The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  “Won’t be fresh for long.” Sapling strained against the weight of the cart. “I’m hungry. Let’s get these dumped and find some dinner.”

  2015 CE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  Colonel Ahmed Pasha sat on the designated bench waiting for the Institute professor to arrive. An operator in the Inter-Services Intelligence Communication Bureau had called just after sunrise, apologizing and explaining that he’d been unable to locate a duty agent for this assignment. Pasha’s first reaction had been to demand that the Bureau deal with the problem and leave him alone, but he’d decided to make the meeting and go for an early morning run. Pasha smiled. The professor was going to encounter an ISI commander dressed in grey Adidas Climacool shorts and shirt with the latest Nike Chang XV running shoes.

  The granite-tiled plaza around the Foreign Ministry building was deserted. If was half past six, and the civil servants would still be snug in their beds.

  Not the best place for a meeting, but where else would be better? Islamabad isn’t a twenty-four hour city like New York.

  Pasha had travelled to all the great cities of the world, and New York was his favorite—brash, alive, and filled with beautiful women. He watched a cab pull to the curb and disgorge a tall, cadaverous man dressed in a thin shalwar kameez. He carried several sheets of folded paper. The dossier photo of Professor Ashraf Rahman must have been updated recently, he concluded. No problem recognizing him. The loose pants and striped tunic displayed no hint of the man’s Kalash heritage, but his light eyes and skin betrayed his alien origins.

  Pasha rose and strode to the curb. “Professor Rahman. What have you got for me?”

  Get this done and get on with my day.

  Ashraf seemed startled by the abruptness of the demand. Pasha noticed that the man’s hands shook.

  He fears me. He should.

  “I was contacted by an American to assist with the translation of an ancient codex.”

  “He’s more than just an American, isn’t he? His name is Jessup Scholard and you attended Columbia with him. He’s an archeologist for the U.S. Department of Transition Security.”

  Pasha enjoyed watching the blood drain from Ashraf’s face.

  “Don’t be naive, professor. Your office, home, and phone are monitored, as with all those who have frequent communication outside the country.”

  My people haven’t had time to process all the recordings, but perhaps enough to keep you honest.

  Rahman shoved the papers he carried at Pasha, as if they burned. The ISI Colonel unfolded the four sheets and glanced through them. He looked up and locked eyes. “Well?”

  “I believe they contain a verse that eliminates the need for uniqueness in the Transition ritual. But—”

  Pasha was stunned but controlled his face and body language to avoid revealing his surprise.

  “But what?”

  “I can’t be certain. The copies are poor. The text is indistinct, so I’m forced to guess about several key passages.”

  Pasha stared silently into Rahman’s eyes, looking for any hint of deception. “Could you be certain if you had the codex itself?”

  “The codex? How—”

  The ISI Colonel sharpened his voice and sliced through the question. “Could you be certain if you had the codex itself?”

  Rahman paused; the tremor in his hands now an agitated palsy. “I believe I could. Yes.”

  Yela’an! What glorious thing has this fool brought me?

  “What does the American plan to do with the codex?”

  “He told me to destroy the images he sent me; to forget the call.” Rahman lifted his shoulders in disbelief. “How can I unsee something such as this? He said he was taking it to the director of the DTS and that he wanted me to join him in Washington. There is a meeting late tomorrow at the Smithsonian. I told him I could not attend.”

  “Did he give you the time and place?”

  Rahman nodded.

  “You’ve done well, Alhamdulillah. Now, do exactly as I instruct or you will live what little remains of your life in Central Jail. Do you understand me?”

  Rahman stared at the ground and nodded.

  “As of this moment you work for me. Resume your life and your work at the Institute. Tell no one about your conversation with the American or the codex. If the American calls again, give him no further information. I will contact you when I’m ready for your assistance. Go back to your home. Go.”

  • • • • •

  Pasha turned and marched across the Ministry’s public square.

  Rahman is a naive fool. But he provides me with an opportunity to soar. Or die.

  He placed his cell phone to his ear and called the director-general of the ISI, jumping two levels of intelligence hierarchy to the top of the organization, an unforgivable violation of rank. An aide answered on the second ring.

  “Colonel Ahmed Pasha calling for the director-general. The matter is most urgent and for his ears only.”

  When he came on the line, the head of the ISI sounded every bit as annoyed as Pasha had been earlier that morning. “Explain yourself. Why shouldn’t I transfer you to a high mountain pass on our northern frontier for disturbing my morning?”

  “I have just learned a thing that could empower our country to take its rightful place in the world. This thing is too important to discuss over a phone, even our encrypted devices. But we must act quickly and aggressively.”

  The only sound Pasha could hear for several moments was the blood pounding in his ears.

  “Very well. Play the hand you’ve dealt yourself. You know where I live?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Be here in twenty minutes.”

  • • • • •

  Pasha paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. The hot sun beat on his head, forcing his eyes into a narrow squint. The brown pebble road leading into the director’s estate was blocked by an ornate iron gate that hung from a three-meter-high stone wall that appeared to surround the property. Cameras perched on the wall on both sides of the gate were aimed at the cab. A light scent of jasmine drifted through the bars.

  He leaned back into the car. “You can leave. I’ll walk from here.”

  He turned, strode to a mesh panel embedded in the wall on the left side of the entrance, and pressed the single button below the metal grill. “Colonel Pasha for the director. I’m expected.”

  “Wait.”

  A moment later an ebony Range Rover hurled down the drive and slid to a stop on the other side of the gate. A muscled driver wearing black pants and a green knit shirt the color of Pakistan’s flag scrambled out of the SUV. He left his door open and met Pasha at the gate.

  “ID.”

  Pasha poked his credentials between the bars and held them for inspection. The driver returned to the car and leaned inside momentarily. The gate squealed sideways and disappeared behind the wall.

  “Get in.”

  “I’ll walk, thank you.”

  “In the back.”

  Pasha stiffened. He wasn’t used to be addressed that way but did as he was ordered.

  At least he didn’t put a bag over my head.

  The Rover rolled past a two-story mansion that was obviously the director’s house to an ugly squat building about five hundred meters beyond. It appeared to be made of poured concrete, painted white, with a single steel door and no windows. Various antennae sprouted from the flat roof.

  The driver parked in front of the door and shut off the engine. “Follow.”

  Chatty son of a bitch.

  Pasha got out of the car, followed his escort inside, down a flight of stairs, and along a brightly lit hallway with walls, ceiling, and floor of the same painted concrete as the outside of the building. The driver stopped in front of a closed door, knocked twice, then pushed it open in response to a muffled, “Come.”

  The room was as impressive as the building was spartan. Plush, r
oyal blue carpet. Wallpaper with small red cranes flying against an ivory background. More communications and video gear than Pasha had ever seen. The director-general, in a camo uniform, sat at the end of an oblong table of highly polished Shisham; the tan and brown streaks of the native wood glowed under the room’s recessed lights.

  Pasha snapped to attention and saluted the head of the ISI. “Thank you for taking this meeting, Director-General.”

  “It remains to be seen whether you should thank me. Tell me what was so important.” He sat in calm silence until Pasha finished. “Is this Rahman a crazy man?”

  “No. He’s an expert in ancient languages. Respected globally. There’s nothing in his dossier to suggest that he’s more or less than what he appears to be.”

  “So. Do you believe this? That an ancient book sets aside the need for Transition uniqueness? That the early leaders of the Catholic Church knew what it contained but hid it away, for reasons lost to time?”

  “I have no idea. Rahman said that he needs access to the codex to be certain of its meaning. But that’s intellectual bullshit. He knows. And since the Americans invited him to Washington, it appears they believe it also.”

  “The Americans believe nothing of the sort. How can they, until their experts have crawled all over the document? They just can’t afford to take the chance.”

  “Can we? If the words in the codex do what the professor claims and if we alone possessed that power, would we not rule the planet?”

  The director-general’s face twisted as if he’d sucked on a lemon. “If. If. And there’s another ‘if.’ Transition has another requirement. The magic must be used for a child’s genuine desire. You are presuming we could somehow get children to want whatever we tell them as if it were their own wish.”

  Pasha nodded. “That would be simple, I would think.”

  “You’ve never had children, have you?” The ISI chief waved his hand, as if swatting at a mosquito. “It’s tomorrow, this meeting in Washington?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Use one of our assets in America to steal the—”

  “Is that all?” the director-general asked. His smile raised goose bumps on Pasha’s arms.

  “One last thing, just as important as stealing the codex,” Pasha said. “To secure our advantage from this discovery, none of the Americans who are aware of it or its contents can be permitted to survive. We must leave no trace of the artifact. Or, obviously, our involvement.”

  The director-eneral pushed his chair back and stood, rocking on his heels and glaring at Pasha. “You ask much.” He glanced at his watch, lost in thought.

  Pasha sat, silent, waiting.

  “Other than Rahman and the Americans, who knows of this?”

  “You. Me. No one else.”

  “Make sure it stays that way. You’ll receive orders before you leave, transferring you to my personal detail. You will live and work from here.”

  Pasha stood at attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “We have two agents in D.C. with the necessary skills and access to resources. They will obtain the codex and bring it to us. And they’ll insure there’s no hint of its existence left in Washington.” He paused. “Once we have the document safely in our hands, you will eliminate these agents. Is that a problem?”

  “None, sir.”

  I’ll do whatever I must to insure my survival in this game.

  “Then gather your things from your current office and bring them here. And put a 24/7 surveillance on the good professor. We need him, for now.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Washington, D.C.

  The United States

  Getting from the hinterland to Washington took time. John arrived at Reagan at three-fifteen to find the usual afternoon jam-up of people scurrying through the terminal. Stony wasn’t due for another hour. Her gate was nearby, so he wandered over and settled in for the wait.

  An early morning text from Marva had confirmed that the DTS archaeologist—Scholard—was due to arrive at Reagan at a little past noon. Marva had arranged a meeting at five in Poulton Hall on the Georgetown campus. Tight, but doable.

  He speed dialed Marva’s cell phone.

  “Dish? Where are you?”

  “Waiting for Stony. If the traffic gods are in a good mood, we should be on time or just a few minutes late. Why Georgetown?”

  “Be on time. Bribe the cabbie, whatever. Georgetown was the only way I could get the university’s senior ancient languages researcher to attend on such short notice.”

  “Anyone else invited?”

  “Yeah, the top Roman archeologist from the University of Chicago will be here. She reminds me of you. Cranky to the point of being an asshole. You two will enjoy each other.”

  John smiled. “Security?”

  “We’re okay. The obscure location helps a lot. Scholard and I are leaving now. Look for the Linguistics Department. We’ll be in the department conference room.”

  “See you shortly.”

  As he hung up, a U.S. Air A320 pulled up to the Jetway and bobbed to a stop. Stony strode into the gate area twenty minutes later, dragging her bag behind her.

  People carry on everything now. Like they do in Haiti, except no chickens.

  He waved to his partner, turned, and charged down the concourse toward the terminal, suitcase in tow. Stony caught up, her shorter legs working overtime to match his pace.

  “Flights okay?” John asked.

  “Peachy. If you love a red-eye and two connections.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Green nose stud with a red jacket. Not your usual coordinated self.”

  “John?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bite me.”

  They walked in companionable silence and crossed the terminal to the door on the far side. Four forty-five glowed from the passing display screens. They apologized their way to the front of the line at the taxi stand and grabbed a ride for the fifteen-minute trip to Georgetown.

  D.C. no longer had a rush hour. Traffic was stop and go regardless of the time. Stony called to the driver, “Take the 14th Street Bridge and get off like you were headed to the Park Police office. Cut over to Ohio Drive and skirt the edge of the Tidal Basin. We’re running late.”

  “You’re as obsessed with being on time as Marva,” John said. “I like that in an agent.”

  The cab crawled forward until the driver could drop off the George Washington Parkway and cross the Potomac. John glanced at his watch. They’d be five or ten minutes late.

  Marva will just have to deal with it.

  John stared out his window as they left the Basin behind and skirted the polo field occupying the land behind the Martin Luther King memorial. A light drizzle fell from a seamless grey sky.

  “I don’t suppose Marva’s told you anything else,” Stony said.

  He and Stony had grown closer to Marva during their last case, but she’d withheld information that put their lives at risk. As director of the DTS, Marva had been following the president’s orders. She’d eventually violated those orders to save their asses in China. John had come to believe he would’ve done much the same if he’d been in Marva’s shoes. But Stony was still pissed, and her skepticism about their leader was never far below the surface.

  “Nope. We’ll learn soon enough.”

  “Right.”

  Ten minutes later they turned north onto Wisconsin and from there onto P Street NW, following the trail of ivory painted homes and brick sidewalks into the university grounds. The side of the road was torn up with construction. It looked like they were replacing the concrete sidewalks with red paving stones.

  They were about a block away from Poulton Hall when the operator of large backhoe got sloppy and slammed his bucket into an ebony stretch BMW in front of them.

  “Shit!” The cabbie yelled and slammed on his brakes, sliding into the back of the wounded limo.

&
nbsp; John snapped against his seatbelt. “Dammit!” He jerked his head toward Stony. “You okay?”

  “Need to change my underwear. Otherwise I’m fine.”

  “Driver, how about you?” John asked.

  The cabbie muttered. “I’m fucking fine. Who do these construction crews hire anyway? McDonald’s drop-outs? Shit, I’ll be here all day.”

  “We can’t wait for the police.” John checked the meter, folded several bills around one of his cards, and passed the bundle forward. “If they need us, give them the number on the card. Good luck getting back on the road.” He and Stony climbed from the back seat and pulled their bags from the trunk.

  They hustled down the street, thankful that the light rain had stopped even though it looked as if night was coming several hours early.

  Stony sighed and said, “We’re going to be twenty minutes late. Telling Marva about the digger thingy will sound like the dog ate our homework. She’ll never buy it.”

  John was about to make a wisecrack about “digger thingy” when the overcast day was blown apart by blinding light and an ear-shattering burst announcing the end of times. A blast of hot wind filled with dirt and debris kicked him in the chest, staggering him.

  “WHAT THE FUCK?” Stony screamed.

  John glanced in her direction, found her sitting on the ground. Her face was slack and covered with tiny scarlet freckles.

  He reached down and helped her up. “Jesus. You’ve got some small cuts on your face.” He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted her skin.

  She reached up, caressed his cheek, and showed him her red-stained palm. “Yeah? You too. More than freckles.”

  He refolded the handkerchief and pressed it against his face.

  Stony pointed toward a black mushroom cloud rising over a building about a hundred yards away. “What the hell, Dish?”

  People—some with blood streaming down their faces, wet, red splotches on their clothes—were shrieking and running past them. Sirens wailed in the far distance.

  A swarm of bees had lodged in John’s head, drowning out any other sounds. “Christ.”

  The two sprinted toward the carnage. He was surprised there was no fire, although a dense fog stinking like burned wood and chalk surrounded the building.