"I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition. I beseech this Power to grant my request. I honor the requirements of Transition and affirm…
Please, God. Please don’t let this work.
"That I make my request with respect and humility…
He felt like he was sitting in a furnace, but instead of being surrounded by fire, an impenetrable fog pressed against him and dimmed the bedroom’s overhead light. The unexpected heat and mist made him jump; he hesitated for a moment before pressing on, finally arriving at the last few sentences.
"That this is my own true wish…
No, it’s not.
"That I willingly surrender my life if I am found unworthy or my request is found wanting…"
"Hear me: Change the salt shaker on my desk into one ounce of gold…”
An idea, fast as lightning, burned into his awareness.
Use the magic to make this nightmare go away. Send Asshole back to prison
“Send—”
The fingers around his throat tightened like a noose. “No! Just finish it if you want to get out of this chair.”
“So thus I beseech."
The unbearable heat and fog disappeared. GT slumped in the chair and stared at the small cube of gold that gleamed in the dim light.
“Yes!” Wells hissed. “Now we know two things. The magic doesn’t have to be unique and it doesn’t have to be your own wish.”
“I don’t feel so good,” GT said. His heart was pounding and the room was spinning.
I could sleep for a week.
“Get out of the chair. I need to send another email.”
GT’s legs buckled. He lurched to the bed, sat down, and flopped back, his legs dangling over the edge.
Wells tapped at the keyboard for a few minutes, paused, and tapped some more. “How’s this sound?”
To: The President of The United States
I warned you. The time to take back our country is at hand. I will show the world the power of T-Plague magic. And when you are cowering in your bunker, I will come for you. You are a dead man walking.
GT didn’t answer.
“Yeah,” Wells said. “I agree. It’s perfect.” He smacked the keyboard like he was driving a nail through a two-by-four and the email program confirmed the message transmission with a soft whoosh.
GT forced himself upright. “Using a fake email address won’t save you. The Secret Service will hunt you down and shoot you like a rabid dog.”
Wells laughed. “I’ll admit that I probably just raised the stakes a skosh.” He rotated in the chair, took his cell from his pocket, pressed a button, and put the phone to his ear.
Speed dial. Whoever this is, he calls them a lot.
“I’m on my way. Be there for a late lunch.” Wells hung up and looked around the room.
Jesus. He’s leaving. As soon as he does, I’m calling nine-one-one.
“You’ve got five minutes to pack your shit. Figure on enough clean underwear for a week or so. And don’t forget the computer.”
16
Washington, DC
“I don’t know the CDC people, but you assigned top-notch DTS agents for the team,” Stony said. “Thanks.”
She and Akina sat alone in the DTS director’s conference room following the kick-off meeting with the new T-Plague task force.
“You’re welcome,” Akina said. “I think you’re going to need them. From what I’m told, the people from the CDC are just as good.”
Stony yawned and stretched her arms over her head. She’d driven to LaGuardia for the flight to DC, grabbed a cab to the DTS, and arrived five minutes late for the start of the evening meeting.
Don’t think this day is ever going to end.
She glanced through the French doors that opened from one end of the conference room. Little daylight remained. The DTS headquarters was a three-floor building that surrounded a covered atrium half the size of a football field. The director’s office suite was on the ground floor, with access to a private, landscaped patio.
“Did CDC Director Karpov squawk when you told him who you wanted?” Stony asked.
Akina’s smile reminded Stony of the Alice in Wonderland Cheshire cat. “I rejected the first list that he sent over. Sent my choices back to him based on recommendations from some of my contacts in his agency. He screamed bloody murder, but complied.”
“Can I trust the CDC folks to be loyal to the task force and not go running back to Karpov?”
“You can’t trust anyone in the bureaucracy, dear,” Akina said. “You know that. But the president’s orders were clear—the agents are yours for as long as you need them and they are sworn to protect confidentiality. Karpov will focus his time on the CDC’s non-task force business.”
Stony had used the meeting as an organizational meet and greet. She’d paired each DTS agent with a CDC counterpart and had broken the team into two groups—one to assemble a timeline of known outbreaks and the other to pursue the cases in Switzerland, along with two new cases that had been reported in California. She’d scheduled the first working meeting with the team for the next morning at eight.
“Blood samples from Natalie and Shin were sent to the CDC,” Stony said. “But John and I didn’t hear anything back. That may have been part of Karpov’s bullshit power game, but this thing needs its own CDC research team. We’re going to be swamped with blood and tissue samples. Hell, even Shin’s birds need to be examined.”
“Already in motion. Karpov is carving out a separate space in the CDC’s emerging infectious diseases unit for T-Plague research. The reassigned researchers will be up and running by tomorrow morning,” Akina said.
“Will they handle autopsy oversight?”
“Yes.”
“Who will deal with the press?”
“The government will speak with one voice on this,” Akina said. ”Any communications or press briefings will be handled by my press office. Which reminds me of something. Calling this mess the T-Plague is a really bad idea. It will scare the hell out of people.”
“That’s good. It should scare the hell out any sane person.”
Akina frowned and shook her head. “I’m not joking. We won’t help anyone by associating this situation with the plague. From now on, all references will be to ATS, for Anomalous Transition Syndrome.”
“What idiot came up with that?” Stony asked.
“The president’s staff.”
“And you agreed?”
“I wasn’t given a choice. But it’s better than Transition Plague, for God’s sake.”
Stony sighed. “Whatever. Our choice of words won’t make any difference if we can’t figure out how to stop—”
The star-shaped conference phone hunched in the center of the cherry table buzzed. “Director? Your dinners just arrived.”
“Thanks, Rose. We’ll eat outside.”
Stony and Akina moved from the conference room to the white enameled table that sat in the center of the adjoining patio. Most of the offices that faced the building’s covered atrium were dark. The lights that remained glittered like fallen stars.
Three squat, alabaster pillar candles flickered in a triangle in the center of the table. Large Bento-style boxes of rice, Kimchee, and Daeji Bulgogi spicy pork waited for them, along with a separate container of Gyeran Mari Korean egg rolls. Stony sat as Akina opened a bottle of Chilean Shiraz and poured them each a glass before she took her seat.
Several containers of flowers surrounded the patio, but all Stony could smell was the aroma from the pork. She wasn’t a gardener and had no clue what the flowers were, but their ghostly blooms were enchanting. A soft hissing sound blanketed the table.
“What’s the sound?”
“White noise generator,” Akina said. “Keeps anything said out here private, unless someone starts yelling at me. In which case…” She nodded toward the building. “My security detail will calm them down.”
A good reminder of just how much her life has chang
ed since taking the number one role at the DTS.
“Can we switch topics to a more personal matter?” Akina asked. “About our relationship?”
Aw, Shit. This dinner was so nice.
Stony swallowed a mouthful of the fiery Kimchee. “No, I don’t think so. As my nana used to say, ‘Never put off till tomorrow what you can pretend to put off today.’”
Akina laughed. “I don’t even understand what that means.”
“Neither did my nana. Being selectively addled gave her an advantage over the rest of the family.”
“Be serious, Stony. The Director of National Intelligence has made it clear that—”
Stony dropped her fork onto the table with a clatter. “I don’t give a fuck what the DNI has made clear. He’s out of line.”
Akina didn’t flinch from the outburst. “Is he? I don’t have dinners like this with any of the other agents in the department.”
Stony’s anger bled into the darkness. “No other agent has my combination of hard body and rapier wit.” She thought for a minute. “I’m sorry, Akina. Humor is one way I follow nana’s example. Deflect, deflect, deflect.”
“I like your humor,” Akina said. “And your hard body. But we have to deal with—”
“I think I know the answer to this question, but let me ask it anyway, just to be clear. Has something changed? Are you looking for a long-term commitment from me?”
Akina was shaking her head before Stony had finished the question. “Of course not. I would have told you. And I assume you would’ve done the same.”
“So. We enjoy each other’s company and the sex.”
“Oh, yes,” Akina said. “The sex is particularly enjoyable.”
“Now who’s deflecting the conversation? Not that I disagree with you.”
They’d continued eating as they talked. Akina placed her fork on the table and sat back. “Okay, I’ll cut to the heart of the matter. As much as I enjoy you, ours has been a casual thing.”
Past tense.
“My desire to be the Director of this agency is anything but casual. We need to stop seeing each other socially.”
Stony agreed, but her heart ached with loss.
Why is this so difficult?
“Is that all?” Stony asked. “I thought you were working your way up to firing me. No biggie on the relationship. Except…”
Akina’s eyes glistened in the candlelight. “Except what?”
“Can we start our non-relationship in the morning?”
Stony’s eight-person task force was located in a corral of waist-high beige partitions on the third floor of the DTS building. There were enough desks for triple the number of people and Akina had promised there’d be no issue if Stony needed to expand beyond that.
She sent her folks on a much needed late lunch break—they’d been working uninterrupted for six hours, since eight that morning—and called Akina’s office.
“Ms. Beane? This is Stony Hill. Would the Director have a couple moments for a status update?”
“I know who you are, dear. You have a very distinctive voice. No need to give me your name.”
“I do? What’s my voice sound like?”
Brief pause. “More like Humphrey Bogart than Lauren Bacall.” Another pause. “Ms. Pearl has been waiting several hours for your call, but she has someone in her office at the moment. Please hold while I check with her.”
Humphrey Bogart? Really?
Akina picked up the call a few seconds later. “I’ve got people lined up like Monday morning planes over the Atlanta airport. Make it fast—what have you got?”
“Does my voice sound like Humphrey Bogart’s?” Stony asked. “Ms. Beane says it does.”
“Hadn’t thought about it, but I think Ms. Beane is onto something. But she’s also been known to mess with people. It’s one of the reasons I like her. Along with her rock-solid competence.”
Akina had stolen Rose Beane from the FBI Director’s office. Ms. Beane had been a Dominican sister for fifteen years before renouncing her vows and taking a job at the FBI, where she’d worked her way to the top of the department’s administrative ranks. Stony had heard Akina sing her praises on more than one occasion after Ms. Beane had served as a liaison between the departments. Smart, blunt, about five-three with a stocky build and a glorious mane of blue hair, Ms. Beane was a force of nature. DTS agents quickly started calling her Attila the Nun, although never in her presence.
“Huh. I think you’re both messing with me.”
“Stony—”
“Sorry. I don’t have much to report,” Stony said. “We’re just getting settled in. But we do have a rough timeline. You know about the New York cases, of course. And we have unconfirmed reports from Switzerland, California, and Texas. If they check out, the T-Plague started—“
“You mean the ATS.”
“Right, that’s what I mean. The ATS started in Switzerland a couple of weeks before it hit the US. It’s not clear if any of the US cases preceded the others. Right now it looks like they all popped up at about the same time.”
“Where in Switzerland?”
“Not clear. Geneva, or someplace nearby. I’ll know more by tonight.”
“You hear anything from Dish?” Akina asked.
“Huh uh. We’ll talk tonight.”
“Hang on a second.”
Stony heard a murmured conversation, then the line went silent, like she’d been put on hold.
Five minutes passed before Akina returned to the call. “Can you come down here?”
“When? I was going to grab a sandwich before the team reconvened.”
“Now.”
“They are expecting you, dear,” Ms Beane said. “Go on in.” She nodded at the closed door to Akina’s office and handed Stony a half-sandwich wrapped in clear film. “Tuna salad on white. It’s all I could arrange on short notice.”
“Thanks. Where did—”
“I liberated it from Agent Gaskins.” She nodded toward Akina’s office. “You’d better scoot.”
Stony found Akina sitting at the round four-person conference table in the corner of the office. Across from her sat a man Stony didn’t recognize. As Stony walked toward the table, he rose, flashed a toothy smile, and extended his hand. He towered over Stony, topping, she guessed, six-five. His height, purple-black skin, gaunt build, and humongous nose conspired to remind her of a California Condor. She fought the urge to flinch and run for her life.
“Adam Sly.” His voice belied his size; soft and patrician, it carried a hint of the Caribbean. “Call me Sly. I’ve had the nickname since I was a kid.”
“Stony Hill.”
Damn. All you’d need to do is show pictures of this man to bad guys. They’d run for the hills.
Stony placed her hand in Sly’s giant paw and prayed that he’d give it back.
“Akina speaks very highly of you,” Sly said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Before I forget, please tell your partner that I share his interest in cemeteries. I’d love to connect with him when we’re both in the same city for a few days. Perhaps make a field trip together.”
“I’ll do that,” Stony said. “I’ve been with John long enough to know that cemetery ghouls love company.”
Sly’s face betrayed no hint of a smile.
Christ, who’ve I just pissed off?
“Grab a seat, Stony,” Akina said. The faint winkles around her eyes tilted up in amusement. “Sly is the director of the United States Secret Service.”
Stony slid into a chair with a creeping sense of unease.
Akina turned toward her guest. “Would you please bring Stony up to speed?”
An unadorned leather portfolio lay to one side of the table. Sly reached inside, withdrew a manila envelope, and placed it in the center of the table. He tapped it with the index finger of his right hand. “We’ve received a threat on the life of the president. That’s not news—on a good day, we’ll get a dozen new threats. But…”
He opene
d the envelope, withdrew a single sheet of paper, and placed it on the table in front of Stony:
To: The President of The United States:
I warned you. The time to take back our country is at hand. I will show the world the power of T-Plague magic. And when you are cowering in your bunker, I will come for you.
You are a dead man walking.
“I’m here because the note mentions the use of magic. We knew nothing about the so-called T-Plague, but a couple of web searches turned up an article in a Swiss tabloid. Akina has filled me on the disease outbreak.”
Stony felt as if a cold fog had filled Akina’s office, obscuring everything but the three people sitting around the small table.
“Have you been able to trace the source of the message?” Stony asked.
“Yeah. Unless the sender is doing something way more sophisticated than we think, the computer is registered to a Claire Jane Wells, in Pecos, Texas. Another threat was sent from this same computer just a week or so ago, but we didn’t flag it as anything out of the ordinary.”
Sly removed another piece of paper and put it on the table. The message was similar, but mentioned nothing about magic or the T-Plague.
“What have you learned about Ms. Wells?”
“Everything but her bra size and we could get that if we needed it. But she has a clean record with local, state, and federal law enforcement. We don’t think she uses the computer. She has neither Facebook nor Twitter accounts and the computer’s browser history isn’t consistent with a middle-aged woman’s.”
“Just for the record,” Stony said, “it pisses me off that you can grab someone’s browser history. Even if it’s for a good cause.”
Sly ignored her and continued. “Ms. Wells’ son—Gary Thomas, age twelve—is very active in social media. The browser’s history is consistent with that of a twelve-year old boy.”
“What’s that mean?” Stony asked. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
The browser has recently been used to access the TW site on multiple occasions, which makes us think Gary Thomas may be in Transition.”
The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller Page 12