The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  A white wooden sign mounted between two painted posts lay on the ground:

  Poulton Hall

  Linguistics Department

  “This can’t be,” Stony said. “Maybe they got held up by traffic like we did.”

  John’s cell phone rang. He jerked it from his pocket, checked the display, and glanced at his partner. “It’s Akina.”

  He yelled into the phone. “Benoit.”

  “John? I was just talking with Marva and—”

  “Where, Akina? Where was she?”

  “Georgetown. At the meeting. She wanted to know if I’d heard from you guys. Said she’d tried to call you, but no one answered. I lost the connection with her, so I thought I’d try to reach you before I called her back.”

  “You’re absolutely certain she was calling from Poulton Hall?” The sounds of sirens were closer now.

  Stony, listening to his side of the conversation, paled and sat on the street. Tears flooded across her face, pink with her blood.

  “Of course, I’m sure. Why would she be—”

  “Akina.” John stopped, his voice too choked to continue.

  “John, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

  He sucked air into his lungs and released it slowly. “Stony and I were late. We were just getting to the building when there was an explosion. Anyone inside must be gone.”

  Akina was silent for a moment. “What do you mean gone? Marva? Dr. Scholard?”

  “Gone. Dead. At least I think so. The building’s a bombed-out shell. I don’t see how they survived if they were inside.”

  Two hook and ladder trucks groaned to a halt along a cross street on the other side of the building. Their teams leapt from the trucks and started laying hose, moving with a grim efficiency.

  What the hell are they going to do with those?

  Three police cruisers slid up behind them. Patrol officers climbed from their cars and ran toward the scene.

  “Akina,” John said. “I’m sorry, so sorry, but we can’t take time right now. Contact the director of National Intelligence and tell him that we think Marva’s been killed in a building explosion. Tell him to call the director of the FBI and get a team out here ASAP. We’ll quarantine the site until they get here.”

  “You’re thinking it was an attack?”

  “It was one hell of an explosion. And I’m having a hard time believing it’s a coincidence.”

  He paused, trying to come up with a name. “You remember the FBI guy who headed the investigation into Quince Adams’s murder? Pike or Piper somebody or other. I want him to lead this. Get the DNI to insist.”

  John had been impressed with the FBI special agent’s speed and thoroughness. He’d taken the contents of Adams’s Hanoi hotel room and quickly given John and Stony a starting point for their investigation.

  “I’ll find the DNI. Keep me posted, John.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  Tareef was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a bowl of long mulberries when the front door rattled with a heavy knock. “Salaam vaalaikum. Is anyone here?” The voice was low and rough, like a donkey’s hoof scraping stone.

  He heard professor Rahman get up from his desk and go to the door. A couple of moments later he and a stranger strode into the kitchen. “Tareef, this is my close friend Mika. He’s come for a visit.”

  Mika was one of the tallest people Tareef had ever seen. He had to duck his head to pass through the door into the kitchen. His tunic strained to contain his muscled chest. He had green eyes that glowed almost as much as Tareef’s lavender ones.

  “Salaam vaalaikum,” Tareef said. “Are you from my tribe?”

  Mika laughed. “Vaalaikum salaam, Tareef. You’d have to ask my mother.” He turned to Rahman. “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t the three of us go for a walk?”

  In the middle of the afternoon? The sun had baked his brain.

  Rahman glanced at Tareef and laughed at the expression on his face. “A walk would be good exercise. And I have just the thing for you.” Rahman left the kitchen, went into the bedroom, and returned with a faded blue cap. “Red Sox” was printed in big red letters on the fabric above the long, curved bill. “This will keep the sun out of your eyes.” He made an adjustment to the straps at the back and dropped the hat on Tareef’s head. “It’s yours to keep.”

  Tareef pulled the bill low over his eyes as they left the house. “What’s a Red Sox?”

  “I’ll explain later. It’s a team for a game the Americans play.”

  Rahman’s house sat at the edge of the transition between Islamabad and the desert. To their left was a scattering of houses; to the right, dirt, scrub plants, and a two-lane asphalt ribbon. Few cars traveled the road. Tareef had once decided to count the number of cars that passed. He grew bored and abandoned the project when only two had gone by in an hour.

  They left the house and followed the road into the surrounding countryside. The hot sun cast shimmering mirages on the distant asphalt.

  Rahman wiped his forehead and dried his hand on his tunic. “It’s always better to be outside when you want privacy, Tareef.”

  “Isn’t your home private? Privacy for what?”

  “No home is private in Islamabad. A thing for you to remember. Mika works for the Ministry of National Heritage. He has news about your father.”

  Before Tareef could react, Mika raised a hand in caution. “Not good news, I fear. The minister ordered your father detained under Section 780-A of the Anti-Terror Act. He was taken to the Abpara police station, but is scheduled to be transferred to the Chitral Central Jail.”

  “You found him? Can we go get him? Now?” Tareef whirled toward Mika, embraced him in a hug, then leaped at Rahman and began tugging on his tunic, almost dancing as they continued their walk.

  Rahman frowned and sighed. “Calm yourself, Tareef.”

  Tareef released the tunic and tried to imagine what else they could possibly need to know. “How far is Abpara? Where’s Chitral?”

  “Abpara is in Islamabad, halfway across the city,” Rahman said. “But—” He hesitated and wiped the sweat from his eyes. “I am your brother. I promised I would tell you everything, even if the truth caused you pain.” Again he paused. “Chitral is in the north, close to Afghanistan and quite inaccessible. Your father might as well be on the moon once they’ve moved him there.”

  “On the moon? What are you saying?”

  “How trustworthy is your source?” Rahman asked Mika.

  “One of the minister’s assistants bragged to me during lunch about how the minister had selected him to handle the paperwork. The information is sound.”

  Tareef interrupted. “He’s in Abpara, not Chitral. That’s what Mika said. We just need to go there and explain that it’s all a mistake.”

  Rahman shook his head. “It’s not that easy. Your father is accused of being a terrorist. We risk being accused ourselves if we don’t take care.”

  “We can’t just leave him in jail! If you’re afraid, I’ll go myself!”

  “Is that what your father would wish? You’re becoming a man. You must act as one. Now let me talk without interruption.”

  Tareef felt as if he’d burst. His father had taught him that fear and anger were like dangerous beasts. If they ran wild, he’d accomplish nothing. But if he dominated them, he’d have the courage and determination to overcome any obstacle. He imagined forcing the two fire-breathing monsters into a sturdy harness, aiming their energy at the professor, waiting.

  We must free him.

  “When’s the transfer to take place?” Rahman asked.

  “This evening or tomorrow morning, depending on transport availability.”

  They’d passed the last few homes on the edge of the city and moved into the surrounding arid plateau. The smell of sun-blasted dirt was strong.

  Rahman muttered to himself as they walked. “I set this disaster into motion. I must correct it. Abdul
Khan is a tribal elder. A man to be respected.” His voice drifted away and then returned. “And who could object to a boy wanting to see his father? A simple humanitarian request. That could get us access, if presented the right way.”

  He stopped and turned to Mika. “Can the Abpara jailers be bribed?”

  The huge bureaucrat smiled. “I’ve always admired your sense of humor, my friend. Of course they can. But the cost to arrange for the escape of a political prisoner won’t be cheap. Two hundred thousand rupees, perhaps more.”

  “So much? Six month’s wages? I have money stashed at home. Enough, I pray. We are indebted to you for your assistance. You should return to your work immediately to avoid any suspicion.”

  Mika nodded and handed Rahman a small piece of paper. “Memorize this number and destroy the paper. It’s for an untraceable phone that I keep with me at all times. Call if you need help that only I can provide.”

  Rahman thanked him and grasped Tareef’s shoulders, staring at his lavender eyes. “Let’s go get your father.”

  • • • • •

  They’d returned to the house to get bribe money and order a cab. Tareef told Rahman about his encounter with Ali and his advice about learning to use a phone. The professor had smiled, handed Tareef his cell phone, and shown him how to call Ali and arrange for the cab.

  They’d just arrived at the Abpara station and were parked in front, the engine running.

  “Will you wait for us?” Rahman asked. “I don’t know how long we’ll be, but of course I’ll pay for your time.”

  Ali pointed across the street. “I’ll park under that tree. I can use the time to study for my mathematics exam. Although you could take all day and I doubt I’d be ready.” He pulled his burgundy Jinnah cap off his head and tossed it on the pile of books in the front seat.

  Tareef and Rahman got out of the car and faced the jail. Two floors tall, it sat thirty meters from the road on the other side of a rubble-strewn dirt yard. There was a post office on the block to their left and a small park, neglected and forlorn, on their right. What little paint was left on the building hung in shreds from its grey blocks. There were no windows. A pitted concrete walkway wide enough for three men led from the street to a pair of glass doors backed by thick bars.

  Rahman turned to Tareef. “Remember, I’ll talk with the officers. Your job is to look sad. Tears wouldn’t hurt. Are you ready?”

  Tareef nodded. His cheeks were already wet.

  The professor took his hand and led him across the walkway and through the doors into the entry. Tareef was startled by the bright and polished space—double the size of the professor’s front room, with shiny marble floors and large paintings of ugly men hanging from gleaming white walls. There was a closed door in the back wall opposite the entry. A tall circular counter, also white, sat in the center of the room like a small corral. An older woman in a wine-colored shalwar kameez sat in the corral on a tall chair, facing them. She was smiling.

  The contrast with the dilapidated exterior increased Tareef’s apprehension as he recalled another of his father’s lessons.

  Dishonest people use shiny things to deceive.

  The woman’s eyes slid across Tareef and settled on the professor. “Salaam vaalaikum. How may I help you?”

  Rahman didn’t approach the counter. “Vaalaikum salaam. A friend of mine is being held here. A misunderstanding of some sort. I’ve brought his son to visit him and would like to see if we can’t get things sorted.”

  “Oh, my.” She glanced at Tareef and her smile grew. “I’ll try. What is your name? And your friend’s name?”

  Her eyes are as cold as those of the witch at the boarding house.

  “I’m Doctor Ashraf Rahman. My friend is Abdul Khan. This is his son, Tareef. Mr. Khan is the elder for the Kalash people. A very important man.”

  She picked up a phone, turned away from them, and muttered something so softly that Tareef couldn’t hear it. When she turned back her smile had vanished.

  Tareef whimpered. Tears leaked from his eyes and fell onto the spotless floor.

  “Someone will be with you shortly,” she sneered and nodded toward the bench.

  • • • • •

  A half hour later, a man wearing a uniform with a light brown shirt and darker brown pants entered the room through the door in the back wall and marched over to the bench.

  “Come.” He turned and retreated toward the door.

  Tareef stiffened at the discourtesy. They scrambled to their feet and hurried after the officer. Once through the door they turned left, scuttled down a long hall, then right and down an equally long corridor. Dim fluorescent bulbs blinked overhead. The floor was stained and dirty concrete; the walls scarred and unpainted gypsum.

  Their escort stopped abruptly and directed them through a door. “In here.” He followed them inside. A small, rectangular metal table with chairs on each side crowded the room. It stank of sweat and fear. The officer pointed to the opposite side of the room. “Sit.”

  Rahman took one of the chairs and moved it next to another on the long side of the table. He and Tareef crowded next to each other, facing the man on the other side. The varnished wood door behind the officer held the only window, a large panel of glass streaked with grime.

  “Your names?”

  “You know our names,” Rahman said. “You’ve checked my identity. What’s your name, Captain?”

  The captain’s face darkened. “Ahmed. Tell me, Professor Rahman, why do you think Abdul Khan is here? Who gave you this information?”

  Rahman smiled. “Yours is a very common name, Captain Ahmed. Probably the most common in our beloved country. I suppose I would have difficulty finding you if I were to leave and later return to the station.”

  Ahmed shrugged. “Who gave you the information that this Abdul Khan is here?”

  “I know my friend is here because I called all the city jails and whoever answered for Abpara told me he was here.”

  “And the name of the person who told you this?”

  “Sorry, but he didn’t offer his name. I don’t know.”

  The officer frowned, but his voice remained flat, emotionless. “I’m not saying Khan is a guest in our facility. But I’m curious: What’s your interest in him?”

  “Mr. Khan is the senior elder for the Kalash tribe. He’s in Islamabad to speak for his people. I’m the agent for his visit. I’m here to resolve whatever confusion resulted in his detention and obtain his release so that he may be reunited with his son.” Rahman put his arm around Tareef, who sniffled loudly.

  “You should know that he’s a terrorist,” Ahmed said. He paused. “I’m not saying that he’s here, but he’s been detained for violating state security. By consorting with a terrorist, you bring suspicion on yourself. If you leave now, we will drop the matter of your involvement.”

  Tareef’s whimpers grew.

  “That’s absurd. Mr. Khan has neither the intent nor the capacity to be a terrorist. He’s a simple tribal elder and should be venerated as such. I—” Now it was Rahman who paused. “I understand these matters can become quite complex. Such things must make your job much more difficult. Take hours of your time, for which you’re not paid.”

  He withdrew an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. “I’d like to offer you this compensation for your diligence and efficiency. Release Mr. Khan. He and his son will leave the city this evening and return to their tribe. Their valley is quite remote; they’ll never be seen again by the officials of our government. I’m certain you’ll be able to explain his absence in a manner that will satisfy anyone who is curious.”

  Tareef held his breath while Captain Ahmed stared at the envelope for several long moments.

  “Remain here.” Ahmed lifted the envelope, folded it, and put it in his pocket. He rose and left the room.

  “Does this mean my father is to be released?” Tareef’s voice was a quivering whisper.

  “I hope so, Tareef, but we shall
have to see. I’ve never done anything like this before. We must wait.”

  The captain returned an hour later. He remained standing after he closed the door to the room. “Khan is not here. You must leave now or be arrested. You and the boy both.”

  Tareef broke into sobs, wailing.

  Rahman urged him to be quiet and stood, shoving his chair into the wall behind him. “What do you mean he’s not here? Has he been transferred? You took my payment. You must deliver him, or I will have you arrested for corruption. I’m a man of some influence in—”

  Ahmed smiled. “What payment? You asked about a prisoner. I answered your questions. You’re testing my patience. Get the fuck out of here.”

  The captain turned to leave, but the door swung away from him before he could grasp the handle. His look of irritation was momentary, replaced by surprise and concern. A man with grey temples stood outside the room. “Colonel?”

  “A word, Captain. Now.”

  The colonel strode a few paces away from the room, to the wall opposite the door, and turned, waiting.

  “Do not move,” Ahmed ordered. He left the room and slammed the door, rattling its large pane of filthy glass and trapping Rahman and Tareef behind him. He joined the colonel in the hall, snapped to attention, and saluted. The colonel leaned forward and started talking, his face a deepening crimson. His voice was a low growl, but Tareef couldn’t understand anything he said.

  Ahmed bobbed his head and started to salute again, but the senior officer pivoted and marched away, leaving Ahmed alone, saluting the wall. He turned, stormed back into the room, and slammed the door. “You said nothing about working for the ISI!”

  Rahman looked at him, his face reflecting his confusion. “Working for the—What are you talking about?”

  “Our inquiries about you apparently triggered an ISI alert. We are to extend you every courtesy. Your superiors have asked that I pass along a message.”

  Rahman paled. “Which is?”

  “They expect a full accounting of your interest in Abdul Khan. If they are not satisfied with your report, you will be returned to our tender mercies. That’s what they said, our ‘tender mercies.’“