The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  Stony could almost hear John mentally check off the countries adjoining Pakistan. India. Afghanistan. Iran. Only Iran would fit her description.

  “Huh. I don’t much like that. Who you with?”

  “A small group of new friends from that agency our new director wanted me to visit. You’d enjoy them.”

  “No, who are you with from the U.S.?”

  “Kyle. We’ll only be gone for a few days.”

  “Jesus Christ, Stony. I don’t like what I’m hearing. Who knows where you are?”

  “My new boss has a general idea. And our hosts know exactly, of course. Let’s change the subject. How’s your claim against the acting director coming?”

  “I don’t want to change the subject. I’m calling the DNI. I bet that sonofabitch Nebelhorner is keeping this to himself.”

  “Chill, John. The trip was my decision. You would’ve done the same. And I’ll be back before you could do anything. Just wanted to say hi before I got out of phone range.”

  John’s answer was slow in coming. “Shit. You watch your ass. Keep your phone charged and on. The agency can track you with GPS even if you’re not connected to a network.”

  “You’re telling me stuff that I know, Daddy. Back off and let me do my job.” It was fun arguing with him again.

  “If I haven’t heard from you in three days, I’m going to raise holy hell, all the way to the president, if I have to.”

  “Make it four,” Stony said. “Now get back to your retirement. And be careful—the cemetery managers might mistake you for a dead guy and try to stuff you into a grave.” She hung up.

  • • • • •

  She walked back and stood next to Kyle. He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Just checking in with John to see how he’s doing.”

  And to arrange for a little backup in case we get stuck.

  A dark blue Land Rover turned into the semicircle entrance to the hotel and rolled to a stop on the other side of the stubby concrete columns that kept traffic a safe distance from the building. A lean young soldier wearing mirrored sunglasses and an olive drab uniform with sharp creases on the sleeves and pants got out of the car and quick-stepped up to them.

  Being cool is more important that being able to see.

  “Ma’am, Sir. May I see your ID?” His English was flavored with a splash of British prep school.

  Kyle grinned. “You think there could be a couple of impostors who look like us waiting in front of the Marriott? At 0300?”

  Stony’s mouth twitched.

  Smart ass. I like that in a partner. You can never tell what you might learn by poking.

  She and Kyle provided their credentials, which the earnest boy scout studied with care before nodding them to the SUV.

  As they climbed into the back seat, Kyle tried again. “Tell me, Soldier. Is it true that everyone who works in the ISI has to surrender their funny bone before being allowed into the club?”

  No smile. No anger. No nothing.

  Mr. Sunglasses took them on a half-hour carnival ride through Islamabad, turning in opposite directions every other block. He drove fast, with skill, pushing the Rover up on the two inside tires at every turn, then banging it down to all four and accelerating to the next corner.

  “For God’s sake, Soldier,” Stony said. “You’re gonna make me puke. If you don’t want us to know where you’re taking us, use a damn blindfold.”

  The kid looked at Stony in the rear-view mirror, a wide grin spreading wrinkles around his sunglasses. “Not much longer, Ma’am.” He threw them into another turn.

  Their joy ride ended at a large warehouse. Mr. Sunglasses slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop inches from a galvanized rollup door cut into a windowless wall about two stories high. The building was a vague dark gray hulk on a street without lights. The door rose without a squeak or squeal as soon as they stopped.

  Night vision cameras somewhere.

  They pulled into the building and into a blackness darker than the street behind them. Stony heard the door roll down behind them, smacking closed with a solid thunk. Lights flared like the Range Rover had been dropped on the surface of the sun. Her eyes snapped shut; she forced them open in a narrow squint.

  She and Kyle climbed out on opposite sides of the car. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she turned to survey their surroundings. They were in a concrete block room big enough for four or five SUV’s. Giant halogen floodlights were mounted on the ceiling and each of the surrounding walls.

  She heard the sound of a heavy breaker and sighed with relief as the lights on the walls died. Through the hot afterimage burned into her retinas, she could see another rollup door in front of the SUV. The floor was polished concrete and spotless. She caught a whiff of bleach and motor oil.

  Cleanliness is next to godliness.

  General Pasha stood in front of an open pedestrian door next to the interior rollup.

  “Nice security trick,” Stony said, nodding at the lights.

  She was surprised when Pasha strode across the room and shook their hands.

  “Thank you. Few people think of light as a weapon. But it can be very effective.”

  The interior garage door rose with no more noise than the one that led outside. Mr. Sunglasses had remained in the SUV.

  She looked at Pasha. “Didn’t think you were going to join us.”

  The young soldier started the engine and pulled the Rover into the building’s interior.

  “A couple of my men were a bit bothered when they learned you and Agent Kain were to accompany them. I thought it best to personally explain your presence.”

  “Your orders weren’t enough?” Kyle asked.

  Pasha smiled like grinning pit bull.

  “Elite troops can have minds of their own, as you and Agent Hill so ably demonstrate.” He waved his hand, brushing the subject away like a bothersome fly. “The matter is resolved. You’ll be treated well.”

  A man in dusty khaki pants and a long-sleeve shirt rolled halfway up his forearms strode through the door to General Pasha’s side. Stony guessed he was in his early thirties. His skin was pulled tight over his bony face and lean cords of muscle shaped his arms. There was no warmth in his black eyes.

  “Major Usama Davi,” Pasha said, “agents Stony Hill and Kyle Kain of the United States Department of Transition Security.”

  If Stony had blinked, she would have missed Davi’s abrupt nod. “Thank you for assisting us, Major.”

  Davi stared at her for a long second. “My orders say nothing about assisting you. You are present as observers. Stay out of our way. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  Stony stepped in close to the man and watched as his eyes tightened. He was clearly uncomfortable with her so close. “You’re confused, Major. We’ll not be treated like baggage. And I’ll be questioning Professor Rahman as soon as we grab him. So stand down with the macho bullshit.” The pounding in her ears muffled her words.

  Davi’s obsidian eyes flicked to Pasha and back to Stony. Her head came to the middle of his breastbone. “What is it you Americans say?” He paused. “Whatever.” He turned and marched back through the door into the warehouse.

  General Pasha’s attack dog grin was back. “He likes you.”

  “How can you tell?” Stony asked.

  “He didn’t shoot you.”

  “Who says you need to have a dick for a dick measuring contest?” Kyle asked. He barked a laugh, which he immediately swallowed under Stony’s withering glance.

  • • • • •

  Stony and Kyle stayed out of the way as Major Davi’s men unloaded crates from a flatbed truck that was parked in the center of the warehouse. They broke the crates down, warehoused some of the contents, and repacked other gear in the back of the two Humvees that would take them into Iran to get Rahman. They were on the road fifty minutes after she and Kyle arrived at the warehouse.

  Stony rode in the lead vehicle, piloted by Mr. Sunglasses. His shades were on the dash in fron
t of him. The windows of the military vehicle were tinted so dark that wearing sunglasses would be suicidal. Major Davi was in the front passenger seat. She sat behind him, squeezed by boxes of gear piled to the ceiling. Kyle and two other ISI agents followed in the trailing SUV. Everyone carried Sig P226s in underarm holsters.

  Stony had watched the ISI team load the vehicles with enough arms to mount an invasion. A heavy canvas cloth in the back of each Toyota concealed a half dozen H&K MP5 sub machine guns. Each vehicle also bore a top carrier with tents, food, and enough water for three days.

  As they accelerated away from the warehouse, she leaned forward and asked Davi, “Won’t the Humvees and all this gear make us targets?”

  “Where we’re going, everyone is armed. The only way to be safe is move fast and have enough firepower to scare the shit out of people.”

  Davi’s words triggered images from her nightmare. Alone. Hurt and unarmed. Wandering in unforgiving country. She shuddered and shoved the dream into a rusty mental lockbox, slammed the lid, and tossed the key.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  General Ahmed Pasha banged on the front door of Rahman’s house. The surveillance team had reported no unusual activity, but it had been two days since he’d seen the Institute professor, and he was anxious for an update on the translation.

  It was eleven a.m. He’d left the warehouse after seeing the Americans depart with Major Davi for the bogus incursion into Iran. Pasha had intended to drive to the professor’s, then had received a call from the director-general, who’d insisted on a personal update. So Pasha had spent the morning at the DG’s estate, detailing the plan to kill the Americans and refining the message the DG would deliver to the acting director of the DTS once they had confirmation that his agents were dead.

  He slapped Rahman’s door a second time and smiled.

  Agents Hill and Kain were so convinced that Rahman was in Iran and an easy target that they were blind to the danger around them. Pasha could almost see them mentally rehearsing the questions they’d ask the professor after his capture.

  The op was easy, but not in the way Agent Hill expected. The bitch and her asshole partner would die ten miles inside Iran and ten thousand kilometers from home.

  After torturing and killing the Americans, the Iranians would issue a press release decrying an invasion of their sovereign land by CIA spies. They’d describe a fierce battle during which several brave defenders of the faith had died before the American filth was eliminated. Davi would give the weapons and ammo in the Humvees to the Iranians—payment for services rendered—and silence the two ISI agents who’d accompanied him. He’d be back in Islamabad the day after tomorrow in time for dinner.

  Pasha slapped the screen door so hard that it bounced on its hinges. “Rahman!”

  The professor came to the door, breathless and red-faced. “My apologies, Colonel.” He swung the door open and stood back.

  As Pasha strode into the front room, he noticed Rahman’s eyes glance at his shoulders and new insignia. Savvy Pakistanis learned to be sensitive to military rank if they wanted to avoid trouble.

  “Forgive my slowness, General. Congratulations on your promotion.” Rahman’s voice was flat, empty of any sincerity.

  “You promised to have the Translation finished by tomorrow, professor. Make a tired man happy and tell me that you’ve already finished it.”

  Pasha grew uneasy as the man’s sun-burned face faded to the color of dirty chalk.

  “I have, General, but—”

  A sense of dread chased shivers up Pasha’s spine; the hair on his arms and neck stood on end, tingling with their atavistic warning.

  “What?” Pasha’s voice was a low growl.

  Rahman cringed. “Tareef is gone. He was gone when I woke up this morning. I’ve been out looking for him since before daylight.”

  “Gone? You were not to let him out of your sight.”

  “I didn’t. I even made him sleep next to me. He was still here when I got up to go to the bathroom. But he must have snuck out after that.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “What he had on yesterday—white tunic and pants, sandals.”

  “Anything missing from the house? Food? Water?”

  “Not food or water, but—” Rahman swallowed so hard that he choked and he couldn’t speak.

  “Damn you, you unreliable piece of dog shit. What else?”

  “The codex is gone. He must have taken it.”

  Pasha felt the room swirl around him. “I’ll have your skin for a hat.”

  “You have a copy of the original, and I can assist you with the translation. And you’re the one who frightened the boy, not me.”

  Pasha struggled to focus on the most immediate problem. “What time did you take a leak?”

  “A little after four. I remember looking at the clock by the bed.”

  “Does he know anyone else in the city?”

  Rahman shook his head. “No.” He hesitated. “At least, I don’t think so. Not since I’ve had him with me.”

  “You don’t know much, do you?” Pasha thought for a minute. “It probably doesn’t matter. I’ll issue an alert, but he’s a mountain kid. His instinct will be to get away from Islamabad. But he can’t get far without water.”

  Pasha stormed back outside, hustled to the road, pulled his cell from his pocket, tapped a number, and barked, “Get up here.” The stretch black SUV that was parked a block away fishtailed in the gravel at the side of road and sped toward the house.

  He scrolled through a list of emergency numbers, found the one he was looking for, and tapped the screen. His call was answered in one ring.

  “General Ahmed Pasha, ISI. Authorization Echo-Zulu-3142. Requesting urgent air search. Maximum resources, under the authority of ISI Director-General Tulpur. Looking for a 10- to 12-year-old kid, probably alone. Light brown, curly hair. He’s in Transition. Thin build, about 150 centimeters tall. Wearing white tunic and pants. Name is Tareef Khan. Locate and detain.”

  The surveillance SUV slid to a stop in front of Rahman’s house, and two plain clothes policemen jumped from the car as if it were on fire. Pasha put a hand over his cell and ordered them to wait. He turned back to the house and saw Rahman standing inside the screen door, watching like an antelope watches a leopard.

  “Subject last seen—” He flipped to his phone’s GPS app. “—At coordinates 33.753746, 73.162666. Acknowledge.” The duty officer read back the location and the description.

  “Focus your search on the terrain and roads leading away from the city. Search radius—”

  Say seven hours, three miles an hour, 21 miles. Shit. His Transition eyes will make him easy to spot, but that’s a lot of territory.

  “—Search radius twenty miles. I want a team in the air in fifteen minutes.”

  He killed the call and shouted to Rahman, “You have a picture of the boy?”

  The professor hesitated before answering. “On my phone.”

  “Bring it to me, along with all the copies of the codex and your translation.”

  Pasha glanced at the younger cop. “Go with him. Make sure nothing is destroyed. NOW!” The man bolted across the yard and into the house.

  Pasha confronted the surveillance team leader, a big-bellied man with a bulbous nose traced by angry red veins. “I don’t suppose you happened to see the kid you were surveilling leave the house last night and you just forgot to tell me.”

  “Sir, there are no lights out here and—”

  “That was a rhetorical question, you idiot. Of course it’s dark. That’s why you were issued night vision equipment and why one of you was supposed to be on post watching the back of the house at all times.”

  “No one said anything to us about watching the back—”

  “Shut up.” The man paled and stepped back as if he’d been assaulted. “Issue the missing kid’s picture and description to every cop and member of t
he militia in the city. One year’s salary and a promotion for the officer who brings him to me.”

  Pasha thought for a minute.

  He’s a scared mountain kid with no friends. He’s gotta be trying to get home.

  “Put the same bulletin out in every city and village between here and the Chitral district.”

  • • • • •

  Pasha called the director-general’s bunker and arranged for an urgent meeting.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Rahman asked.

  Pasha grabbed the translation documents. “Depends on how helpful you are. You can start by being helpful now. Who else in Islamabad could translate the codex?”

  Rahman was silent for a moment. “There are only a handful of people in the world with the necessary training. Perhaps Zafri Malik at Quaid-i-Azam University. But I doubt he knows the particular dialect.”

  Pasha had identified other scholars who might be capable of translating the codex when he first met Rahman and understood the significance of the find. In addition to confirming Rahman’s credentials, he’d found three other scholars: one in Chicago, one in New York, and one in Washington, D.C. Two of the three had died in the Georgetown blast. It would take too long and involve too much risk to contact the other one. Malik’s name had appeared near the top of a second tier list of possibilities.

  He will have to do.

  “You and the boy were from the same valley, weren’t you?” The file on Rahman included a terse notation that he was from the Kalash tribe, but it didn’t identify his home village. The lack of specific information was a common blind spot, driven by bigotry. The Kalash were a primitive people. Surely it made no difference what squalid outpost the professor called home.

  Except that the Kalash are spread over miles of rugged mountains. I need to know where the boy is going.

  “No.”

  “Quit lying. Where’s the nearest village to your home?”

  Rahman was silent.

  “You can tell me now, or I’ll torture you until you tell me. And I’ll torture everyone who knows you until one of them tells me. Do you doubt me?”