Salter was the name of the helicopter pilot Fitz had drafted in to evacuate him and the Grand Master in the event of an emergency. The plan was a compromise. The chopper should ideally have been stationed here at the house, but Fitz had been concerned about causing anxiety among the other members and having to face a lot of difficult questions, if it all turned out to be a false alarm. Instead, Salter had instructions to remain on standby with his Bell 206 at a nearby airfield just a few minutes away, ready to fly in and pick them up at a moment’s notice. The flat meadow behind Karswell Hall provided the perfect landing zone, for a skilled pilot who could avoid the treetops on one side and the electricity pylons that bisected the field on the other.

‘I’m on my way,’ Salter said.

Fitz told him to hurry, and ended the call. The old man had recovered his breath and seemed able to keep moving on. They passed the open doorway to a room that was filled with antique furniture covered in white drapes, like weird ghosts in the semi-darkness. The window had a view across the moonlit lawn in front of the house, with the lake and island beyond. ‘Look,’ Van Brakel said, pointing and hobbling over to peer through the dusty pane. Fitz wanted to grab him and keep moving, but you didn’t disrespect the Grand Master that way. Following Van Brakel to the window he could see the robed procession of their Brothers parading from the house and slowly advancing down towards the lakeside.

‘You’re a fool, Fitzroy,’ the old man muttered. ‘I’m missing this for nothing.’

‘Sir, please. We need to hurry, if we’re going to meet the chopper when it lands.’

Van Brakel snapped, ‘We’re perfectly safe here. If I can’t attend my own event, then at least let me watch for a minute. That’s an order, do you hear?’

Fitz had no choice but to wait. He looked at his watch and stared up at the sky, as though he could somehow will the helicopter to arrive more quickly. Van Brakel went on watching as the procession of their Brothers assembled at the lakeside.

And now the ritual began, following the same familiar course it had for many years. It was so beautiful to their eyes. As the chanting of the initiates echoed across the lake the island was all lit up by stabs of flame and great clouds of coloured smoke rose up into the night sky. The great effigy of the god Thoth loomed out of the swirling smoke. At his feet appeared the blood-crimson figure of the High Priest, who faced the spectators across the lake with his arms raised high above his horned head, the ceremonial dagger glittering in one hand and his sceptre in the other.