Stony jumped up and ran toward the conference room door. “Call and let me know what’s going on Dish, or I’ll beat your ass.”
As the door closed, Akina turned to John. “What is this about Pakistan?”
He removed his sunglasses and showed her his eyes. “I appear to have a role in the possible elimination of the T-Plague.” He told her about Rock Creek and the memory he’d relived while sitting by the Detroit River. An intense twenty-minute discussion ensued, which grew more intense when he shared his plans to find Tareef.
When he finished, she surprised him by smiling. “I wish Marva were still alive, so I could have watched while you told her this story.”
It was John’s turn to smile. Marva Bentley, former director of the DTS, had run the world’s largest organization dealing with Transition. But she’d hated the very idea of magic. It disturbed her sense of order and predictability. She may never have recovered from having one of her agents report personal visitations.
“It occurs to me,” Akina said, “that you may have gone around the bend.”
John pointed at his eyes.
“Yeah,” Akina said, “that’s hard to ignore. Looks good with your white hair. For all I know, you got splashed with some magic when you went into the Detroit scene.”
“Splashed by some magic?” John asked. “Is that a technical term that I’ve somehow never heard?”
“You get my point. We’re dealing with a lot of unknowns here and an adult with lavender eyes proves nothing.”
John started to respond but she held up her hand to stop him. “I’ll get back to your visions in a minute. If we assume that the message in the gas station is legit, why is Wells going to Mount Vernon?”
“To get close to DC before he destroys it. It’s the same thing he did in Michigan.”
Akina walked over to the credenza at the end of the room and returned with a laptop. She tipped the lid open and pulled up a map of the eastern United States. She zoomed in on Ohio.
“Dundee is more like fifty-plus miles south of Cleveland,” Akina said. “There are lots of other back roads that are on a more direct path to Virginia.”
John thought for a moment. “He’s either taking an indirect route to throw us off or maybe he has a stop he wants to make along the way.”
Akina shifted the map to an overview of the area around the District of Columbia. “Mount Vernon is south of the city. If all he wanted to do was get close before using magic, he’s going the long way around.”
“Maybe he wants to use the magic from the home of the country’s first president, some sort of fantasy about rebirth of the country. No way to know.”
Akina closed the laptop and leaned back in her chair. “I’m not going to argue with you about your visions. Even if I thought you were crazy, which I don’t, I’m going to let you play this out.
“If we’re lucky, we’ve got about a day before Wells destroys the heart of our government. Stony and Ron may get to Wells before he can act, but they’re looking for one car in thousands of square miles. That’s a long shot, at best.
“If there’s even a chance that we can stop magic with magic, we have to take it.”
John heard no hint of despair or surrender in Akina’s voice.
He watched as she ran a Google query for the flight time between Washington and Islamabad. Fourteen hours. “I’m pretty sure we can beat that by a couple of hours, if we fly balls-out.” She started punching buttons on her phone and glanced at John. “I’ll have my C-32 waiting for you at Andrews. I hope to God that you can find the boy and do something to help us before we run out of time.”
39
Mount Vernon, Virginia
They got to Mount Vernon by mid-afternoon and cruised the outskirts until Robert Lee found the kind of motel he was looking for. It was like the one in Michigan, a row of old cottages scattered among trees. He parked away from the office building, locked GT to the steering wheel, and went inside to register.
He returned to the car, released the cuffs, and handed GT a tourist brochure for a canoe rental service. As he drove to the last cottage in the row, GT read the brochure’s description of the remarkable wilderness that crowded the banks of the Potomac so close to the District of Columbia. The place opened at seven a.m.
The cottage had a bathroom, a small closet, and a double bed. He’d sleep on the floor, like he had in the other place.
No way I’m sleeping in the same bed with Asshole.
Instead of the roses wallpaper that covered the walls in Michigan, these walls were covered with faded, repeating images of George Washington’s home..
“Get in here,” Robert Lee called from the bathroom.
GT walked to the door.
“Assume the position.” Robert Lee nodded to the steel support pipes that held up the sink.
GT sat on the bathroom floor, leaned back against the adjoining wall and extended his hands around the two-inch diameter pipe. He was out of breath all the time now and his persistent fatigue seemed to have settled into his bones.
Asshole cuffed him to the sink.
“I’m not sure I can get enough air if you tape my mouth again,” GT said.
Robert Lee shook his head and stared at GT for a moment. “Man, if you’re faking, you deserve an Oscar. Your face is as white as the commode. I can’t take a chance that you’ll yell for help.” He paused. “But you don’t do me much good if you’re dead.”
He peeled a strip of duct tape from the roll and used his knife to cut a cross in the center of the strip, folding the edges of the cut back to form a rough hole. He placed the hole over the center of GT’s open mouth and pressed the tape along GT’s cheeks. “How’s that?”
GT stared at him, pushing air in out of the hole with a small whooshing sound.
“I won’t be gone long. I want to get the canoe rental all lined up so that all we have to do in the morning is get there and go.”
He stepped out of the bathroom, stopped, and turned back. “What do you want for dinner?” He cocked his head and smirked. “Oh yeah, I forgot. The cat’s got your tongue.”
He spun on his heel and stomped out of the cabin.
40
Islamabad, Pakistan
“What if he’s not in Pakistan?” AC asked.
It seemed to Tareef that the closer they got to Islamabad, the more often AC had asked this question. “You worry too much. I’ll find him.”
They’d left the lush pine forest an hour earlier, winding their way down the mountains and onto the hot high desert.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t think the power that rules Transition would command me to come to the city where my father died unless I could find the American. ”
He doesn’t like my answer, but I have no better one.
“What if the power likes playing tricks on simple-minded boys?”
AC rewarded Tareef’s sharp glance with a toothy smile.
Tareef grinned in response. “I wonder how the power feels about farm boys who mock it?”
AC laughed. “The power only concerns itself with boys whose eyes are stuck in Transition, not the sons of hard-working farmers.”
“I think the power can concern itself with anyone it chooses, including farm boys,” Tareef said.
“Perhaps,” AC said. “You still want to go to the American embassy?”
“I don’t know what else to do. The power didn’t provide me with many details.”
AC nodded. “Powers are like that. We’ll go the post office in Malpur Village and ask for directions. I buy seed for the farm in Malpur. Last time I was there I noticed an office on the main street.”
They took the next exit and followed the signs into the village. A couple of minutes later AC pulled up in front of a one-story, concrete block building with peeling yellow paint. He shut off the engine. “I’ll go ask. Who knows if the secret police are still looking for you.”
They must have forgotten me by now.
But he didn�
�t argue. Even a tiny chance that he was still hunted scared him. The people in small villages were suspicious of strangers and a boy with Transition eyes would be noticed.
He thought of the people in his village who mocked him because his eyes hadn’t returned to their usual color after he completed Transition. He looked at AC. “Why don’t my eyes scare you?”
AC had gotten out of the truck and started toward the building. He looked back at Tareef over his shoulder. “You’re my friend. No power is strong enough to make you hurt me.” He turned and disappeared into the post office.
He would know better if he’d ever felt Transition’s power.
Tareef opened the passenger door, hoping for relief from the heat. A shiny green fly buzzed around his head, then settled on his sweaty right arm. He let it drink for a while before pushing it away with a puff of breath.
A couple minutes later AC jogged back to the truck with a frown on his face. “The guy running the office asked a bunch of questions about why I wanted to know where the embassy was. If the cranky bastard told me the truth, we’re very close; it’s just across the Jinnah stream.”
“Is that him?” Tareef asked, nodding toward the building. A man was standing in the door, staring at Tareef and talking on a cell phone. “We should go.”
They left the guy behind, got back onto Murree Road, and drove until they reached the Club Road exit. Two roundabouts later, they turned into a broad boulevard and drove past a sign announcing that they had entered the diplomatic enclave for Pakistan’s international partners.
Tall palms grew in the center of the road, with stately homes facing the road on the left and a tall stone wall, topped with razor wire, about fifty meters from the road on the right. A massive sign on the wall welcomed them to the United States embassy.
The wall disappeared around a curve in the boulevard.
How can you welcome people without a door?
The lush avenue led them to a narrow two-lane road that ran off to their right and through an opening in the wall that was guarded by a six-foot-tall sliding gate and a squat, white building made from the same stone as the wall. Oscillating cameras, mounted above a glass door in the center of the building, swept the approach. There were no windows.
AC pulled to the curb just before the access road and stopped in front of a small bronze sign that read “Entrance 10, The United States Embassy.”
Tareef nodded at the sign. “This can’t be the main entrance, but perhaps they can help me.”
AC looked from the building, to the sign, and back again. “I don’t think they like visitors.”
“How about parking over there?” Tareef asked. He pointed to the other side of the boulevard, where a road disappeared into a community of three-story beige stucco homes with mansard roofs. “There must be some place to park down that side street.”
The homes that lined the road nestled next to each other, surrounded by a sea of dark green grass that ran from the curb to their entry porticos. White outdoor furniture and bright yellow sun umbrellas dotted empty tiled patios that stretched across the front of the houses.
AC nodded and pulled away from the curb, turned left from the boulevard, and found a parking space a couple of blocks away.
Tareef opened the door, got out of the truck, and looked up and down the street, staring at the homes that lined the sidewalks on each side. They seemed the same as the ones facing the boulevard, except he was at the back instead of the front. Garages and simple entrances—no columns or patios, just doors.
Do the Americans live here?
The buildings were about ten meters apart and each seemed large enough to hold all the people from a Kalash village.
All people are different.
Kalash homes used totems and colored ribbons to mark the personalities of their occupants.
Why do all these homes look the same?
He shrugged off his questions and leaned into the truck where AC was still sitting. “You’d better stay here. Someone might take your truck or ask you to move it. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
Before AC could object, Tareef turned and walked back toward the embassy entrance. He’d crossed the boulevard and started to walk up the side street to the building when a soldier wearing a camouflage uniform and pistol on his hip barged out the side door and down the street, intercepting him.
“Turn around. You’re not allowed here.” The gray-haired guard sounded more annoyed than angry.
“I need help to find an American,” Tareef said.
“Can’t help you. Turn around and go.”
“My name is Tareef Kahn.” He reached into his pocket. “I need to find this American.” He held out the card that John Benoit had given him months earlier.
The soldier didn’t even look at the card. “Don’t care if you’re Omar Sharif. Can’t help you, kid. Scat, or I’ll call the Islamabad police.”
“But—“
“Last chance. If you don’t turn around right now, I’ll cuff you and have you carted away.”
Tareef’s eyes filled.
Why won’t he listen?
He turned and stumbled back toward AC.
I’ll have to find another way.
41
Islamabad, Pakistan
John checked his watch for the thousandth time as the C32 touched down at the Benazir Bhutto International Airport. Ten a.m.
He thought about Stony and Ron. Islamabad was nine hours ahead of Washington, so whatever they were doing, they were doing it in the wee hours of the morning. The C32 was the military equivalent of Boeing’s 757 and was equipped with an impressive array of communications gear. He’d talked with Akina twice but figured that Stony and Ron didn’t need the distraction of a phone call from someone too far away to help them.
We’re out of time. I’d bet my right nut that Wells will strike today.
The flight steward walked back to John’s seat. “Dr. Benoit, the embassy has confirmed that we’ll be using the gate for the Rawal VIP lounge. Your embassy escort will meet you there and take you to your ground transportation.”
Likely to be an armored SUV. This isn’t a friendly place for Americans.
The plane taxied past several terminals before turning toward a separate, much smaller building with only two gates. John jumped up and hurried toward the front cabin door as soon as the jet bobbed to a stop.
The pilot was waiting for him at the door. “The US has its own hangar at the edge of the airport.” He handed John a card. “Our orders are to wait for you, however many days you need. The embassy can reach us when you’re ready to go, but ring my cell if you want to speed things up. The folks in Operations mean well, but they’re spastic and things can get delayed.”
John thanked the crew and scooted up the short jetway into the nearly empty terminal. As he’d noticed, there were two gates, but you had to search for them once you were inside. Nothing as pedestrian as a ticket counter was allowed to mar the five-star hotel ambiance. Muted lighting from crystal chandeliers cast soft shadows over tasteful arrangements of plush sofas, recliners, and burnished wood clusters of office furniture. The C32 had been great—better than anything other than the 747’s used by the president—but the jet’s accommodations had been spartan. The Rawal VIP Lounge made Air Force One look down-market.
An attaché, accompanied by a burly security guard, greeted him and pointed the way toward the exit. As they walked, John took his phone and called Dorothy Blue, the Ambassador’s administrative assistant.
Akina had used an in-flight conference call to introduce John to Ms. Blue, along with the Secretary of State and the US Ambassador to Islamabad, who was patched in from Karachi. John had gotten the distinct impression that Ms. Blue was the only one who might be able to help him find Tareef. The Secretary and Ambassador had pledged their full support, but every time John had asked a specific question, it was Ms. Blue who had answered.
“Dorothy Blue.”
“John Benoit, Ms. Blue. I’m on the groun
d, headed to the embassy. Do you have any news?”
“I’m told, Dr. Benoit, that your friends call you ‘Dish,’ although no one would tell me why. They insisted I figure it out for myself. May I presume to use your nickname? And you may call me Dot.”
I’m going to like this woman.
“Dish is fine. I can save you some effort. For reasons I’ve never understood, some people think my clothes are always rumpled. Dish is short for disheveled.”
“I can’t want to see for myself. Do hurry along. As for an update, I’m sorry, but I have nothing to report.”
Under Dot’s supervision, notices had been placed at every entrance to the embassy and every consulate in the country. The alerts had included John’s and Tareef’s name, Tareef’s unusual appearance—his Transition eyes, and light brown, curly hair—along with 24/7 contact numbers.
“How confident are you that embassy staff are giving this matter the priority it deserves?”
“I’ve personally visited with each of the Islamabad staff who handle contacts from outside the embassy and was about to make another round of visits. I’ll wait for you and we can go together.”
Good that she’s taking a personal interest, but the fact that she needs to make a personal visit doesn’t inspire confidence in the gate keepers.
42
Mount Vernon, Virginia
“This waiting is killing me,” Stony said. She and Ron Hammer sat on opposite sides of a banquet table in the community room at the Mount Vernon Governmental Center.
“Yeah.” Hammer had retreated to one-word utterances as the night crawled on. He kept smacking the keys on his laptop, as if that would somehow help with the manhunt.
The secret service had commandeered the room as a temporary command center. Apart from a dispatcher on loan from the Mount Vernon police, Stony and Ron were the only two people in the room. It was dead quiet, fitting for one a.m. in a rural Virginia village.
The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller Page 24