The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  “We’ll conduct this briefing in English,” the director-general said. “Our guest speaks Arabic but has had little opportunity to polish his skills.” He paused momentarily. “Colonel Ahmed Pasha, allow me to introduce Mr. Mark Taylor, who arrived within the hour from Washington.”

  He and Taylor shook hands and exchanged greetings. When Taylor returned to his seat, Pasha sat next to him and smiled.

  Relax, Mr. Taylor. As if you were among friends.

  The DG looked at Taylor. “Let’s begin this conversation at the end. Do you have the item I asked you to get for me?”

  “Yes.” Taylor unlocked the case, laid it open, and brushed small pieces of foam away from an aged piece of leather. “I haven’t handled the object, of course. But if you remove the surrounding packing you can see that there are two or three thin sheets wrapped in animal skin.” His voice sounded like ice falling into a crystalline glass; clear, soft, and musical. He replaced the foam and closed the lid.

  The director-general nodded. “Excellent. And now, perhaps you will tell us what transpired in Georgetown and the fate of your colleague.”

  “Not much to tell,” Taylor said. “After I received your orders, I contacted Donovan and told him about our assignment. We got together after work and drove to the storage rental facility identified in your instructions. We took two weapons and the backpack device.”

  “Did anyone see you at the storage facility?” Pasha asked.

  Taylor shook his head. “As you know, it’s in Luray, Virginia, a small town about a hundred miles from Washington. Very rural. We got there in the middle of the night. No fancy electronics or passcards, just a simple combination lock. There was one camera monitoring the entrance gate, but Donovan disabled it before we entered.”

  He looked at Pasha. “Donovan was the other agent.”

  Pasha nodded. He’d read the dossiers of the two deep undercover agents. “Sleepers,” the Americans called them.

  “Yes, yes. Continue,” the DG prompted. The easy-going manner he’d adopted earlier had started to fray.

  Taylor nodded at the briefcase on the table. “Donovan was to place the bomb in the center of the building while I grabbed the codex. The plan was to trigger the device by cell phone once we rejoined each other.”

  The DG frowned. “Why did you split up?”

  Taylor glared across the table. “We had very little time to plan. And you didn’t tell me how many people were going to be in the meeting. I’d hoped there would be two or three. I’d force them into chairs to control them, knock them unconscious, and leave with the case. Then we’d blow the building to cover the theft.”

  “It didn’t work out like that, I’m guessing,” Pasha said. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of casual relaxation.

  “There were five of them. Two were armed and one drew his weapon almost as soon as I entered the room. I was forced to shoot them all.”

  “And the explosion?” The director-general’s voice had become as smooth as silk.

  Pasha stirred in his chair.

  If Taylor knew the DG at all, he’d be on full alert.

  “We were going to reconnect at a Starbucks three blocks from the building and trigger the bomb from there. I was halfway there when the explosion happened. I have no idea why or what went wrong.”

  “And Donovan?” Pasha asked.

  “Never saw him again.”

  “Donovan worked at the U.S. Department of National Intelligence and you at the Postal Service. How long before the Americans connect the two of you?” Pasha asked.

  Taylor shrugged. “The first time Donovan ever heard of me was when I contacted him after I received your orders. There was no connection between us. None. I don’t see how the Americans could put it together.”

  Pasha struggled to keep his face calm, to suppress his feelings of disgust.

  Amateur. DNA, computer scans of employment records, unexplained absences from work. The Americans will link the two of you and use your flight records to track you here without breaking a sweat.

  Taylor rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair. “I threw the handgun in the Potomac and caught a flight later that night. Here I am.”

  “Very tiring, I’m sure,” Pasha said.

  He stood, withdrew his Glock, and shot Taylor through the temple, knocking him from his chair. Blood, brains, and pieces of skull exploded from the sleeper agent’s head and sprayed the far wall. A foul mélange of singed hair and cordite filled the air. Pasha stepped over to the corpse, stared down, and fired twice more.

  “Now you can rest.”

  • • • • •

  It was after sunset, and Tareef was helping Rahman clean the dishes from a dinner of sindhi biryani. The fragrance of cardamom, cinnamon, and mint danced on the warm breeze that drifted through the kitchen’s screen door. Tareef strolled to the door and listened to the music of the crickets in the darkening night, rubbing his full belly, burping softly.

  A sharp knock at the front door broke his reverie. He ran to the front of the house, thinking that Rahman’s friend Mika might be back for another visit.

  Maybe he has more news about my father.

  He stopped short when saw a stranger dressed like an American businessman on the other side of the screened door.

  “Salaam-vaalaikum,” Tareef said.

  The stranger stared at him through the screen and didn’t answer. The light spilling from the house revealed a lean man in a dark gray suit, starched white shirt, and a wine-colored tie pulled tight against his neck. Even though it was nearly dark, his eyes were concealed behind mirrored sun glasses perched on a huge beak of a nose. He was carrying a small metal case. Tareef shivered in spite of the heat.

  He looks like a hawk and I’m the rabbit.

  Rahman walked up behind Tareef and put a hand on his shoulder. “Go outside for a bit while I talk with Colonel Pasha. He’s a senior officer with the ISI, and I mustn’t waste his time.”

  He’s warning me about this man.

  Rahman pulled the door open, and Tareef scooted out, careful not to brush against the stranger and happy to escape.

  • • • • •

  Pasha watched the boy disappear around the corner of the house, then stepped inside. “That’s the boy who was with you at the Abpara police station? What is he to you?”

  “You know of about him? His father is a Kalash tribal—”

  “I’m aware of who his father is. Why is the boy here?”

  “I sponsored his father’s trip to Islamabad. I feel responsible for his son.”

  “How convenient that he’s in Transition.”

  Rahman took a step back. “What do you mean?”

  Pasha ignored the question and raised the case, drawing Rahman’s attention. “Where shall we open this? The kitchen perhaps?”

  Pasha had seen enough photos of the inside of Rahman’s house that he knew its layout as if it were his own home. He strode into the room at the back of the house, Rahman following in his wake. An oblong table sat in the center of the kitchen. To the left was a painted metal cabinet with a single sink, chipped and yellowed with age. Dishes were stacked on a drainboard to the right of the sink. A two-burner gas stove stood next to the sink cabinet. A screen door in the center of the back wall led to the outside.

  He placed the case on the table and opened it. “Here’s your codex. I want a complete translation by this time tomorrow.”

  Rahman walked up to the table and caressed the skin that covered the thin book. “That’s impossible. I need more time if you wish to be certain.”

  Pasha scowled. “How much time?”

  “Two weeks. At least that, if not a month.”

  “A month? That’s absurd. You academics are a pain in the ass.”

  “An accurate translation of such a text would normally take a team several months, even years. The only reason a month may be possible at all is because I’ve already seen copies of the material. Poor copies, to be sure.”

&nb
sp; “How long has the boy been in Transition? You should know that his father is dead. He tried to escape while he was being transferred to Chitral.”

  Rahman looked startled, either from the abrupt change in the conversation or from the news about the kid’s father. Pasha couldn’t tell and didn’t care.

  “What? He’s dead?”

  Pasha watched, amused, as the Institute pussy grew angry.

  “Escaped? How does an old man escape?”

  Pasha gazed across the room, trying to see through the screen in the door. The patch of dirt behind the house was hidden by darkness. It sounded like the infernal crickets were staging for an assault. He crept quietly to the door, paused, then slammed it open and leaned out. He looked around, saw nothing of interest, and returned to Rahman.

  Creases of worry pinched the professor’s face. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  Pasha opened his suit coat, revealing his Glock tucked into his shoulder holster. He crowded Rahman and lowered his voice to a growl. “Are you as stupid as you are slow? It’s a simple question. How long has the Kalash kid been in Transition?”

  “Ah, a week. Maybe a little more.”

  Pasha nodded. “Then I’ll give you seven days to complete the translation and teach the kid how to use Transition magic. We’ll have the little bastard use whatever you come up with before we dispose of him. Maybe he can use it to resurrect his father.”

  He enjoyed watching the blood drain from Rahman’s face.

  He cares for the boy. But he will do anything to protect his own life.

  “Kill him? Why?”

  “He knows about the codex. Once he’s out of Transition, he’s nothing but a liability. We’ll use him to see if this ancient text is worth all the trouble.”

  Rahman said nothing.

  “Let me ask you a question, professor. Do you perhaps think of defying me to save the boy? Do not make that mistake. I’ll drop you into an ISI hell-hole, where you’d be tortured for the pleasure of your guards. Allowed to heal and tortured again. For the remainder of a very long life. Death would be a mercy denied you. Am I clear?”

  Rahman put a hand on the table to steady himself. He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Pasha pivoted and marched from the house.

  • • • • •

  Tareef circled Rahman’s house, searching for a place to hide and wait for Hawk-nose to leave. He found an old piece of plywood leaning against the back of the house next to the steps leading from the kitchen. He peered behind it in the dim light to make sure the ground was free of snakes and scorpions, then crawled into the space and sat down. He bent his knees to his chest and used them as a perch for his chin.

  He’d just settled when he heard voices in the kitchen. He considered abandoning his tiny shelter. His father had told him that it was impolite to listen to adults when he wasn’t invited. But he’d also taught him that the only way to survive in the world was to be alert to the dangers around him. He didn’t move.

  The conversation drifted through the door, rising and falling, as if carried by a swirling wind. Tareef strained to pull meaning from the words.

  “—ancient codex—I want a complete translation—” Colonel Pasha’s voice was harsh and demanding.

  “—impossible. I need more time if you wish to be certain.” Rahman was pleading. Tareef squirmed and thought again about fleeing, more out of fear than a desire to be polite.

  The voices dropped away, then rose.

  “How long has the boy been in Transition? You should know that his father is dead. He tried to escape while he was being transferred to Chitral.”

  Tareef felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

  Dead?

  He had to get away from this evil man. Now. He was about to bolt from his shelter when the kitchen door slammed open. He froze and held his breath. Someone stepped out onto the top step, then back into the house. The door closed with a bang.

  Tareef let the air slide from his lungs, waited a few seconds, then crawled from under the board. He hesitated, fearing the sharp yell that would mean he’d been spotted. When nothing happened, he scrambled on his hands and knees across the back of the house, pushed himself to his feet, and fled into the desert.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Washington, D.C.

  The United States

  “Dish, are you where you can talk?”

  John had paired his cell with the car’s Bluetooth system. Akina’s voice came through the sound system as if she were riding in the front seat.

  “Stony and I are in the car, headed back to D.C. You’re on the speaker. What’re you doing still at work?”

  It was midnight the day after the Georgetown explosion. He and Stony were returning from Quantico, both exhausted from a day that seemed unwilling to release them from its grip. He longed for his bed in Glendale, north of Cincinnati. To wake at sunrise, rested and relaxed, and stroll past the stately homes and century-old trees.

  “DNI Director Lewis called late in the day. He thinks he’ll have a replacement for Marva in the next day or two. He wants whoever it is to use her office while Congress works on the approval. So I thought I should clear her desk before I leave for the day. That’s when I found it.”

  John had talked with Martin Lewis several times during the day and wondered how Marva had worked with the guy without losing her wits. Brilliant, ruthless, chronically anxious, and a micro-manager. As Harry Truman might have said, the DNI was the president’s son of a bitch for global intelligence.

  Not surprised he’s in a hurry to fill the empty slot in his empire.

  “Found what?”

  “A steno book with notes from a meeting she had with Dr. Scholard.”

  “What’s it say?”

  Akina paused. “Not over the phone. I need to get out of this place. It feels like a mausoleum. How long before you get back into the city? I’ll meet you at your hotel.”

  John checked his watch. “I’m in room 2310. Give us fifteen minutes.”

  • • • • •

  John and Stony sat next to each other on a love seat in the corner of his room at the Georgetown Inn. Akina had pulled a desk chair opposite them until their knees almost touched. Lithe and strong, she had the natural grace of a long distance runner. Her exotic face—an Asian tilt to her almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones under burnished mahogany skin—was marred by crow’s feet and creases on her forehead.

  “You look like shit,” Stony said.

  That prompted a tired smile. “Nothing compared to the two of you. Maybe we could start a new online group—People Who Look Like Death Warmed Over.” She handed John a steno notebook.

  “The director preferred to take notes the old fashioned way. Said she could relate better to the person she was talking to than if she used a computer. She’d either have a secretary transfer her notes into a computer case file or put the notebooks in the burn box to be destroyed.”

  The notebook appeared new; there were no marks or writing on the cover. “Did you check for a case file?” John asked.

  “Yes, first thing after the explosion. Nothing.”

  John opened the narrow tablet and fanned the pages. The first page was the only one with notes, and then only six lines in Marva’s tight, controlled print.

  S called Ashraf Rahman—old friend, help with translation

  Islamabad

  Emailed pictures of pages

  R said codex has new verse for T magic—no uniqueness

  Needed original to be certain

  Ask G & C if they know R.

  “You read this, right?”

  Akina nodded.

  “The ‘S’ and ‘R’ are easy—Scholard and Rahman,” Stony said. “You thinking the ‘G’ and the ‘C’ represent Georgetown and Chicago?”

  “Yeah,” Akina said. “She must have wanted to see if the university experts could vet Rahman.”

  “Did she ask you to run a check on Rahman before they left for the me
eting?” John asked.

  “No. Nothing. But they were in a hurry. Dr. Scholard’s flight was late, and he hadn’t gotten to the DTS until around three.”

  “What did Scholard have with him?” John asked.

  “He was loaded like a pack mule. A roll-aboard, a laptop briefcase, and an aluminum case on wheels that was about half the size of the suitcase. Marva said she’d drop him at his hotel after the meeting, so he took everything with him.”

  “You tell all this to the FBI?” John asked.

  “About his luggage, yeah,” Akina said. “I’ll call Piper about the notebook after we finish.”

  Stony sighed deeply, held her breath, then released it slowly. “You get a look at the codex?”

  “No. Neither did the director. All his gear was piled in my office until they left.”

  “Nothing was found at the scene,” John said. “No case, no codex, no computer.”

  “Wouldn’t the explosion obliterate everything?”

  John shook his head. “Not according to Piper. And there’s something else you don’t know.” John summarized the FBI’s discovery that there were two attackers. “Most likely the guy who murdered Marva and the others was in a hurry. Just grabbed Scholard’s stuff and took it with him to check later.”

  • • • • •

  John jolted awake to the klaxon blare of the ring tone on his cell phone. He fumbled for the phone and checked caller ID: Akina.

  The clock on the nightstand cast a green glow in the dark room. Six-thirty. “What’s up?”

  “Our new boss just called me. He wants a meeting with you at seven-thirty. Marva’s office. Sorry. His office.”

  It took a few seconds for John to parse Akina’s announcement. “My new boss? Who?”

  “Senator Wyatt Nebelhorner, from the great state of Kansas. He’s resigning his seat to take the appointment.”

  “Nebelhorner? I thought he’d be resigning because he got caught dipping his pen in the company ink. What the hell is the DNI thinking?”

  Marva, like all the heads of the U.S. intelligence and law enforcement community, had reported to the director of National Intelligence. It would be the DNI’s task to replace her. Persistent rumors claimed that Nebelhorner’d had an affair with a Senate intern. But there was no hard evidence, and the intern in question had suddenly left on an extended trip to Europe. So there he remained in the Senate, a PR nightmare waiting to happen.