The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  He stood and looked around in desperation. He spotted an alley half a block away.

  “Get back!” He tried to scream and chase the bystanders away, but his voice was a pitiful squeak. He waved the gun. “I’ll shoot anyone who tries to follow me.”

  Rahman lurched toward the alley. His legs seemed to be okay, but the pain was sneaking back into his arm. He glanced back. None of the people around the crash had followed him.

  The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the hot shade, with his back pushed against a brick building, facing the brightly lit street about fifty meters away. The gun lay next to him.

  He had no idea how long it had taken him to get there. No idea how long he had before the police arrived.

  He took the guard’s phone, flipped it open, and punched in a number that would ring a phone carried by his friend Mika. An untraceable phone. Mika was part of an anti-government underground network. He’d told Rahman to call if he ever needed help.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Rahman. I don’t have long. Are you where you can talk? You’ll need a pen and paper.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  When Mika came back on the line, Rahman could hear the sound of traffic in the background. He summarized his situation in a few short sentences.

  “Where are you?” Mika asked. “I’ll come get you.”

  “No. I need you to do something much more important.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Do you have a way to send an anonymous email that can’t be traced?”

  “I have friends who can.”

  Rahman wanted to ask if these friends were willing to risk their lives, but it made no difference. He was out of time and options.

  “Send an email to the U.S. ambassador here in Islamabad and to the United States director of Transition Security.”

  “Saying what?”

  Rahman struggled to get his thoughts in order.

  What was essential? What would make them believe him?

  “Take this down.”

  “Okay, go.”

  “This is being sent at the request of Ashraf Rahman, professor at the Institute of Asian Civilizations in Islamabad. Dr. Jessup Scholard of the DTS contacted Dr. Rahman to translate an ancient codex. The codex eliminates the need for uniqueness in the Transition ritual.”

  Pain seized Rahman’s chest and made it impossible to speak.

  “Rahman?” Mika asked.

  Rahman groaned and forced his muscles to relax. A couple of men peeked around the corner of the building at the open end of the alley, then jerked their heads back. He heard yelling voices, but they sounded strangely distant.

  “Just a bit more,” Rahman whispered.

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “The Pakistani ISI stole the codex and bombed the Georgetown building to conceal the theft. They brought the original to me. I’ve destroyed it, but General Ahmed Pasha has a copy. I gave Pasha a translation that contains a subtle, but critical, flaw. A young Kalash boy who is in Transition knows the correct translation. He’s fleeing the ISI, trying to return to his home in the Birir valley. His name is Abdul Tareef. You must help him.”

  Rahman wheezed. “Read it back.”

  Police with automatic weapons entered the end of the alley. Rahman lifted the pistol and waved it in the air. The police slowed their advance and didn’t open fire.

  They must have orders to take me alive.

  “Will the Americans believe you? How can they do what you ask?”

  “I don’t know,” Rahman said.

  He laid the phone on the alley paving stones, smashed it to bits with the butt of the pistol, put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Panjgur Desert Research Station

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  “You’re expected inside the main building, Agent Benoit.” Private Liberty had lowered the stairs on the unmarked Gulfstream G750 and walked to the back of the plane where John sat. He’d been the only passenger for the two-hour flight. He’d boarded the plane without knowing his destination, and Liberty had refused to enlighten him.

  “Still not going to tell me where I am?”

  “Sorry, Sir. I’m not at liberty to say.” He led John down the plane’s fold-out steps to a wind-blasted tarmac and pointed to a one-story building that was dwarfed by a neighboring hangar. “We’re in that building, Sir.”

  John turned and surveyed his surroundings. On the opposite side of the hangar was another building, this one two stories tall. A solitary runway with a parallel taxi strip stretched toward the horizon.

  Gotta be more than a mile long, maybe enough to land a C5 Transport.

  The place looked deserted. But a cyclone fence, topped by coils of razor wire, sparkled in the morning sun and disappeared into the distance, corralling runway, dirt, sand-blasted scrub, and the three buildings. The morning sun, the color of urine glaring through a sand-filled haze, hung low over the hangar.

  Lot more room in that hangar than a G7 needs. Or six G7s.

  Liberty led the way to the low building.

  John tucked his cane under his arm and fell in behind him. “You come here often?” He had to yell to be heard over the wind.

  “Sorry, sir. I’m not at—”

  “—liberty to say. Your name is a perfect fit.”

  The man grinned at him. “I like it. Has a nice ring to it for a soldier.”

  This guy has a lot of self-confidence for a private.

  As they got closer, John realized that the windowless building was much larger than his initial impression—maybe half a football field under roof. It only looked small next to the hangar. A wood porch, two steps up from the ground, ran along the front of the building and was covered by a sloping metal roof painted battleship gray. A half dozen rockers were scattered along the porch. The chairs reminded him of a restaurant chain that had porches and rockers, like they’d been air-lifted from a holler deep in the Appalachian Mountains.

  Not your average Cracker Barrel.

  A small painted sign next to the front door announced:

  Panjgur Desert Research Station

  The United States of America

  In partnership with

  The Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  The private entered a ten-digit code into an electronic lock and stepped aside for John to precede him. Two steps inside and a couple of things became obvious at once. First, the place served as a substantial communications center—there were a dozen long tables jammed with computers, giant displays, and electronics gear that John didn’t recognize. And second, Private Liberty wasn’t a private. Every man and woman in the room not attached to a computer stood at attention and saluted as the soldier entered the room.

  Liberty returned the salute and barked, “As you were.”

  He smiled for the second time since John had met him and extended his hand. “Please forgive my charade, Agent Benoit. It’s safer to keep a low profile in this country. I’m Colonel Wyland Liberty. Feel free to call me Wylie.”

  John shook the offered hand and slammed his cane down on top of the nearest desk, causing the real private sitting there to need a change of underwear. “Incognito extends to not telling me anything, Wylie?”

  “My orders were to wait until you arrived at our little facility.”

  “Don’t colonels command brigades?” John asked. “Like five thousand men? With all due respect, I’d be surprised if there were more than a hundred men assigned here.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. But there are exceptions. We also command Special Forces units, which this isn’t. But black operations, which this is, require a more senior—”

  A familiar whoop cut through the room. Stony blasted through the door in the back of the room, ran over to John, lifted him from the floor in a fierce hug, and dropped him back to his feet. “You sonofabitch. I couldn’t believe it when the DNI told me you were in India.”

  At six-three, John was a
foot and an inch taller than his partner. He looked down at her. “Have you shrunk? I remember you being taller.”

  “And I remember you being younger. Your age must account for your lapse in memory.”

  Liberty led them from the room and into a large conference room off the hallway beyond. He left them alone, saying he’d return shortly.

  A wave of grief passed over Stony’s face and tears filled her eyes. “You know the bastards killed Kyle, right?”

  “Yeah, the DNI told me. I’m sorry, Stony. I wish I had words that would ease the loss, but we both know better.”

  They sat down, facing each other across a scarred Formica banquet table.

  “He was a good agent. In a just world, he could’ve grown old and been a John Benoit.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She took a deep breath and described the key events since she and Kyle had arrived in Islamabad. The colonel reentered and sat next to Stony as she described the attack and her rescue.

  John shifted his focus to the colonel. “I didn’t realize the U.S. had any bases in Pakistan. Thought that was too much of a political hot potato.”

  “We don’t. This is a research station. There are a handful of scientists posted here, working out of the building on the other side of the hangar. They’re studying desert encroachment resulting from global warming.”

  “For real?” John asked.

  “For real.”

  “And all this?” John raised a hand and drew a large circle in the air.”

  “Doesn’t exist. It’s a wink-wink, nudge-nudge agreement with the Pakistanis.”

  “Don’t suppose you can tell me the purpose of a non-existent—”

  John’s cell phone rang. He checked the display—Director of National Intelligence Lewis—and put it to his ear. “Benoit.” He listened for a few seconds, then said, “Hang on.”

  John pressed the phone against his chest and looked at the colonel. “I need pen and paper.”

  Wylie jumped up and hurried to a credenza at the end of the room. He grabbed a pad and pencil from a shelf, hustled it back to John, then sat back down next to Stony.

  John switched the phone to his left ear. “Okay, go.”

  He scribbled notes for a couple of minutes. “When was it sent?”

  Another brief note on the pad. “Why are we just hearing about it?” More notes.

  John looked at Colonel Liberty. “You should be getting a communication from Washington right about now.”

  The colonel got up and left the room.

  “Where the hell is the Birir Valley?” John asked. “You have any intel on the Kalash?”

  He turned to a fresh page and filled it with notes. “Thanks. I’ll call you back when we’ve figured out what we’re doing.” He ended the call just as Liberty returned.

  The colonel carried a sheet of paper and a puzzled expression. He sat next to Stony, laid the paper down, and tapped it with the index finger of his right hand. “The U.S. military in this part of the world has been ordered to give you every assistance. Whatever you want, subject to final authorization from D.C. What the fuck is this about?”

  John stared down at his scrawl-filled notepad. “The U.S. ambassador in Islamabad and the director of the DTS received identical emails, apparently from someone acting on Professor Rahman’s behalf. “

  “What was in them?” Stony asked.

  John read aloud the text of Rahman’s email and looked up.

  “Jesus, I think this is the real deal,” Stony said. “Rahman and the ISI—that son of a bitch General Pasha—are probably the only two in a position to know this stuff. And the attack on Kyle and me is pretty convincing evidence that the general and his director aren’t our friends.” The sarcasm and anger in her voice could cut steel. “But what’s the story with the kid? First I’ve heard about him.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” John said. “And it scares the hell out of me to think there’s a kid running loose who can use magic at will.”

  “Have any of the D.C. geeks been able to trace the origin of the messages?” the colonel asked.

  John shook his head. “No, but the DNI’s logic led him to the same conclusion as Stony’s. We need to proceed on the belief that this information is legitimate.”

  “What about Rahman?” Stony asked. “Maybe we can somehow get to him.”

  “Whoever sent this added a couple of lines at the end,” John said. “They believe Rahman is dead.”

  “How current is this intel?” the colonel asked. “When were the emails sent?”

  “Sent yesterday, mid-day. Took time to go through the system. We’ve lost a day, plus whatever time it will take to get an operation under way.”

  “What operation?” Stony and Colonel Liberty asked at the same time.

  John didn’t answer directly. He looked at Stony. “You met the CIA station chief in Islamabad, right? What’d you think of him?”

  “Baker? Seemed sharper than the average spook and the ambassador spoke highly of him. Why?”

  “Agent Baker is going to use all his local resources to track General Pasha. He’ll also have access to the National Security Agency’s intercepts to and from the ISI.”

  “The goal being?” Stony asked.

  “Find out what the ISI knows about the codex and who knows it. Give us some targets.”

  “Jesus,” Colonel Liberty said. “We might as well declare war on Pakistan and have done with it.”

  “That could be next,” John said. “If the email has it right, our beloved General Pasha and company have a bad translation of the codex. That buys us a little time, but they’ll eventually figure it out. If we can’t target a handful of ISI-types who have access to the codex, we’ll have to act more broadly.”

  “And attack an ally? An ally with nuclear weapons?” Liberty asked.

  “What other choice do we have?” Stony asked. “We can’t let Pakistan gain access to magic.” She looked at John. “How long you figure we have before the military takes out the ISI?”

  “Could be days. Maybe a week. Depends on what the spooks learn.”

  Wylie cleared his throat. “My orders are to assist you, subject to D.C. approval. What do you want to do?”

  “I’m still thinking,” John said. “Forgive me for being rude, but I need a few minutes alone with Stony.”

  Liberty rose without speaking and left the room.

  John pushed back from the table, lost in thought. He balanced his cane on the floor between his knees, let it go, caught it, and repeated the calming ritual.

  “What?” Stony asked.

  John’s voice was a soft whisper when he answered. “We need to come at this problem from another direction while the intel guys do their thing. The kid—Tareef—is headed back to the mountains. We have zero chance of finding him while he dodges the ISI. But maybe we can find him if he makes it home.”

  “Okay,” Stony said. “I can buy that. One kid who can use unrestrained magic is a threat to humanity. We find him and keep him from using magic until he’s out of Transition.” She stopped and stared at John. “You have more on your mind than grabbing the kid. Spill it.”

  John nodded. “We persuade Tareef to use magic and help us with the ISI.”

  “To do what?” Stony asked. “Kill anyone who knows the codex?”

  “Exactly,” John said.

  The room fell quiet.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Stony said. “But there’s a DTS policy that strictly forbids using magic for any purpose, good or bad. Our jobs are to stop its use, not matter what it takes. Any agent who violates that policy is guilty of treason. That’s the fucking death penalty.”

  John laid his cane on the conference table. “So let’s assume for a moment that we’re good, policy-following agents. The codex is an existential threat. The U.S. has no choice but to preemptively wipe out the ISI, which will probably start a war. With a nuclear power. What next? What if we miss just one person who knows the secret? You know
that’s going to happen. Then the U.S. is toast, and the world is subject to the ISI’s every whim.”

  He paused and sighed. “This situation has gone too far, is too much out of control. The DTS policy almost guarantees death and destruction.”

  Stony pushed away from the table and gazed at the floor. “Jesus, what I’d give for you to be wrong.” She looked up. “But you’re not.” She took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. “I’m in.”

  “Hell, we probably won’t even find him.” John got up and moved to the conference room door. “I don’t plan on telling anyone how we intend to use Tareef. The objective of our incursion to keep him from using magic.”

  “No problem by me. I don’t want to face a military firing squad. I’m too pretty and full of life.”

  John smiled, opened the door, and called Liberty back into the room.

  “We’ve agreed that we need to find Tareef,” John said. “So we need a small unit to take us into the Birir Valley.”

  “You’re nuts. Even the ISI is afraid of those mountain valleys.”

  John smiled. “Doesn’t matter, Wylie. Your orders said ‘every assistance,’ right? We’re going to go for a hike.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Highway N45

  Northeastern Pakistan

  “I don’t like this,” Tareef said. “I feel exposed using the main road.”

  He and Ali were two kilometers outside Chakdara. Three days had passed since they’d hiked out of Murree. They’d begged rides and worked their way north, using side roads wherever they could. But now they were traveling through land so desolate that only way north was the main highway.

  The road led to Ayun, a small village just past the mouth of the mountain valley that was Tareef’s home. He’d ask whoever gave them a ride to let them out before they reached the town, just in case the ISI was waiting for them, ready to pounce.

  He took a deep breath and picked up his pace. A long day’s ride would bring him to the last stage of his journey.