The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  • • • • •

  John hadn’t taken Nebelhorner’s advice to return to Cincinnati. Instead, he’d called Stony to give her a heads up and to ask her to meet him at Dulles earlier than she’d planned. They met at an unused Delta gate in the domestic concourse so they could talk without running into her new partner. She’d arrived forty-five minutes after his call, frazzled, out of breath, and pissed off.

  “Nebelhorner called me just after I got your call” Stony said. “What the fuck, John?”

  “What did Nebelhorner tell you?” John asked.

  “That you’d been insubordinate, so he’d suspended you. And that I have a meeting with the director-general of the ISI to discuss our mission in Pakistan. The ISI is apparently eager to help us.” She checked her watch. “My new partner should be meeting me at the departure gate in a half hour.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Kyle Kain. I called around as soon as I got off the phone with Nebelhorner. He’s been with the DTS a couple of years. Transferred from the Secret Service, apparently because the shit they have guys doing for the first five years was boring the hell out of him. Supposed to be a solid guy, just green.”

  “Figures. Nebelhorner wouldn’t pick anyone more senior who might push back.”

  “Can Nebelhorner get away with this shit?”

  John nodded. “We’ll see. Nebelhorner baited me, but I was insubordinate. I refused to make the trip, Stony. I was worried about security and thought Nebelhorner had made it impossible for us to learn anything.” He paused. “And if I’m honest with myself, I refused as a way to spit in Nebelhorner’s face. I’ll appeal, but I’ll have to go through lots of bureaucratic bullshit, and who knows how it will turn out.”

  Stony snorted, her face twisted with disgust. “I think I should—”

  “If you’re about to say that you think you should quit in protest, don’t. It won’t help and you’d be tossing away a good career in a service that needs more people like you. The DTS’s mission is worthy.”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. I hate this fucking shit. And what about the Pakistani intelligence service? No way Nebelhorner should be trusting the ISI.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. You could go around Nebelhorner to the DNI, but I don’t think that would get you anywhere. It’s too late—the DNI is going to have to back his guy, at least for now. So you’re stuck. Go to the meeting but watch your back.”

  He checked his watch and stood up. “You have a new partner to meet. Best get to it.”

  Stony rose and grabbed him in a bear hug that threatened to crack his ribs. “Maybe I’ll come through Cincinnati on my way back to the states. Just to make sure that they’re treating you well in the rest home.” She swiped her cheek with the fingers of her right hand, turned, and marched down the concourse.

  John sat back down in the darkened gate.

  The world seems a touch sadder, sending her off like that.

  He balanced his cane on the tile floor, staring at the ruby eyes of the brass dragon’s head. He steadied the cane, released it, caught it as it wobbled, and steadied it again. He’d practiced this ritual most of his adult life. It calmed him, allowed him to focus his thoughts. Not today.

  • • • • •

  Stony scanned the departure lounge. She’d only been able to get a couple of personal tidbits about Kain in the little time that she’d had. He was a South Carolina native and apparently had pale skin and jet black hair combed straight back, with a pronounced widow’s peak. And big, floppy ears like those of former president Lyndon Johnson. The intelligence about his ears was suspect—it came from a woman friend who was a nut on presidential history and who was fixated on Johnson. She considered him the most tragic figure in twentieth-century American politics. To her, everyone looked like Johnson.

  A voice like honey on a warm summer day startled her from behind. “You’re Stony Hill, right?”

  She turned to see a man standing two steps away, hand extended.

  Hair and complexion, check. Ears, not so big. But big lobes on those suckers.

  “I’m Kyle Kain. You’re easy to spot in a crowd.”

  Stony shook hands. “Already you’re doing a short joke?”

  Kain’s emerald green eyes twinkled. “Oh, hell no. My sources told me that you walked with a Denzel Washington confidence. Dead on.”

  “I’m five foot, with red hair and a ruby nose stud, and you focus on how I walk? Maybe you’re not going to be a complete disaster.”

  Stony led them across the hall from the gate so they could talk with a little more privacy. Kain was a lean five-nine and moved with the fluid grace of a dancer.

  “What did Director Nebelhorner tell you?” she asked.

  “He was all full of himself about how he’d suspended Agent Benoit.” He paused. “You and Benoit are—I mean, everyone who knows anything respects you guys. Benoit is a living, breathing legend. Not that you aren’t. I didn’t mean—”

  Stony interrupted. “John is older than dirt. That’s a first requirement for being a legend. I’m more of an apprentice legend.”

  Kain laughed, then his smile disappeared. “I understand if you’re angry about having a newbie partner thrown at you like this. But I have to tell you, I peed a ring around myself, I was so happy to get this assignment.”

  The gate agent was calling their flight to Istanbul. Once there, they’d have a four hour layover before the final leg to Islamabad. They’d arrive a few hours before they left, but two days later. Twenty hours and a dateline of travel joy.

  “Keep your pee to yourself and we’ll be fine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  It was mid-morning Monday, and Pasha was back at Ashraf Rahman’s front door, knocking with the side of his fist.

  Could have done this by phone, but I’m scarier in person.

  Rahman pushed the door open and stared with a question on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you today.” His voice was a soft whisper.

  Pasha nodded. “I expect not. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Rahman frowned, pushed the door open, and stepped back into the house as Pasha entered and looked around.

  “So. What do you have to tell me?”

  Rahman glanced toward the back of the house, then back to Pasha. “I couldn’t help but notice as you drove away after your last visit that you were driving a new Mercedes. Perhaps you would show it to me. I’ve always been fascinated by German engineering.”

  The tribal boy must be in the bedroom or kitchen.

  “Certainly.” Pasha turned and left the house, moving in long strides across the small patch of dirt that separated the house from the road. Rahman struggled to keep up. Pasha pressed the remote to unlock the doors and start the car, then slipped into the driver’s seat, nodding the professor to the passenger side. The blast of cool air from the air conditioning was a welcome relief.

  “Well, what have you gotten accomplished?” Pasha asked.

  “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you visited.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, Ashraf. I expect you to work night and day on the translation and training the kid. Anything less, and I’ll find someone else to assist me. You won’t be necessary.”

  “I’m doing that, I swear.”

  “Then quit wasting my time with meaningless words.”

  Rahman’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “The translation goes well. I am more convinced than ever that it contains a verse that obviates the need for uniqueness in the Transition ritual. I may even finish my work a day or two sooner than you asked.”

  “Excellent. But to be clear, it was a demand with consequences, not a request. What of the boy?”

  Rahman hesitated. “He could be a problem. He overheard you saying that his father was killed.”

  Damn. I felt his presence in the back yard that day. Careless of me.

  “He ran off into the desert and didn’t return unti
l early this morning. He claims he wants me to teach him the ritual, but he’s wary, like a whelp that’s been beaten one too many times.”

  Before answering, Pasha considered the implications of a boy who knew too much and who had a tendency to run away.

  Not a good combination.

  “Perhaps I should dispose of him and find you another subject.”

  “No,” Rahman said. “That’s not necessary, at least not yet. Give me a couple of days to work with him. He’s smart and knows how to read. He should learn the ritual easily and save us time. Who knows what obstacles a child you grab from the streets might offer. “

  What game might you be playing, professor? Do you still dream of using the boy and then hiding him from me?

  “We will see. Perhaps you will have better news when I return tomorrow. In the interim, I’ll post a watch on your house to insure the child doesn’t disappear.”

  Pasha enjoyed watching the scholar’s face lose its color. “Go. Continue your work.”

  • • • • •

  Pasha had just returned from lunch and settled into his office in the director-general’s subterranean bunker when the red button on his desk phone started blinking. With each red flash, the phone sounded a telltale “bing.”

  Director-General Tulpur never used a cell phone when a land line was readily available.

  “Sir?”

  “I just received a very interesting call from the new head of the American DTS. We need to talk. I’m in the city.”

  The DG also never disclosed anything over a land line when he didn’t have to.

  Pasha called for his car, tucked his pistol into its shoulder holster, rose, and sprinted up the three flights of stairs to the top level of the bunker. He was still huffing as he slid into his car for the drive to the ISI offices in central Islamabad.

  I’m getting soft.

  Daytime traffic in Islamabad was always a challenge, but Pasha enjoyed having the time away from his office to let his mind wander, to reflect on things personal and professional. Those who knew him would be surprised to learn that he considered himself a philosophical man.

  He thought about the ancient codex and how Pakistan might use it to dominate the world. Transition had scared him as a child. He’d passed his month with lavender eyes in constant fear that some accidental combination of words would strike him dead. He’d even worried that his thoughts could kill him.

  He remembered with a smile how he’d spoken as little as possible and had kept his mind busy with crossword puzzles until his eyes had returned to their usual dark brown. The unanswered mysteries of Transition—and his lack of control over that ancient force—still troubled him.

  He glanced at his watch.

  She should be outside.

  He decided that he had time for a quick detour. He made a last-second turn from Faisal onto Kaghan Road and from there south onto Street 61. He darted through one tree-lined street after another until he was a block away from the Global Islamic Grammar School. He parked and walked toward the two-story adobe building.

  Maya.

  His daughter was his most closely guarded secret. The ISI knew every detail of his life but this one. Ten years ago, Pasha had met the wife of a low-level Turkish functionary at an embassy dinner. Myriam was a curly-haired brunette who reminded him of Marilyn Monroe before the peroxide. But if her natural beauty had triggered his initial interest, her Canadian accent and sharp intelligence beguiled him.

  They’d arranged to meet again at an obscure tea shop and launched from there into a six-month affair driven by passion and the thrill of secrecy. And by his stupidity, because Myriam had been clear from the outset that she’d never leave her husband. Pasha had believed he could persuade her to change her mind until their last rendezvous at a resort in Karachi’s Clifton Beach. He recalled that tryst as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

  “Hurry,” Myriam whispered into Pasha’s ear. She nipped at his ear lobe.

  Pasha laughed, finished signing for their room, and turned to embrace her. His erection was immediate and demanding. It had been more than a week since they’d seen each other and their lust overwhelmed their usual public reserve.

  A bellman appeared from nowhere, reaching for their bags. They were traveling light, each with one suitcase. Pasha shook his head and warned him off. “We’ll manage.” His tone sent the young man scampering back to his post.

  They jammed into a crowded elevator for a ride to the top floor of the fifteen-story hotel. Myriam positioned herself in front of Pasha and pressed back, slowly grinding her butt against his cock. His breathing quickened as he watched her look around the compartment as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. She nodded at an octogenarian woman leaning on an ebony cane near the button panel. “Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to know this weekend’s weather forecast, would you?”

  The old woman glanced at Pasha, then settled her gaze on Miriam and smiled. “Sunny. But you never know. Rain and storms are never far away. Best stay in your room.” She winked, causing Pasha and Myriam to laugh like teenagers.

  Their room had cost Pasha a month’s salary, but it surpassed the description given by the booking agent and exceeded Pasha’s heightened expectations. Polished brown stone tiles covered the floor. Hand-painted vines with tiny blue flowers climbed walls of rough white plaster. A massive four-poster bed carved from gleaming teak sat to the left of the entrance, facing two sliding glass doors that opened onto a balcony. White chiffon curtains framed the doors. Beyond the cantilevered patio, the clear cerulean sky plunged into the turquoise water of the Arabian sea.

  He threw his suitcase on the bed, crossed the room, and slid both doors open, mesmerized by the view. A Loo of hot, dry air blew into the room, lifting and tossing the curtains.

  Myriam stepped up beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist. “I’ve never seen anything this beautiful.”

  He turned, and they kissed. The caress of a butterfly, a gentle teasing. Then stronger, lips and bodies as one, a slow, insistent massage. Then hot, wet, and demanding.

  They stood before the doors and stripped one other, kissing, fondling, licking, probing with fingers and tongues. The billowing chiffon curtains played with them, slapping and tickling their faces, then wrapping them in a delicate embrace. They made love on the floor with the curtains dancing above them.

  Pasha woke, slowly remembering where he was. They’d fallen asleep on the floor. A gentle breeze had displaced the Loo; the curtains hung limply by the open balcony doors, and twilight darkened the hotel room. Myriam sat on the edge of the bed, fastening the strap on a bright yellow sandal.

  She spoke to the wall opposite the bed. “I’m leaving.” She finished with the sandals and stood, picking up her suitcase.

  Pasha had never felt so exposed. He pushed up from the floor and faced her, hands shielding his crotch, shoulders bent. “I don’t understand.”

  “I thought I could stay the weekend, one last fling. But I can’t, I need to move on.”

  Her voice seemed to Pasha as calm as any assassin’s.

  “Basri has been posted to Toronto. We leave within the week.” She turned and stared at Pasha. “I warned you that I’d never leave him.” She glanced around the room. “That this could end at any time.”

  “Then why did you let us go on for so long? Why even show up for—”

  She shook her head. “You’re not listening to me. Never have, really. I would think that denial is a dangerous flaw for an intelligence agent.” She took her suitcase and slipped from the room without another word.

  Pasha had been surprised by his reaction to her departure. He’d been thankful, rather than bitter. Myriam was right. Denial, optimism, pessimism, hope, love, lust, despair—they all distorted reality. And that was dangerous.

  Eleven years had passed. He took the lesson that Myriam taught him and put it into practice. He’d become analytical and unemotional, with a gift for sorting fact from supposition and wishful thinking. Ou
tside his work, he became a secular ascetic. He advanced steadily within the ISI until he commanded the organization’s field agents. Those who handled what the British movies liked to call “the wet work.”

  Then, six months ago, he’d seen a newspaper clipping announcing the arrival in Islamabad of the new Turkish ambassador to Pakistan, the honorable Basri Demir, his wife Myriam, and their two children. For five long weeks, Pasha had fought the urge to contact her, but in the end, his memories had defeated him. He called and asked her to meet him for tea. To his surprise, she’d accepted.

  They’d met at the same obscure tea shop from which they’d launched their affair a decade earlier. Their greeting was awkward, with a quick clasp of hands before settling at a small round table covered in white linen. It was early afternoon. The only other person in the shop was the wizened old woman who prepared their tea. The sweet fragrance of a mountain meadow in spring perfumed the air.

  Pasha studied Myriam while they waited for their tea. Time had painted her face with a few creases, but she was as enchanting as his memories. “You’re still beautiful. Your face glows, and your smile seems a natural part of who you are.”

  “And you are still quick with the compliments. A colonel now, is that correct? Of the Operations Directorate?”

  They fell quiet while their tea was delivered.

  He nodded. “Is it a compliment to speak the truth? I suppose it is.” He hesitated. “To put you at ease, I didn’t ask you here to resume our relationship.”

  “I wouldn’t have come if I thought that was the case.”

  “Can we speak a bit about our last time together? No recriminations, I promise.”

  She ignored him. “Is there a Mrs. Pasha? There’s a limit to the knowledge of my sources.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “A woman wise beyond her years once warned me about emotional—”

  “Much has changed in Islamabad since I was last here. The city is dirtier, the roads more congested. Even the electrical power seems to have become unreliable.”