.

“Hello, Adam. What can I do for you?” came a gruff, familiar voice.  “Hello, Noel. I’ve had something rather unusual come up,” Adam said. “Are you busy?”

“Not unless you count the usual backlog of paperwork,”

McLeod replied. “Given half an excuse, I’d gladly play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.”

“How about a whole excuse, and play hooky tomorrow too?” Adam replied. “I’m afraid that what I have to offer is hardly in the nature of a pleasant diversion, but it is police business, and it isn’t behind a desk. How good are your contacts down in York?”

Adam heard the muffled squeak of chair springs as McLeod pulled himself upright.

“What’s happened?”

Briefly Adam outlined the situation as Humphrey had relayed it to him.  “Nathan Fiennes is an old and dear friend,” he concluded. “I read philosophy with him when I was down at Cambridge, and we’ve maintained the friendship ever since. I would have been happy to go to him in any case, but the fact that he’s asked for me in particular suggests that there may be more to this situation than meets the eye. Your assistance would be welcome on a number of fronts.” “Shouldn’t be too difficult,” McLeod replied. “If all else fails, I’ve got some personal leave time coming to me. When were you planning on leaving?” “I’ve had Humphrey book seats for us on the four-fifteen flight to Leeds,” Adam said. “I realize that’s cutting things a bit fine at your end, but the alternative is to drive, which wouldn’t put us in much before midnight. I’m not sure Nathan has that much time.”

“Don’t worry about me,” McLeod said sturdily. “How do you want to handle this, logistic-wise?”

“Why don’t I meet you there at your office in about half an hour?” Adam said.  “Humphrey will be at the airport ahead of us to pick up the tickets. I drove the Jag in this morning, so I’d rather leave it in the police car park than here, if it’s going to sit for a few days. If you don’t mind, we can take your car from there, and swing by your house on the way to the airport to collect your kit.” “Aye, that ought to streamline, things a bit,” McLeod agreed. “I’ll call Jane and have her pack me a bag. See you when you get here.” Several more phone calls handled the arrangements to cover Adam’s duties at the hospital for the next few days. Then he put a call through to York District Hospital.

“Yes, Dr. Adam Sinclair calling with regard to a patient named Fiennes. He would have been admitted last night for emergency surgery. I expect he’s in ICU.” After several transfers of his call, Adam found himself speaking to one of the on-call physicians in intensive care.

“I’m afraid the professor’s prognosis is very poor, Dr. Sinclair,” the woman concluded. “He was still conscious when he came in last night, but a hematoma developed during the night and we had to go in to relieve it. Unfortunately, he hasn’t regained consciousness since the surgery. I wish I could say there was much hope that he will.”

“I see,” Adam said. “I don’t suppose Mrs. Fiennes is there in the ICU, by any chance?”

“No, I don’t see her – though I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. I think her son finally persuaded her to go down to the hospital cafe for a cup of coffee. She’s been here all night, and he came in first thing this morning. Shall I have one of them return your call when they come back?”

“No, I’ll be on my way to the airport by then,” Adam said. “Just tell Mrs.  Fiennes that I’ve received her message and that I expect to be joining her there at the hospital in a couple of hours. Will you do that? Thank you very much.”

chapter two

ADAM made the drive across town to police headquarters in a mood of somber reflection, skirting west of the castle mound and into Princes Street, then winding up around Charlotte Square and on along Queensferry Road. He could not escape the growing conviction that something beyond a mere burglary and assault lay at the root of what was now unfolding.

The headquarters complex for the Lothian and Borders Police Department was a multistorey confection of glass and steel, bristling with radio antennae on its roofs and set back from Fettes Avenue, northwest of the city center. Pulling around into the visitors’ car park, within sight of McLeod’s black BMW, Adam parked and locked the dark blue Jaguar and headed for the main entrance. One of the officers on duty at the desk recognized him and waved him on through, rather than asking him to wait for an escort to come down and fetch him, and he made his way purposefully up a back stair. As he headed through the large open-plan office toward McLeod’s door, which was ajar, he nodded recognition to several officers working there. He could hear McLeod’s voice through the gap as he approached.

“Yes, thanks, Walter. That’s all I can think of at the moment. Right. We’ll talk again when I get there. In the meantime, thanks for all your trouble.” There followed the click of a telephone receiver being returned to its cradle, just before Adam gave a light rap at the door to announce his presence.  “Enter!” McLeod called.

Adam pushed the door open. McLeod was at his desk, gold-rimmed aviator spectacles pushed up on his forehead and his tie askew, looking like a man in no mood to welcome interruptions. As soon as he caught sight of Adam, however, his expression eased to a grin of welcome, the wiry grey moustache bristling above a glint of white teeth.

“Hullo, Adam. Sorry about the bark. I thought for a moment it was one of my confounded juniors determined to bollix things up at the last minute.” “I take it, then, that you’re free and clear?”

“At least for the rest of today and tomorrow,” McLeod said with a grim nod, getting to his feet and reaching for his coat. “I’ve just been on the phone to a colleague down in York, who’s going to find out what he can. Someone will meet us when we arrive. On the surface, at least, it appears to have been a professional job: household alarm effectively disabled – safe opened, not blown – no identifiable prints left anywhere, other than those of the victim and his wife. There were two perpetrators, but they were wearing balaclava masks and surgical gloves. York Police are still interviewing possible witnesses in the neighborhood, but they haven’t got any leads. It doesn’t look very hopeful at present.”

As he did up his tie, a fresh-faced young man in civilian clothes appeared in the doorway – Donald Cochrane, one of McLeod’s most able assistants, recently promoted to the rank of detective.

“Oh, there you are, Donald,” McLeod said. “Did you finally get through?” Cochrane grinned, just missing a salute. “Yes, sir. Mrs. McLeod apologizes for tying up the phone, and will have a bag waiting for you by the time you get there. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Can’t think of anything,” McLeod replied. “You have the con till I get back.  Keep things ticking over smoothly, will you? I don’t want to come home to find half a dozen crises on my desk.”

“Aye, sir,” Cochrane returned with a grin. “See you in a couple of days.” On the way out to McLeod’s house in Ormidale Terrace, Adam gave the inspector a concise briefing on Nathan Fiennes’ medical condition.  “No wonder Walter and his lads are frantic, down in York,” McLeod said when Adam had finished. “A burglary with assault is bad enough, but if the case gets compounded with a murder charge, they’re really going to have their work cut out for them.”

“If the charges extend to murder,” Adam said grimly, “the perpetrators are going to have more than the Yorkshire police to contend with.” They picked up McLeod’s bag and made it to the airport in time to rendezvous with Humphrey a good twenty minutes before flight time. The intrepid Humphrey had already checked them in, and handed over tickets and boarding cards along with Adam’s overnight bag before bidding them farewell. The flight itself was uneventful, touching down at Leeds-Bradford within a minute or two of its appointed arrival time.

With only carry-on luggage, Adam and McLeod disembarked along with the rest of the passengers and made their way into the arrivals lounge. Here they were intercepted by a short, wiry individual in a dapper three-piece tweed suit and sunglasses. McLeod’s look of intense scrutiny transformed immediately into a grin of recognition.

“Hello, Walter!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you’d come in person.”

His associate shrugged and smiled.

“I figured I might as well, and save time all around. My driver’s waiting outside in the car. We can talk on the way back to York. Do you have any luggage?”

“No, just what we’re carrying,” McLeod replied. “Walter, I’d like you to meet Sir Adam Sinclair, special psychiatric consultant for Lothian and Borders Police. As I mentioned earlier on the phone, he’s a longtime close friend of Nathan Fiennes, and Fiennes apparently asked his wife to call Adam, right after the assault. Adam, this is Superintendent Walter Phipps, whose men are following up on the investigation.”

“I’m grateful for any assistance you and your men can render, Superintendent,” Adam said, taking stock of his new acquaintance as he and the Yorkshireman traded handshakes. Half a head shorter than McLeod, Phipps was lean and active-looking, with short-cropped fair hair and a crisp moustache, both lightly touched with hints of silver. Steady grey eyes returned Adam’s gaze with shrewd regard, then crinkled slightly at the edges, as if their owner was favorably impressed by what he saw.

“Your reputation precedes you, Sir Adam,” Phipps said with a tight-lipped smile.  “And please call me Walter, if you’re a friend of Noel’s. I seem to recall that you’re the man Scotland Yard called in several years ago to construct a psychiatric profile of the man they eventually arrested as the so-called Scarborough Slasher. Nobody looks for a miracle like that to come along every day, but maybe you can come up with some leads in the present case – because I’m afraid we haven’t much to go on, so far.”

“I’ll certainly do whatever I can,” Adam promised, as they headed out to the curb and a waiting black Ford Granada. “Right now, however, I’d like to get to the hospital as soon as possible. I gather that Professor Fiennes’ prospects are not good, and I’d like at least to attempt to speak with him before time runs out.”

“Well, I don’t know how successful you’re going to be in that,” Phipps replied, opening the boot so McLeod and Adam could stash their bags. “He was still unconscious when I left York, three-quarters of an hour ago, though at least he was holding his own. It doesn’t look good, though.” He got into the front, next to the uniformed constable who was driving, and McLeod and Adam piled into the back.

It was twenty-three miles back to York. On the way, Phipps briefed them on the essentials of the case to date. The police car pulled up at the main entrance to York District Hospital shortly before six o’clock. As Adam prepared to get out, Phipps produced a business card from his breast pocket and scribbled some numbers on the back.

“I expect you’ll want to be here for a while,” Phipps said, handing the card to Adam. “This is the extension at my office, and the other one is my home number.  Noel and I will pick up a bite to eat on the way to headquarters, but then we’ll be at this number or thereabouts for the rest of the evening. If it gets too late, we may come to check on you. Incidentally, you’re both welcome to stay at my place, if you haven’t made other arrangements.” “Thank you,” Adam said with a nod. “I’m not sure sleep is in the cards for me tonight, but I’ll try to give you a call later this evening, when I know more.  See you later, Noel.”

Once inside the building, Adam made his way up to the intensive-care unit. The sister in charge of the ward greeted him with an air of reservation at first, but her manner thawed at once when he produced one of his business cards listing his credentials.

He skimmed over Nathan’s chart with growing dismay, returning it with a word of thanks. He was just turning to go into the ICU when a tenor voice hailed him from farther up the corridor.

“Is that Sir Adam Sinclair? Oh, thank God you’re here!” The speaker was Nathan’s elder son, Peter, a muscular, dark young man in his mid-thirties, wearing an impeccably cut grey pin-striped suit and round horn-rimmed glasses that made him look studious. After graduating with a first-class law degree from Oxford, Peter Fiennes had gone to work for one of the most prestigious corporation legal firms in London and quickly earned his barrister’s credentials. Recent rumor had it that he soon would take silk as a Queen’s Counsel. At the moment, however, little in his manner suggested the cool, levelheaded barrister. Instead, he looked tense and grief-stricken and far younger than he was – a man already in mourning for a father whose grasp on life was growing weaker with every passing hour.

He hurried forward to clasp the hand that Adam held out to him, allowing himself to be drawn briefly into an embrace of commiseration. Feeling the tremor in the younger man’s shoulders and hand, Adam said quietly, as they drew apart, “Peter, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this should have happened. Naturally, I came as quickly as I could. How’s your mother holding up?” Peter shrugged and shook his head. “She’s exhausted; I don’t think she’s gotten more than an hour or two of sleep while Dad was in surgery early this morning.  He’s always meant the world to her. Right now, all she can think about is that she’s losing him. And there doesn’t seem to be anything anyone can do about it.” “Peter, I’m so sorry,” Adam repeated. “How about your brother? Have you gotten through to him?”

Peter nodded. “He’ll be in in a few hours. He’s flying in from Tel Aviv. The orchestra’s getting ready to go on tour, but they drafted the second flute to move up to first. She’s thrilled at the chance, but sorry for the circumstances, of course – a really nice girl. I hope Larry marries her. Anyway, that means that he’ll be able stay as long as – as he has to.”

“As will I,” Adam said quietly. “As long as I’m needed. Where’s your mother just now?”

“Keeping watch over Dad,” Peter said, gesturing with his chin toward the glass-windowed double doors. “She’s hardly left his side since he came back from surgery. Come with me and I’ll take you to her.”

The intensive-care unit, like most facilities of its type, was a gleaming, antiseptic wilderness of light-panels, consoles, and life-support installations.  Several of the other patients confined there had relatives in attendance, in addition to physicians and nurses circulating among them, and the big room breathed with the susurrant murmur of lowered voices above the hum and ping of the electrical equipment. Adam and Peter drew one or two token glances as they entered from the corridor, for both were striking-looking men, in different ways, but it was clear that the other visitors present were too wrapped up in their own concerns to pay much heed to what was going on elsewhere in the unit.  Nathan Fiennes occupied the bed farthest to the left of the room, his supine, white-draped body wired up to a battery of monitors. His face beneath the alien white skullcap of surgical bandages was grey and braised-looking, more like the face of an effigy than that of a living man. As Adam drew closer, he could hear the older man’s breath whistling as it sawed in and out between slack, dry lips.  A nasal oxygen tube of transparent greenish plastic snaked back over his head to disappear among the orderly tangle of other tubes and wires. Even without a knowledge of what was recorded on Nathan’s medical chart, Adam would have known at a glance that his old friend was not likely to recover from his injuries.  Rachel Fiennes was slumped exhaustedly in a chair between her husband’s bed and the next, which was empty, her back to the doorway. Her head was bowed, either dozing or praying, but even from across the room, Adam could see the tension in the lines of her body as she clung fast to one of her husband’s slack hands. His other hand, confined by a cuff, was connected to an I.V. drip. Together they made a study in tragedy.

Shaking his head sorrowfully, Peter Fiennes went up to his mother and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. When she started up, he soothed her with a pat and said gently, “It’s all right. Mother. Sir Adam’s here – just as Dad wanted.” Rachel Fiennes’ haggard gaze flew beyond her son to the tall, dark figure standing a few feet behind him, at the foot of her husband’s bed, and a tremulous smile touched her lips.

“Adam,” she breathed softly. “Thank you so much for coming.” “I only wish it were under happier circumstances,” Adam said quietly. “I’m not sure why Nathan asked for me in particular, but now that I’m here, I hope I can be of some service.”

Wordlessly Peter Fiennes brought up a chair for Adam beside his mother, then took another for himself on the other side of the bed, facing them. As Adam settled beside Rachel, she reached out to take one of Adam’s hands with her free one.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re here, Adam,” she whispered. “If only you knew how guilty I’ve been feeling.”

“Guilty?” Adam said. “Whatever for?”

“For not telephoning you sooner,” she replied. “Nathan wanted me to call you last night. Right after the incident, before he lost consciousness, he made me promise to call you at once. I gave him my word, fully intending to do as he wished, but I could see he was desperately in need of medical attention. My first call was to summon an ambulance and the police, and after that – “ She made a helpless gesture.

“You were doing your best to save your husband’s life,” Adam said quietly. “You were entirely right to regard everything else as secondary.” “No, I don’t think you understand,” Rachel insisted. “The thieves, whoever they were, took the Seal – the one that’s been in Nathan’s family for goodness knows how many generations. You know the piece I’m talking about?” “Not the one he used to refer to as the Solomon Seal?” Adam said, seeing it in memory and suddenly flashing on a twinge of greater uneasiness.  “Yes, that’s the one. I’m sure he must have shown it to you.” Adam nodded. “He did – but that was many years ago. It certainly was very old – though I wouldn’t know about it having been Solomon’s Seal.” “I don’t know that either,” Rachel said. “I think it was more than just old, though. I do know that research surrounding it had occupied a great deal of his time and energy, these last few years. And just before he passed out, he said – he said, ‘Things about the Seal you don’t know – dangerous things. It’s got to be recovered, at all cost. Call Sir Adam Sinclair and tell him what’s happened….”’

“Indeed,” Adam said, cocking his head. “Do you know what he was talking about, saying there were dangerous things about the Seal?” She shook her head.

“I see. Tell me this, then. Do you think the thieves were after the Seal in particular?”

Rachel shook her head again. “I don’t know,” she said tersely. “If they were, they didn’t hesitate to take all my jewellery as well. And they would have been welcome to every gaudy scrap of it, if only they’d left me my Nathan, safe and sound!”

As tears welled up and she stifled a sob, releasing his hand to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, Adam took a fresh handkerchief of monogrammed linen from the breast pocket of his suit coat and offered it to her. She nodded her thanks and dabbed at her wet cheeks, sniffling miserably, and Adam exchanged a sympathetic glance with Peter.

“Rachel, from what you’ve told me,” Adam said, “it’s obvious that the Seal has acquired a far greater importance of late than it had all those years ago – or at least Nathan had become aware of a greater importance.” As she nodded, he went on.

“The fact that Nathan asked for me, in conjunction with his worry about the Seal’s theft, also suggests that he intended me to devote my attention specifically to the problem of locating and recovering it before any harm can result from its theft. I have no idea what kind of harm that might be, but I’ll certainly do my best to find out and to carry out his wishes. Tell me: Besides myself, how many people outside the family would have known about the existence of the Seal?”

Rachel gave him a blank look and turned to her son for inspiration. Shaking his head, Peter gave a helpless shrug.

“I suppose that any number of people might have known something about it,” he said. “Dad’s never been a particularly secretive man. If you’re talking about anyone having specific knowledge – “ “How about recent and specific knowledge,” Adam prompted, “perhaps in the last year or so?”

Peter grimaced and sighed. “I suppose I ought to give you some recent background first, then,” he said. “Since Dad showed you the Seal, he probably also told you that it’s always been something of a family mystery. When I was little, my grandfather used to tell me stories about how the Seal used to belong to the royal house of Israel, and how it had the power to stamp out evil spirits. You know the kinds of tales that grown-ups sometimes tell kids, to embellish.” Adam nodded, his face impassive, but the mention of evil spirits had triggered a new apprehension.

“Anyway,” Peter went on, “over the years, Dad had been trying to find out more about the Seal – probably sparked by the tales his grandfather had told him when he was a boy. It started out as a kind of academic game, I think – and you know how tenacious he can be when he gets his teeth into a research project – but a new factor entered the equation about eighteen months ago.” “What happened eighteen months ago?” Adam asked.  “Well, Grandfather Benjamin died. It wasn’t unexpected – he was eighty-seven, and he went in his sleep, like that.” He snapped his fingers.”After the funeral, Dad went up to the old house in Perth to clear away the last of Grandfather’s personal effects. While he was about it, he came across a whole chest full of old family papers stored in the attic. Among them was a really battered old parchment document. It was badly yellowed, and the writing was faded brown with age, practically illegible, but Dad was able to make out enough to tell that it was in Latin, and seemed to refer to a seal of some kind.” “The Solomon Seal?” Adam asked.

“So he believed. The possibility was enough to make him drop everything and head across to St. Andrews University to see if anyone in the medieval history department could decipher it for him. The document turned out to be a promissory note for a bronze seal pledged in pawn to one Reuben Fennes of Perth, by somebody named James Graeme, dated 1381!”

He directed an inquiring look at Adam, as if inviting comment, but Adam only shook his head.

“This is all news to me,” he said. “I gather, by your expectation, that the Seal had been pawned for a substantial sum.”

“I’ll say,” Peter replied. “It was practically a duke’s ransom. The figure cited was so extraordinary that Dad was keen to find out who this James Graeme might have been, and why the Seal should have been worth that much money to our distant forebear.”

“And did he?”

“That, I don’t know,” Peter said. “It was about that time, however, that he started seriously ferreting through all manner of medieval archives, not only in the U.K. but also on the Continent. It got to be quite an operation. I’m sure he must have used research assistants to help him sift through some of the documentary material. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

“Oh, yes,” Rachel agreed. “There have been several dozen, over the years. He loved to involve his students in his work.”

Adam smiled. “I can attest to that. Tell me, do you suppose you might be able to draw up a list for me?”

“Dear me, you don’t think – “

“Unfortunately, it’s far too soon to tell you what I think,” Adam said easily.

“A list of people who know about the Seal is a good place to start, though.

Peter, do you think you might be able to give your mother a hand?” Peter shook his head. “I don’t have any direct knowledge, Adam, but maybe Dad’s personal notes would give us some clues. They should be locked up in his desk at home, shouldn’t they, Mother?”

Rachel’s face brightened. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And fortunately, the thieves didn’t tamper with the desk.”

She might have said more, but at that moment, the injured man in the bed stirred and groaned aloud.

chapter three

INSTANTLY attentive, Adam and the others leaned in toward the bed. Nathan Fiennes stirred again. His bruised eyelids fluttered, then opened a painful chink, the gaze wandering unfocused.

“Rachel?” he muttered hoarsely.

Suppressing a small sob, his wife bent down and clasped his hand more closely.  “I’m right here, Nathan. So is Peter. Larry’s going to be arriving shortly. And Adam – Adam Sinclair. You asked me to call him.” A crooked smile touched the injured man’s bluish lips. “All here,” he mumbled drowsily. “That’s good. Always nice when the boys come home for the holidays….” Rachel directed a wordless look of dismay toward Adam, who said softly, “This is not unexpected, I’m afraid. It’s very common in the case of head injuries for the patient’s memory to wander.”

“Is there anything you can do to help him focus?” Peter asked. “He was so adamant that Mother call you.”

Considering, Adam gave a cautious nod. “It’s just possible that he might respond to hypnosis, that he’s at least partially aware of his surroundings.” “Yes, but would it work in a case like this?” Peter wondered. “The surgeon says there’s been localized brain damage.”

“Let me answer your question with yet another question,” Adam said. “Do you believe that your father has an immortal soul?”

The query brought Peter up short. He gave a blink, then said, “Yes. Yes, I do.” “Then believe me,” said Adam, “when I tell you that the  true seat of memory lies there, in the realm of the spirit, not in the perishable physiochemical structures of the brain.”

Even as he spoke, the man in the bed heaved a heavy sigh.  “Sure hope this flu passes off soon,” he murmured, his head moving restlessly from side to side. “Promised the boys we’d drive up to Perth… all go camping….” Rachel lifted her head, her expression one of anguished tenderness. “He’s talking about an incident that happened nearly twenty years ago,” she said softly. “You remember, don’t you, Peter?”

Her son nodded without speaking.

“Those were happy times,” Rachel said, her voice quivering on the edge of a break. “He’s there now, in memory. Do we have the right to call him back to the present – to the pain, and the realization that he’s almost certainly dying?” “That’s your decision, of course,” Adam said quietly. “But given the apparent urgency of his request that I should come, I’d like to at least try to question him. I promise you that nothing I intend will harm your husband in any way, either physically or spiritually. Indeed, it may even be possible to alleviate some of his pain, make him a bit more comfortable.” There was a moment’s silence, broken only by Nathan’s labored murmurings as his mind wandered aimlessly about its chambers of memories. Then Rachel drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders with an air of decision, her hand tightening on her husband’s.

“Forgive me, Adam. I wasn’t thinking of Nathan’s wishes. He’s always trusted you. You must do what you think best. Were I to interfere with this last confidence he wanted to impart to you, I would be less than true to the trust he and I have shared for most of a lifetime.”

Adam smiled gently and patted her hand. “Thank you, Rachel. I know that was not an easy decision. Do you think you and Peter could give me a few minutes alone with him? This is going to require maximum concentration on my part, and the fewer distractions, the better.”

“I think a breath of fresh air might be exactly what Mother and I need,” Peter said, getting to his feet. “Maybe something to eat as well. Can we bring you anything, Adam? A cup of coffee, maybe? Tea?”

Adam shook his head as he stood. “Not just now, thank you. Give me twenty or thirty minutes, would you?”

“Of course.”

As mother and son left the ICU together, arm in arm, Adam moved closer to the head of the bed and casually drew the curtain partway between Nathan’s bed and the rest of the room, thus shielding them from casual observation by the family gathered two beds down around an unconscious older woman. Nathan was still vaguely conscious, if rambling, but there was no telling when he might lapse back into coma. Adam knew he had to act with dispatch or risk losing what might be his one and only chance to question Nathan and learn whatever it was that the old man wanted him to know.

His action had drawn no untoward attention from the nurses tending patients at the other end of the room. After making an understated show of checking Nathan’s pulse and glancing at the readings on the life-support monitors, he reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and undipped a small, pencil-sized flashlight. For a quick trance induction, its beam would catch and hold Nathan’s wandering attention far better than the usual, more indirect focus of his pocket watch, and also be less conspicuous.

Leaning in close over the bed, he turned Nathan’s face gently toward him and directed the light first at one pupil, then at the other, beginning a rhythmic oscillation between the two.

“Nathan,” he called softly. “It’s Adam Sinclair. Listen to me, Nathan. Would you look at me, please?”

The injured man’s distracted gaze slowly gravitated toward the light and the sound of Adam’s voice. He blinked twice, then focused with an effort on the strong face beyond the moving light.

“Adam…. It is you, isn’t it?” he mumbled with a fleeting attempt at a smile.

“Always a pleasure to see you.

My, but you’re getting grey – but I suppose medical school does that to a man.

What can I do for you?”

“Nothing terribly difficult, Nathan. I’ve come to help you.” Adam’s voice deepened slightly as he went on. “I want you to relax. If you can manage it, I’d very much like you to look at the light I’m holding in my hand. Can you see it?” He continued to move it back and forth, flashing it first in one eye, then the other.

“That’s good. Just relax, my friend. Listen to my voice and follow the light.  Back and forth… that’s right. Relax. Listen to my voice and feel yourself starting to float. Very relaxed. That’s good, Nathan. Tell me, how do you feel?” Nathan’s pale lips twitched, his eyelids stalling to droop as he continued to track the moving light.

“No too well,” he murmured. “Head hurts damnably. Flu, I think….” “No, it isn’t flu,” Adam said softly, his voice taking on a soothing, singsong lilt. “But I think we can do something about the discomfort. Imagine that the pain in your head is like a hat that’s on too tight. Imagine yourself taking the hat off and putting it to one side. Once you’ve taken it off, the pain will ease up and your mind will be clear. It will be like floating on a quiet pool – no noise, no trouble, only peace. Take off the hat, Nathan….” He waited a moment, watching Nathan’s taut face. After a few heartbeats, the trembling eyelids closed and the lines of pain and stress began to smooth out.  “That’s good, Nathan,” Adam murmured, switching off his light and returning it to his breast pocket. “The pain is gone. You’re very relaxed. Tell me, are you floating now?”

“Yes… floating….”

“Very good,” Adam said. Dropping his voice till it was scarcely louder than a whisper, he said, “Nathan, I want you to picture something in your mind’s eye – a familiar object. It’s a bronze seal engraved with the star of Solomon. Can you see it?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you could. Nathan, there was something you wanted to tell me about this Seal, something you were having trouble remembering. I’m taking hold of your wrist, and I’m going to count backwards from five to one. When I reach the end of the count, I’ll give your wrist a tap. At that moment, the clouds will lift from your memory and you’ll be able to recall the message you wanted to convey to me. Are you ready? Five… four… three… two… one.” He tapped Nathan’s wrist lightly just below the base of his thumb. The old man did not respond at first, but then, all at once, his whole body stiffened. The eyes opened, but what they saw was not Adam or the room beyond.  “The treasure of the Temple!” he rasped hoarsely. “The Seal guards the secret.

Adam, it has to be recovered, do you hear me? The Seal has to be recovered!” Adam tightened his clasp reassuringly about the older man’s wrist, his other hand brushing soothingly across the forehead. “I hear you, Nathan, but I don’t yet follow you. What does the Seal guard? What secret? What treasure? And what Temple?”

“Solomon’s treasure,” Nathan murmured, “from the Temple in Jerusalem. The Seal came from there… part of a sacred trust. Great power and great danger… royal legacy of the House of David.”

Beneath his calm exterior, Adam’s mind began to work furiously. What Nathan seemed to be hinting was that the missing Seal was, in fact, the legendary Seal of Solomon himself! Tradition had always ascribed to Solomon power and authority over evil spirits, and Adam found himself wondering if some measure of that controlling influence might have been vested in this Seal of which they were speaking. If that was so, there might well be some who would be willing to steal and even kill to obtain it.

“Nathan, what was the purpose of the Seal?” he asked softly. “Do you know?” “It was a key,” Nathan whispered. “A key to keep a deadly evil locked away from the rest of the world. But the Seal is only part of the secret. I think… the Knights knew…. The Knights of the Temple knew….” “The Knights of the Temple?” Adam repeated. “You mean, the Knights Templar?” Nathan drew a labored breath, nodding weakly. “So I believe. The Seal came in pledge…. Pawned to my ancestor… 1381… Graeme of Templegrange….” The significance of the name was not lost on Adam. The appearance of the word “temple” in many a Scottish place name generally indicated that the site had once been associated with the Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem. Indeed, the Templars figured prominently in Adam’s own family history. The ruined tower of Templemor, now being restored on a hilltop overlooking Strathmourne Manor, had once been a Templar outpost.

“Then, you think the Templars guarded this secret?” Adam asked.  “I think so…. Many connections,” Nathan whispered, his breathing starting to quicken. “I was getting so close…. Try Dundee…. Dundee may provide more of the answers….”

Nathan’s voice broke on the last word, and his pulse suddenly gave an irregular, ominous flutter beneath Adam’s fingers. In the same heartbeat, the gauges on the monitors beside him came alive with blips and warning lights as the old man’s pulse rate soared. As if sensing that his body was nearing the limits of its endurance, Nathan made a struggling attempt to raise his head off his pillow.  “Find the Seal!” he muttered hoarsely. “Stop those who stole it! The evil they can loose…. Adam, you must stop them! Please, Adam, for the love of God….” “I understand, Nathan,” Adam said in a tone of quiet authority, gently pressing him back against the pillows and trying to calm him. “That’s enough for now.  I’ll do what must be done. You’ve told me what I need to know. Stop fighting now and relax. Stop struggling and be at peace. This need not concern you any more.” Under the influence of his voice and the stroke of a soothing hand across his brow, Nathan’s agitation gradually subsided. His pulse rate slowed, though it remained very weak, and the monitor readings somewhat stabilized, but his condition clearly was deteriorating. Nathan had not much time, and Adam knew he must try to ready the way for the soul’s passing.

“You’re doing just fine now, Nathan,” he continued softly, as nurses and an ICU physician converged on them and he fended them off with a glance and a shake of his head. “Let go all thoughts of the Seal. Let go all thoughts of strife. Feel yourself floating without pain now on a tranquil stream. Feel the pull of a gentle current carrying you backwards in time. Somewhere in the past a safe haven is waiting to receive you – a place of gentleness and peace and joy. Find a moment of your own choosing, and say to that moment, Stay…. And there abide in peace until the door opens into Light….”

“Light… ,” came Nathan’s faint and unexpected whisper, hardly more than a sigh.  “Yes, Nathan,” Adam murmured, heartened to have gotten any response at all, and suddenly aware what final thing he still might do, that would mean much to his old friend. “The Light will embrace you and hold you safe. Listen to me now, and try to repeat what I say. This is very important. You taught me yourself. If you can’t speak the words, then offer them up in the temple of your own heart. Shema Yisrael.”

Nathan’s eyelids fluttered, and his hand tightened slightly in Adam’s.

“Shema… Yisrael…”

“Adonai Elohenu.

“Adonai Elohenu…”

“Adonai Echad.”

“Adonai . . . Echad. …”

Nathan Fiennes slipped gently back into a coma shortly thereafter, and did not rouse a second time. Though apparently in no discomfort, his vital signs became more and more depressed as the evening wore on. His physicians held out little hope that he would last the night.

His son Lawrence arrived shortly after ten o’clock, white-faced and anxious, fetched from the airport by Superintendent Phipps and McLeod, the latter of whom remained at the hospital to wait for Adam. Nathan lingered until just before midnight, surrounded by his wife and sons and the friend he had called both to witness his passing and to carry out his final wishes. Adam watched over his old friend’s bedside like a knight keeping vigil at the altar, bowing his head when, at the end, a grieving Lawrence pulled a small prayer book from his pocket and began to read, beginning in Hebrew and then shifting to lightly accented English.

“Shema Yisrael, Adonai Elohenu, Adonai Echad. Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One…. Go, since the Lord sends thee; go, and the Lord will be with thee; the Lord God is with him, and he will ascend.” As Lawrence intoned the exhortation twice more, his voice choking toward the end, Peter reached across and gently took the prayer book from him, continuing to read as Adam quietly slipped an arm around the shoulders of the younger son in comfort.

“May the Lord bless thee and keep thee,” Peter read. “May the Lord let His countenance shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. At thy right hand is Michael, at thy left is Gabriel….”

Adam lifted his head at the recitation of the angelic names, for though the order was slightly different, the calling of the four archangels was common to his own tradition.

“Before thee is Uriel, and behind thee is Raphael, and above thy head is the divine presence of God,” Peter went on. “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and He delivereth them. Be strong and of good courage; be not affrighted, neither be thou dismayed; for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest….”

When it was over, Adam spoke briefly with the attending physician, who had slipped in beside him during the final moments to watch helplessly as the life-support monitors faded, then joined McLeod in the corridor outside, to give the family a few minutes alone with their grief.

“He’s gone, then?” McLeod said, as Adam appeared, his tie loosened and his suit coat over one shoulder.

Adam nodded, his expression somber. “I don’t suppose one could wish for a gentler passing, under the circumstances. It was premature, though. He should have been allowed another decade or two, to see his grandchildren well grown and to carry on his research.”

“Well, we’ll see if we can’t find those responsible,” McLeod said. “Did you find out more about this stolen Seal?”

Adam glanced back at the glass-windowed double doors leading into the ICU.  “Yes, I did; and Nathan’s urgency apparently was well founded.” His expression was grave as he drew McLeod farther along the corridor from the nurses’ station, where they would not be overheard.

“I’m afraid Nathan was out of his depth,” he said quietly. “I wish he’d come to me sooner, but I doubt he really knew what he had. He had come to believe that the Seal guarded a treasure or a secret somehow connected with King Solomon and the Temple in Jerusalem. I’m left with the distinct impression that it kept something powerful and dangerous locked away – whether in Jerusalem or someplace closer to home, I couldn’t begin to guess. The Knights Templar figure in the story somehow, perhaps as guardians of the Seal. According to his son, Nathan has a document from the late fourteenth century that’s a promissory note for money borrowed against the Seal by someone called James Graeme. Nathan referred to him as Graeme of Temple-grange.”

“Sounds like a Templar place name, all right,” McLeod rumbled. “But isn’t that a little late for Templars?”

“Aye, at least half a century late,” Adam agreed. “But don’t forget that the papal decree dissolving the Order was never publicly proclaimed in Scotland.  Even in England, it was months before the authorities made a halfhearted attempt to enforce the decree. This James Graeme could have been a Templar, or a descendant – and Templegrange certainly suggests a former Templar connection of his estate, just like Templemor.”

“But what would Templars be doing with the Seal of Solomon?” McLeod asked.  “Maybe they brought it with them from Jerusalem, when they moved their headquarters to Paris,” Adam said lightly. “I don’t know. For that matter, I don’t know that it’s actually Solomon’s Seal. He also mentioned Dundee, and I also don’t know what connection the Templars had with that. I never had the impression that their holdings were extensive in that area, but I never had reason to investigate specifically, either. I know a lot about Templemor, of course; and there’s the village of Temple, down by Gore-bridge, which used to be the main Templar preceptory for Scotland. I don’t think there’s much left standing, though – “ He broke off as a shaken-looking Peter Fiennes came out of the ICU, glancing in their direction and then heading toward them.

“There you are,” Peter said. “I wasn’t sure where you’d gotten to. You must be Inspector McLeod,” he added, offering his hand to McLeod, who shook it. ‘ Thank you for coming along with Adam.”

“I only hope I can help your local police find the culprits,” McLeod said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Fiennes. I wish I’d known your father. I’ve heard Adam speak of him often, and in glowing terms.”

“You’re very kind,” Peter said, obviously restraining his emotions only with an effort. He returned his gaze to Adam and drew a fortifying breath. “Adam, if you and the inspector haven’t made other plans, I’d be very grateful if you’d both come and stay at my mother’s house tonight. You’d have to share a room, I’m afraid, but I’d feel better if you’re there for her in the morning, when some of the shock begins to wear off.”

Adam glanced at McLeod, who gave a sober nod.

“Whatever you think best, Adam. We have an offer from Walter as well, but it sounds like you might be needed more with Mrs. Fiennes.” “If you’re sure it won’t be an imposition,” Adam said to Peter. “You’ll have heavy family obligations in the next few days. I wouldn’t want to intrude.” “It’s no intrusion, believe me,” Peter replied. “Besides, if you stay at the house, you can start going through Father’s papers first thing in the morning.  One always feels so helpless at a time like this. At least maybe something in his notes will help with the police investigation.”

chapter four

THEY were at Nathan’s files shortly after ten the next morning, following a substantial breakfast served up by Peter’s wife. Rachel was still asleep, thanks to the light sedative Adam had persuaded her to take the night before, and her younger son, Lawrence, had assumed responsibility for arranging the funeral, which would take place the following morning. As the house began to buzz with the bustle of callers coming to offer their condolences downstairs, Peter conducted Adam and McLeod up to Nathan’s study and gave them a quick briefing on the general form of his father’s research notes.

“There’re these two boxes of index cards,” Peter said, thumping the two green file boxes on the desktop, “and then there’s three – no, four hard-backed notebooks.” He pulled these from a bottom desk drawer and slapped them down beside the boxes. Nathan had kept the notebooks in ballpoint pen, and the pen’s impression on the thin paper had made the pages bulge slightly from between the grey marbleized covers.

“Here’s some more stuff,” Peter went on, pulling out a slim stack of file folders and large manila envelopes. “One of these ought to be – yes: photos of the Seal. I knew these were around here somewhere. He sent me one, years ago, and I used to keep it thumbtacked to my bulletin board at college. Of course, I had no idea how old it was, in those days. Neither did Dad, I suppose.” Adam glanced at the photo Peter held out, gesturing for him to show it to McLeod, and picked up one of the notebooks at random, riffling experimentally through its pages.

“At least it looks like he kept his notes in plain English,” he observed. “I was half-afraid we might find ourselves having to grapple with some kind of personal cipher.”

“Well, there may be something worse than that,” Peter said, delving into another desk drawer and lifting out a very compact laptop computer. “I know he’d started using this the last couple of years. I’d be willing to bet that most of the recent material is in here.”

As he set it on a clear spot on the desk, McLeod positioned his aviator spectacles more squarely on his nose and gestured toward the chair before the desk.

“May I?” he asked, also including the machine in his gesture.

“Of course.”

Sitting, McLeod opened the screen and turned the computer on. A series of standard commands got the system booted up and running, and finally produced a directory listing such intriguing headings as Britmus, Dundee, Re-sasst, and Tmplgrng, but it also demanded a password to gain further access.  “I don’t suppose you know what your father’s password was for these files?” McLeod asked Peter, as he tried, first, SEAL and then SOLOMON and failed to get in.

Peter shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. It’s possible Mother might know, but I doubt it.”

“Well, I don’t know about Noel,” Adam said, “but I’m afraid my computer skills aren’t up to hacking into protected files without some expert assistance. Would you mind if we take this away with us, Peter?”

“Not at all, if you think it will help,” he said. “Good Lord, that must be maddening, to know there’s possibly useful material there, and not be able to get at it.” He glanced at the boxes and notebooks. “Do you think these will be any help?”

“We’ll have a quick scan through them and see,” Adam said, as McLeod shut down the computer and closed its screen. “Meanwhile, if you want to go and see if your mother has stirred yet, or your brother needs help – “ “I can take a hint,” Peter said with an awkward smile.  “I’ll leave you two at it. Let me know if I can help you with anything else.” When Peter had gone, closing the study door behind him, Adam pulled another chair closer and resumed his perusal of the least thumbed of the notebooks.  McLeod had already shifted his attention to the first file box, and was flipping through the cards in it.

“What do you think?” Adam said. McLeod shook his head. “It isn’t going to be easy. This is right out of my league.”

“You may surprise yourself,” Adam said. “What have you got?” “Well, these appear to be bibliographical references,” McLeod replied. “He’s got books, articles, manuscripts, and other miscellaneous documents, mostly about biblical archaeology and a lot on the Knights Templar and the Crusades. A good many of the citations seem to come from libraries on the Continent.  “Ah, now, this may prove interesting,” he said, pulling out a card and holding its place with a finger as he tilted the card toward the light from the window.  “Look here, in the lower right-hand corner. Would you say those are initials?

Maybe the initials of the researcher who made the citation?”

Adam glanced over at what he was doing and gave a nod. “That would be my guess.

Are there many different sets?”

Returning the card to its place and fingering farther along the stack, McLeod made an affirmative grunt.

“Looks like there could be a dozen or so. The entries themselves have been typed on a variety of machines, apparently over quite a span of time. Some of these cards look pretty old and dog-eared. Shall I try to pull a list of initials?” “Yes, and it wouldn’t hurt to see if you can match any of them to names in Nathan’s address book, if we can find that,” Adam replied, setting aside the notebook he had been looking at and leaning in to open the desk drawer. As he bent to peer inside, feeling toward the back among the untidy piles of envelopes and index cards, McLeod conducted the same sort of search in the drawers on the left.

The elusive address book turned up in the top drawer on the right. Adam flipped through it briefly, illogically hoping that a name would pique his attention, then handed it to McLeod.

“See what you can do with that,” he said, picking up the stack of notebooks. “If you can come up with a list of initials in the next hour or two, I’ll ask Peter to have a look at it when we break for lunch. Meanwhile, the address book may provide some preliminary guesses.”

As McLeod moved a yellow pad closer and pulled a pen from an inside coat pocket, Adam took the stack of notebooks over to an armchair nearer the window, where he settled down for a serious read. The most recent one had only half a dozen entries, mainly having to do with background on seals similar to the one until recently in Nathan’s possession. Apparently Nathan had recently received confirmation of his own Seal’s antiquity.

Prepared for a long and probably fruitless search, Adam set the notebook aside and picked up the next most recent one. As he flipped to the end, intending to work backwards from the material he had already read, the notebook fell open to a letter-folded piece of paper tucked snugly into the crease of the binding. It proved to be a photocopy of a letter from a Dr. Albrecht Steiner, in the art history department of the Sorbonne, to someone named Henri Gerard at a Paris address. It was dated the previous March.

“Noel, do the initials ‘H.G.’ appear on any of your cards?” Adam asked, as he skimmed over the typewritten French with growing interest.  “Yes, quite a few,” McLeod replied. “What have you got?” “A copy of a letter to a Henri Gerard from the Sorbonne,” Adam replied. “It appears to be a report on a metal sample taken from Nathan’s Seal and sent to their labs for – well, now.”

McLeod looked up. “What does it say?”

“Well, unless my French has totally failed me, the man who wrote this letter dates the piece from around 950 b.c. – what’s known as the First Temple Period.  He apparently was working from detailed photographs of the Seal. And listen to this,” he said, translating. “Chemical analysis of the sample provided is compatible with bronze samples taken from the prehistoric mineworks at Tell el-Kheleifeh, more popularly know as King Solomon’s Mines.” “King Solomon’s Mines?” McLeod repeated. “Adam, do you think the stolen Seal really is the Seal of Solomon?”

Adam shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far, based on the evidence I’ve seen so far. But I wouldn’t rule out the possibility, either. I wonder what other intriguing tidbits we’re going to find. Oh, Nathan, I wish you could have told me more about what’s going on….”

They carried on with their research for the remainder of the morning, until Peter Fiennes came to summon them downstairs for lunch. Lawrence had gone to the airport with Peter’s wife to collect Nathan’s sister and her family, so they were only four at table.

“What can you tell me about Henri Gerard?” Adam asked, over green salad and grilled cheese sandwiches washed down with a crisp Riesling. “I gather that he was one of your father’s researchers.”

Peter exchanged a glance with his mother, who was looking reassuringly composed as she settled into her first full day of widowhood.

“What makes you ask about him!” Peter replied.

“Just that I found a copy of a letter to him. Apparently he had lab tests run on a metal sample taken from the Seal.”

He showed the letter around while he related the general findings of the report.  “Aside from the information being very interesting, though, it’s the name that interests me,” he said, as he took the letter back. “Henri Gerard is the first name we’ve come up with, who we know is connected with Nathan’s research. Noel has compiled a list of initials he’d like you to look at, after you’ve finished lunch, to see if you can assign names. We suspect they’re other researchers who have worked with your father, and the police will probably want to talk to some of them, to start forming a profile of who might have wanted to steal the Seal.” “Well, I can’t imagine any of them would be involved in something like that,” Peter said. “Gerard’s a little older than most of the assistants Father worked with, over the years – a bit of an eccentric, in the manner of many dedicated scholars, but I’m sure he’s harmless.”

“He probably is,” Adam replied. “How did he and your father meet?” Peter gave a halfhearted shrug. “Gerard spent a sabbatical here a couple of years ago, right after a team of archaeologists uncovered a previously unknown burial ground in the medieval Jewish quarter of the city. At the time, he was pursuing some crackpot theory that the Knights Templar had been making an in-depth study of Jewish necromancy. That’s what I meant by ‘eccentric,’ “ he added at Adam’s look of surprise. “The trial of the Templars is his area of special expertise. He was hoping the grave sites might yield up some support for his theory. He needed some help with some Hebrew translations, so the site supervisor put him onto my father.”

“Was there evidence of Jewish necromancy?” Adam asked.  “Of course not. So far as I know, that research never came to anything. But he got interested in what Dad was doing, that summer he was here, and he sort of became Dad’s continental contact for tracking down obscure references. I know he has access to parts of the Vatican Archives that most people can’t get at. Can’t tell you much more about him, though.”

“Well, that’s probably sufficient on him for now,” Adam said, glancing at McLeod. “How about taking a look at Noel’s list of initials, and seeing if you can supply us with some more names?”

“Sure. Let’s see,” he said, turning his attention to the list McLeod passed him.  “Ah, ‘N.G.’ That would be Nina Gresham. She was a dear. She did a Ph.D. under Dad’s supervision a couple of years ago. I think she’s at some private institute in Italy now. She isn’t Jewish, but her Hebrew is almost as good as Dad’s. I don’t know where she picked it up. She has six or eight ancient languages. Works with documents from the time of the Crusades.”

“What about this T.B.’?”

“That would be Tevye Herman. He’s Israeli, was working on a dig in Jerusalem near the site of the old Temple. A good guy. I think he’s dead now, though.” “And ‘M.O.’?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“How about ‘K.S.’?”

“Karen Slater, maybe. Or it could be Keith Sherman. They’ve both worked for Dad, over the years.”

In the next quarter hour, Peter Fiennes was able to assign names to almost all of the initials McLeod had gleaned from the file cards, with his mother supplying a few he had not known. After coffee, Adam and McLeod went back upstairs to continue their research and leave the family their privacy.  Most of the names matched those McLeod had been able to glean from Nathan’s address book, compiled on a second list with addresses and telephone numbers.  The ones that matched, McLeod ticked and copied onto a master list, while Adam continued to read in Nathan’s notebooks. By four, when it was clear that McLeod had done about all he could at this end, he rang Walter Phipps at York Police headquarters to arrange for transportation to the airport for the 5:50 flight back to Edinburgh.

“There’s really no point in my hanging around here for the funeral, since I didn’t know your Nathan,” he said, when he had made the call. “I can probably do a whole lot more from home. When Walter collects me, I’ll give him this copy of the names and addresses of the research assistants, and let his lads follow up on the conventional aspects of the case. Meanwhile, I’ll have a go at cracking those computer files tonight.”

“That might save us some time,” Adam agreed. “There’s nothing in the last notebook since spring, so it’s quite possible that some of his recent correspondence is in there – anything that might give us a clue what we’re up against. What about this Henri Gerard? Am I grasping at straws, just because Peter said he was a bit eccentric, or do you think he figures in the case? There is a Templar connection.”

McLeod sat back in his chair and pulled off his glasses with a sigh, to massage the bridge of his nose.

“I think he may be a player, Adam. Call it a cop’s sixth sense, if you like, but to use a cop term I picked up in the States, there’s something ‘hinky’ about him.”

“You think so too, eh?”

“Good, then. I’m glad it isn’t just me,” McLeod said. “When I get back, I’m going to make a couple of calls to Paris. My friend Treville at the Surete owes me a favor or two. I’d like to see whether he knows anything about our man.” He replaced his glasses and put the lids back on the two file boxes, then pushed them farther toward the back of the desk. “You planning to catch the same flight tomorrow night?”

Adam nodded. “The funeral’s at eleven, so the timing’s just about perfect. A lot of people will be coming back to the house afterwards, so I shouldn’t have any trouble getting someone to run me to the airport. If you could call Humphrey and alert him when you get back, I’d appreciate it.”

“Will do.”

When McLeod had gone off with Phipps, Adam returned to join the Fiennes family for the soothing and civilized ritual of afternoon tea, made more formal by the subdued clothing and conversation of those partaking. Members of the Fiennes clan had been arriving all afternoon, from far-flung corners of the world, and Rachel and Risa, Peter’s wife, were diverting their sorrow by catering to their guests. After tea, to give the family some privacy, Adam took himself off for a walk into the ancient city of York, with notice to Peter that he would find his own evening meal. He needed time to assimilate what he had been reading, and space apart for an hour or two, to deal with his personal sorrow at Nathan’s passing.

His meanderings soon took him into the grounds and then the rear entrance of the cathedral, which was in the midst of Evensong. Especially drawn by this offering of thanksgiving and praise after the sorrow of the past twenty-four hours, he slipped inside and sat listening quietly in the back, for he did not wish to intrude on the service in progress. Heard down the length of the great nave, the pure sound of the boys’ voices floated poignant and sweet. As Adam settled back to actually listen to what they were singing, he realized that they could not have chosen better, had they known that they marked the passing of Nathan Fiennes.

“Remember, Lord, how short life is, How frail you have made all flesh.

Who can live and not see death?

Who can save himself from the power of the grave…?” Much moved, Adam slipped to his knees and offered up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the life of Nathan Fiennes, knowing that his old friend would not mind that it was given in a Christian place of worship. The actual words of the scripture readings that followed did not carry well to where he was seated, so he let the drone of the reader’s voice simply carry him deeper into communion with the All. After a while, kneeling there with his eyes closed, he found the image of Nathan’s Seal before him in his mind’s eye, dispelled only when the choir began to sing the Nunc dimittis. “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy word….” That, too, was a fitting farewell to his old friend.

After the service was over, Adam lingered for a little while to savor the beauty of the cathedral, strolling up as far as the transept to crane his neck backwards and gaze up at the soaring vault of the lantern tower, the largest of its kind in England. Shortly thereafter, vergers began quietly herding visitors toward the door, so he drifted outside to mount the city wall at Bootham Bar and stroll along its esplanade, gazing out over the city by the light of the dying day.

After tea so late in the afternoon, he did not feel like eating dinner, so he returned to the Fiennes residence at about half past nine and, after inquiring whether there was any way he could assist the family, declared his intention to head up to bed for a proper night’s sleep after the short hours of the night before. Before retiring, however, he paused at the phone in a niche at the foot of the stairs to make a brief call to McLeod.

“Hullo, Noel,” he said without preamble, when McLeod himself answered. “I know you’ve only been home a few hours, but any progress?” “None on Gerard,” McLeod replied, “though I did talk to Treville. He’s supposed to get back to me sometime tomorrow. I had some luck with Nathan’s computer, though. Have you got a minute?”

“What did you find?”

“Well, he’s got some very interesting files in here,” McLeod said. Adam could hear the gentle click of the keyboard as McLeod called up material on his screen to refer to it. “A lot of it is diary-type entries, probably similar to what you were reading in the notebooks, but he’s got some actual transcripts and translations of some of his documents as well. Do you want to hear some of this?”

“Give me a sampling,” Adam replied, pulling a notepad closer and taking out a pen. “I don’t want to tie up this line too long, in case relatives are trying to get through to the family, but it might give me something to work on while I sleep. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted after last night’s late hours.” “So am I,” McLeod agreed, to the accompaniment of more keys clicking. “I nodded off on the flight home, slept right through the landing. I’ve never done that before. Anyway, I’m looking at a chain of references that appears to link the Templars with our Graeme of Templegrange, who pawned the Seal. A minor demesne called Templegrange is mentioned in a letter of 1284 from King Alexander III to the Bishop of Dunkeld. The wording leaves it uncertain whether Templegrange belongs to the King or the bishop, but Nathan cites later evidence suggesting that the property was probably a minor Templar commandery at the time of the Order’s dissolution in 1314. The Order had a lot of land in Scotland, as you know.”

“Yes, Templemor has a similar history,” Adam said, jotting down notes. “Go on.” “A little later on, Nathan references a grant of lands by Robert the Bruce to a Sir James Graeme of Perthshire, in gratitude for support given to the King at the Battle of Bannockburn the previous year. There’s no transcription of the document itself, but even I remember that Bannockburn was also 1314. After that, something else is obviously missing, but Nathan somehow makes the connection that Templegrange was the particular land granted to Sir James Graeme, and concludes that this same Sir James may have been an ancestor of the Graeme of Templegrange who pawned the Seal in 1381. Have you got all that?” “It seems like a straightforward chain of logic, if it’s all supportable,” Adam replied. “The important thing is the Templar connection – though we’d supposed that, from the name Templegrange.”

“There’s more,” McLeod continued, “and you’re going to feel really foolish over this one. I certainly did.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I also cracked the Dundee file. I think Nathan meant the person, not the place – as in ‘Bonnie Dundee,’ whose full name was -?” “John Grahame of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee,” Adam supplied, feeling foolish as predicted – though how the Seal of Solomon and a Templar secret connected with a seventeenth-century Cavalier general, he had no idea.  The man remembered as Bonnie Dundee was perhaps one of the most flamboyant and controversial figures of the early Jacobite period of Scottish history. Known to every educated Scot as the victor of the Battle of Killiecrankie, fought in 1689 against a superior force of English soldiery, Claverhouse had been feared by his enemies as “Bluidy Clavers” and adored by his Highland followers as their “Dark John of the Battles.” Though he had not survived his famous triumph, his undoubted courage and gallantry had made him the hero of many a song and story – none, so far as Adam knew, with any connection to Knights Templar or mysterious seals. It briefly occurred to him to wonder whether Nathan’s whole story might be just as fanciful as the historical fantasies of Henri Gerard – except for the urgency of Nathan’s dying declaration.

“I know you’re probably hunting for a connection, the same as I’ve been doing,” McLeod said, intruding on Adam’s brief speculation. “Other than the link of the names – Graeme and Grahame – I haven’t a clue what that connection might be, since the Seal was pawned well over three hundred years before Dundee died. And it’s been another three hundred years since then.

“But Nathan obviously thought there was a connection,” McLeod went on, “or he wouldn’t have cluttered up his hard disk with all these Dundee files. We have to assume that Graeme of Templegrange never redeemed the Seal, since it ended up in the Fiennes family; so where does John Grahame of Claverhouse come in?” Adam shook his head, even though he knew McLeod could not see it.  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he said truthfully. “Not even an inkling. There’s nothing in all that Dundee material to suggest anything?” “I honestly don’t know,” McLeod replied. “It took me a while to hack into these files, and I’ve only had a chance to skim through. Would you like me to print out what’s here? I could have Donald run the hard copy out to Strathmourne tomorrow, so it’ll be waiting for you when you get in. I’ll have to stick close to the office myself, to wait for that callback on Gerard.” “I think that might be a good idea. Yes, do that.”

They parted on the understanding that Adam would try to check in again between the funeral and leaving for the airport. Meanwhile, he had been given much new food for thought. As he headed upstairs, he chided himself again for missing the Dundee connection with John Grahame of Claverhouse.  And how did the Jacobite hero connect with the Templars and the Seal of Solomon?  That was not at all clear. Dundee had been a staunch supporter of the Stuart cause – but again, how did that connect to Templars?  He let his brain mull the questions as he brushed his teeth and readied for bed, and found a traditional, haunting melody running through his head, accompanied by the immortal words of Sir Walter Scott:

To the Lords of Convention ‘twas Clover’se who spoke, ‘Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke;

So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.

The melody stayed to haunt him as he drifted off to sleep, with snatches of the lyrics weaving in and out of consciousness until at last he sank beyond awareness. The first few hours were dreamless, as he made up for the night before. But then images of increasing vividness began to tease at semiconsciousness.

The source of the initial impressions was not difficult to determine: glimpses of Dundee astride a great, plunging bay steed, sword in hand as he urged his followers on – the archetypal Cavalier hero. Then, gradually, the buff-coated Highland cavalry following him became crusader knights charging into battle, red crosses emblazoned on their white surcoats and the black and white beauceant banner of the Order of the Temple fluttering overhead in the bright sun of desert climes.

But there was a tension building. Suddenly the equestrian images yielded to a ghostly apparition of King Solomon himself, bearded and potent, majestically robed in flowing vestments of scarlet adorned with Qabalistic symbols, and crowned with a shining golden diadem that looked like a six-pointed star with the points bent up. In his left hand he held up what was surely Nathan’s Seal like a protective talisman. His right hand wielded a sceptre or wand, its tip so brightly glowing that Adam could barely look upon it.  Adam’s dream-self flung up an arm to shield his eyes, but a word of command from the great King bade him look where the Sceptre pointed. Trembling, Adam obeyed – to find himself being drawn toward a roil of churning yellow cloud, alive with sickly flickerings of greenish-yellow light. From within the clouds came waves of such dread as to make his stomach turn.

He woke in a cold sweat, gasping, his heart pounding as he instinctively drew on deep protections to envelop and protect him. He did not turn on the light, for by the sliver of light leaking underneath the bedroom door from the hall, he could see that there was nothing physically there. But certain it was that the dream had been a warning – whether merely from his unconscious, embroidering on what he had been reading about Nathan’s speculations regarding the missing Seal, or from some external source, he could not tell.

But this was not the time or place to find out, alone and in unfamiliar surroundings, without even a clear picture of the problem yet, much less the solution; and certainly not under the added tension of the palpable grief in the Fiennes house. The urgency was unmistakable, but more active investigation must wait until tomorrow, when he returned home, and as more of the background became clearer.

Yet the residue of menace lingered, so much so that eventually he got up and fetched from the pocket of his suit coat a handsome gold signet ring set with a dark sapphire. Slipping it on his finger as he padded back to bed, he simultaneously offered up a formal prayer for protection and then touched the stone to his lips in salute. The ring was an outward symbol of his esoteric calling, and sometimes a tool of that vocation, and the little ritual grounded him firmly back in the realms of reason.

Further ritual before he lay back down again made of his bed a focus of celestial protection – a simple rite known as Sealing the Aura, which called upon the great archangels to guard the quarters and was sealed at last with a six-pointed star. His sleep thereafter was undisturbed by dreams, but he still slept lightly, as a part of him kept watch and pondered what had surfaced.

chapter five

NATHAN Fiennes’ funeral took place shortly before noon the following morning, in the presence of his family and scores of friends and colleagues who had come together in shock and grief to mourn his passing. In keeping with Jewish custom, the service was starkly simple and unpretentious, all the more poignant for the weight of ancient tradition that shaped its form. Adam, sitting directly behind the family in the chapel adjoining the burial ground, was struck, as always, by the commonalities that united all men and women of goodwill, especially at a time of loss. “O Lord, what is man that Thou dost regard him, or the son of man that Thou dost take account of him?” the officiating rabbi read. “Man is like a breath, his days are like a passing shadow. Thou dost sweep men away. They are like a dream, like grass which is renewed in the morning. In the morning it flourishes and grows, but in the evening it fades and withers….” Following along in the service book, caught up in the cadences of ancient ritual, which alternated between Hebrew and English, Adam was yet aware of the physical setting of this farewell and memorial to his departed friend. The chapel itself contained no religious symbol of any faith. Its focus was the plain and unadorned wooden coffin set before the congregation, covered with the pristine wool drapery of a tallit, such as all observant Jews customarily wore at their devotions. This one, Adam knew, had been brought by Lawrence from Jerusalem, in hopes that he might wear it in thanksgiving at his father’s recovery; now it lay in tribute upon his father’s coffin. Nathan’s own tallit would have been lovingly wrapped around his shrouded body before laying it in the coffin, with one of the fringes cut to render it no longer fit for use – for Nathan no longer had need of it.

A single candle burned behind the coffin, but no flowers adorned coffin or chapel, for Jewish custom did not deem this appropriate in a time of sorrow. The men all wore yarmulkes on their heads, as did Adam himself, out of respect for Jewish custom.

“O God, full of compassion,” the rabbi prayed, “Thou Who dwellest on high, grant perfect rest beneath the sheltering wings of Thy presence, among the holy and pure who shine as the brightness of the heavens, unto the soul of Natan, son of Binyamin, who has gone unto eternity, and in whose memory charity is offered.  May his repose be in Paradise. May the Lord of Mercy bring him under the cover of His wings forever, and may his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.  May the Lord be his possession, and may he rest in peace. Amen.” Following a brief but moving eulogy and more prayers, Adam was among those who joined Nathan’s sons in shouldering his coffin to bear it out into the cemetery, their halting procession accompanied by the cantor’s solemn recitation of the beautiful and moving ninety-first Psalm.

“He that dwelleth in the shelter of the Most High abideth under the shadow of the Almighty. I say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God in Whom I trust. For He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with His pinions, and under His wings shalt thou take refuge….”

The graveside rites were as bleak as the wind that sighed in off the Yorkshire downs.

“Tzidduk ha ‘din….” The Rock, His work is perfect, for all His ways are judgement: A God of faithfulness and without iniquity, just and right is He….  The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord….

May he come to his place in peace.

The coffin was lowered into the earth with simple finality. After that, beginning with Peter and then Lawrence, those wishing to pay their final respects came forward to turn three shovels of earth onto the coffin; the shovel was not passed from one to the next, but left upright in the mound of earth beside the grave. Earlier, briefing Adam on what to expect, Peter had explained that the symbolic gesture expressed the prayer that the tragedy of death not be passed on.

The silence was broken only by the hiss of the shovel being thrust into earth, occasionally ringing against stones, and the thump of falling earth, first hollowly on the wooden coffin and then, as the grave began to fill, the softer, more solid patter of earth on earth. When Adam’s turn came, he made of each of his oblations of earth a prayer as well, drawing on his Celtic heritage for the words of his own silent farewell.

Blessings in the name of the Father of Israel, Blessings in the name of the Rabbi Jesus, Blessings of the Spirit Who brooded on the waters – Thus may you be blessed as you travel on your way….

He thrust the shovel into the mound of earth beside the grave with bowed head and stood back, melding into the crowd.

The process continued until the grave had been completely filled in, the men taking turns with the serious business of shoveling earth, once the token gestures had been made. Then, after the rabbi had offered another short prayer and led the assembled mourners in recitation of a Psalm, Peter and Lawrence stepped forward to offer Kad-dish for their father for the first time – an ancient prayer Adam had learned from Nathan many years ago, and which he now offered in company with those around him, giving somber response to Nathan’s sons.

“Yisgadal v’yiskadash sh’may rabbah,” the two read, “b’olmo d’hu asid I’ls-chadosho….” Magnified and sanctified be His great name in the world which He will renew, reviving the dead, and raising them to life eternal…. May He establish His kingdom during your lifetime, and during the life of all the House of Israel, speedily; and let us say. Amen. Let His great name be blessed for ever and to all eternity! Blessed, praised, glorified, and exalted; extolled, honored, magnified and lauded, be the name of the Holy one, blessed be He. He is greater than all blessings, hymns, praises and consolations which can be uttered in this world; and let us say, Amen. May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life for us and for all Israel; and let us say, Amen.  “Oseh shalom bimeromav, Hu ya’aseh shalom, alenu v’al Kol yisroel; v’imru amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation replied, in affirmation of the final exhortation.  When the last prayer had been offered and the last Psalm recited, those present formed a double line through which the family passed, offered comfort by ancient formula: “Ha ‘makom yenachem et ‘chem b ‘toch she ‘ar avelei Tziyon vi’Yerushalayim.” May the Omnipresent comfort you together with all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.

Adam held back a little as the rest started to disperse slowly toward the cars, watching as some of the attendees plucked grass and cast it behind them. Several more paused to set small stones on the grave, bowing their heads in what Lawrence had told him was an Israeli custom, asking forgiveness for any injustice they might have committed against the deceased. Bowing his head, Adam added his own silent promise to Nathan to persevere in the task set before him, even though it seemed overwhelming at present. He had just turned to join the rest, heading toward the car in which he had ridden with several of Nathan’s distant relatives, when Peter Fiennes detached himself from the immediate family, leaving his mother in the care of his brother, and came to fall into step beside Adam.

“Thank you again for being here,” he said quietly. He hesitated slightly, then added, “I didn’t realize you were so familiar with Hebrew ritual. Your accent is almost better than mine.”

“I owe my instruction to your father,” Adam said with a faint smile. “When he and I were both at Cambridge, a close friend of mine was drowned in a boating accident, and I asked your father to teach me to pray Kaddish in Hebrew for him.  It’s one of those universal prayers that speaks from the heart of mankind.  Nathan always maintained that a common thirst for communion with the Divine was what united all truly spiritual people, whatever their formal religious affiliations might be.”

Peter accepted this tribute with a wan smile. “That sounds like Dad, all right.  He was lucky to have you for a friend. If anyone can recover the Seal for him, I know you can. I wish there were more I could do to help, besides just drive you to the airport in a couple of hours.”

“Just pray for our success,” Adam said, “and I mean that quite literally.” He smiled and added, “Actually, there is one, more concrete thing you could do, and that’s to let me take the rest of your father’s notes away with me for further study. It’s beginning to look like we need to speak with Henri Gerard, but we still don’t know exactly what we’re up against. Also, if anything else should turn up in the next few days, or you should think of anything that might have bearing, please let me know.”

“I’ll do that, of course,” Peter agreed. “And do take the notes, by all means.

In your hands they may do some good.”

“I devoutly hope so,” Adam said. In his own mind was the thought that if Nathan was to rest easy in his grave, he and McLeod were going to have their work cut out for them.

Back at the Fiennes home afterwards, where many of those present at the funeral had retired to offer their condolences and share a light repast of bagels and coffee, Adam excused himself to go upstairs and pack, then moved into Nathan’s study where, after packing up the rest of Nathan’s notes in a briefcase he found there, he rang McLeod at his office, charging the call to his home number.  “Hullo, Noel,” he said without further preamble. “Any progress on Gerard?” “A bit – for all it’s worth,” McLeod said without enthusiasm. “The address and telephone number we found for him are good, but Gerard isn’t there. To make a long story short, he’s supposedly gone off to Cyprus on a four-week camping holiday.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Yes, I thought so,” McLeod agreed sourly. “According to my friend Treville, our boy purchased a round-trip air ticket to Nicosia and picked it up from the travel agent’s on Monday of last week. He paid for it with a credit card. His bank records show that he drew a substantial amount of money from his standing account the selfsame day.”

“How substantial?”

“Nearly ten thousand pounds – more than he’d need for any camping holiday,” McLeod replied. “But Gerard is known to be a collector of antiquities. It could be argued that he simply wanted to have sufficient cash on hand, in case he ran across any irresistible finds while on holiday. Treville’s men are still trying to find out if he bought any camping gear recently, but again it could be argued that he already had what he needed in the way of kit. So you be the judge.” “If it’s a cover story, it’s a reasonably useful one,” Adam allowed. “I wouldn’t fancy having to track down the whereabouts of a camper on the move. Has anyone verified that Gerard actually made the trip?”

“Treville had Interpol check it out,” McLeod said, “and they checked with the Cypriot authorities. Both the airline and the passport-control people show in their records that on Wednesday the eleventh, a Monsieur Henri Gerard got on the plane in Paris and got off again in Cyprus. But you and I both know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. With enough cash and a forged passport, our boy could have bought another ticket out to London within hours of his arrival on Cypriot soil, and departed thence without anyone in Nicosia being the wiser.” “So much for that lead, then,” Adam replied. “What next?” “Oh, I’m not finished,” McLeod said. “Bearing in mind what Peter Fiennes said about Gerard being something of a nutter, I asked Treville if he’d get somebody to look into Gerard’s psychological background. He made the inquiries himself, and it turns out that our boy has a history of emotional instability. His colleagues in French antiquarian circles say that Gerard’s interest in the Knights Templar amounts to something of an obsession; he’s fanatically convinced that all the charges laid against them were true, and has set himself to prove as much. He bases this assertion on the belief that he is, in fact, the present-day incarnation of a medieval French nobleman who lived to witness those events.”

“Very interesting,” Adam murmured. “Very interesting, indeed. If there’s more to this assertion than mere romantic fantasy, it could explain a great deal. I’d be curious to know whether or not he has a psychic past. If his interest in Nathan’s Seal dates back to a previous lifetime, we may be dealing with someone far more dangerous than a mere eccentric.”

“That was my thought too,” McLeod replied. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any more insights about the Seal itself? What it was for, and so on?” “Not yet, but I’m working on it. I had an interesting dream that I’ll tell you about when I get back. Meanwhile, I think it might be safest if we proceed on the assumption that Gerard is actually here on British soil. At very least, I’d like to know what he tells the York Police about his movements two days ago, if they can turn him up. Have you relayed your information to the authorities here in York?”

“All the conventional information, yes. And Treville is faxing me a photo later on. What do you want to do about the other?”

“Just sit tight until I get home,” Adam replied. “Did you send those printouts to the house?”

“Yes, Donald’s just gotten back. I took the liberty of having him deliver the packet to Peregrine, with instructions to read it, if he had a chance, and see what kinds of cold impressions he might get. You don’t mind, do you?” “Of course not. I should have thought of that myself. I have the feeling we’re going to need him on this, before it goes much farther.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Anything else? I ought to head downstairs and be sociable for a little while before Peter runs me to the airport.”

“No. Talk to you when you get home.”

The Edinburgh flight out of Leeds left at 5:50. This time, as well as his overnight bag, Adam had a leather briefcase crammed full of Nathan’s research notes. He arrived to find no Humphrey waiting at the gate, but as he came out of the terminal building, he spotted his silver-blue Range Rover standing by at the curb with Humphrey at the wheel.

“I’m afraid I misjudged the traffic, sir,” Humphrey said, as he alighted to open the back so Adam could toss in his meagre luggage. “I would have met you at the gate as I usually do, but I only just got here.”

“Not to worry, Humphrey. Let’s swing by police headquarters so I can pick up the Jag.”

“Very good, sir.”

They were home by a little after seven. After putting the Jaguar away and dropping off Nathan’s briefcase in the library, Adam went upstairs for a quick shower while Humphrey took himself off to the kitchen to prepare a quick evening meal. Twenty minutes later, refreshed and relaxed in a clean white shirt and grey slacks under his quilted blue dressing gown, he was heading back down to the library to sort through the mail on his desk before eating.  Most of the mail was not urgent, but one item, in particular, caught his attention – a formal invitation printed on stiff cream card stock, with the shield of the present-day Order of the Temple of Jerusalem emblazoned at its head. He gazed at it for several seconds, absently running a thumb over the raised engraving, then picked up the telephone at his elbow and tapped in the number printed below the line that read, RSVP Chev. Stuart MacRae. He knew MacRae through their mutual interest in restoring castles. MacRae lived in a partially restored castle farther to the east, near Glenrothes, and had been giving Adam ongoing advice on the restoration of Templemor. He was also an expert on Templar history.

“Hello, Stuart, this is Adam Sinclair,” Adam said, when the hearty bass voice of MacRae himself answered the phone. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.” “Not at all!” came MacRae’s genial reply. “I was hoping I’d hear from you soon.

Did you receive your invitation to the investiture?” “I did, indeed,” Adam said. “Forgive me for not getting back to you sooner, but I was called away unexpectedly on Monday, and I’ve only just gotten back. I’ll try to make it on Saturday, but a lot depends on how things have gone at the hospital while I was away. I haven’t even checked in yet. I’m not sure I want to know.”

A hearty chuckle erupted from MacRae’s end of the line. “I can appreciate that,” he replied. “But don’t worry about us. Come if you can – and if you can’t, then send your good wishes. I still keep hoping that, since you’re restoring a Templar castle, we’ll eventually be able to persuade you to join the Order.” “Well, I’m honored that you keep asking, but I already have too many claims on my time,” Adam replied easily. “However, you may certainly count me as a friend of the Order. And I hope to affirm that friendship in person on Saturday.” “Well, so do I.”

“In the meantime, I’m calling because I’ve got something of a mystery on my hands,” Adam went on. “It has to do with Templar history, and I’m hoping you may be able to give me some information.”