The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1)

by J. E. Hopkins

“As you wish.”

  “One final item before you depart. Incentives. I’m told these are important for modern men like yourself.”

  “Yes, Comrade?”

  “The day you relieve me of this poison in my lungs, I will promote you to major general.”

  “That is most—”

  “But if I’m infested with this pestilence one month from today, I’ll have Rong kill you. Then perhaps we can discuss choice from the Daoist Department of Demons and Monsters.”

  Zurich

  The Swiss Confederation

  John and Stony crossed the Rathausbrüke to the east side of the Limmat River.

  One thing to say we’ll ignore Marva. Doing it is going to be a risky sonofabitch.

  He checked his watch. “Almost noon. We’re near a restaurant I know from previous trips. How about we take long lunch and figure out what we do next?” Stony nodded. The two hadn’t spoken since their decision to defy the DTS Director.

  John led them past the seventeenth-century Zurich Rathaus on their right. The baroque town hall, still used by city leaders, sat above the river on an extended stone pier. Just past the Rathaus, he crossed the street to a three-floor stone building, the Zunfthaus zur Haue. The fourteenth-century guild house had been converted to a weinstube in the 1980’s.

  They were seated in a private alcove. Floor, walls, and ceiling were covered in burnished walnut, glowing softly in the dim yellow light of converted gas lamps. Chopin’s Nocturne in D Flat Major drifted through the sound system, swallowing the distant sounds of other guests. The savory aroma of sautéed meat permeated the air.

  “Impressive,” Stony said, her voice low. “You think I have the only nose stud in this place?”

  For all the restaurant’s history and elegance, the lunch menu could have been from a Cincinnati bar: burgers, fish and chips, salads. They ordered and dove into the deep end of the dilemma they’d created for themselves.

  Stony asked “How do we keep the director from figuring out what we’re up to? Once she realizes we’ve gone off the reservation, she’ll try to bring us to heel as fast as possible.”

  “Her network is too good, so about all we can do is delay the inevitable. We need to figure out which Heritage Trading works for the Chinese, crack them, and drop off the DTS radar.”

  “How the hell do we do that?”

  “Through a skillful combination of lying and bureaucracy.”

  They paused while their meals were delivered, then resumed, working around mouths full of food.

  “Marva insisted I call tomorrow morning and share my revised plan. I’ll tell her we’re going to contact the principals of each Heritage trading company, have our worthless conversation, and then return to Washington.”

  “Back to Washington when?” Stony asked.

  “Next Monday. I’ll tell her we need a week to wrap things up,” John said. “She’ll want us to leave sooner, but she knows I’m pissed and will go along to throw me a bone.”

  “So we have a week to get this done. Where’s the bureaucracy come in?”

  “Hang on. As soon as we finish here, contact Heinrich Schlepper at EuroDetectiv. We go back thirty years. Tell him I need his help and he’ll give you whatever you ask.”

  “What am I asking for?”

  “The names and addresses of the guys who own the two Heritage Trading operations. And twenty-four hour surveillance on each of them. And we need him to get going immediately.”

  “I hate to complicate this brilliantly conceived plan with the mundane, but I thought we had no budget. You have a high limit credit card? How do we pay these guys?”

  John smiled. “That’s the bureaucracy part. Just tell Heinrich to invoice DTS.”

  “But—”

  “Heinrich will send an invoice by snail mail when he completes our contract. Figure a week from now. The bean counters at DTS will process payment on standard terms, thirty days after they get the invoices. By then this entire mess will be over.”

  “Slick,” Stony said. “You realize this’ll be construed as stealing, since we’re spending money without authorization.”

  “The least of our worries. Speaking of worries, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marva hedges her bets by having us followed.”

  “Christ. Getting so you can’t trust anyone while you’re trying to screw them.”

  “Tell Heinrich we need a team to follow us 24/7. He’s to contact us immediately if we’re being tailed.”

  “What will you be doing while I’m spending the director’s money?”

  “A drive-by of the two Heritages, to see if anything obvious jumps out at me. Let’s meet at six at the hotel to debrief.”

  Stony nodded. “One last thing. I’d like a double shot of Macallan before we jump off this bridge.”

  * * *

  After Stony caught a cab back to the hotel, John crossed the street and sat on a bench facing the Limmat. Low gunmetal clouds obscured the sun. The wind was up, gusting, skipping over the river, stirring, then abandoning small whitecaps. He used his cell to locate the addresses for the two Heritage Trading companies. One was on the opposite side of the city, the other in the heart of Zurich’s Old Town, only five blocks from the Storchen. Easy walking distance.

  He stood, tapped his cane twice on the concrete and strode back toward the other side of the river. During his last trip to Zurich he’d discovered a tiny medieval cemetery tucked into the back corner of a small city park. He decided to take a detour on his way to the nearby Heritage location.

  Thirty minutes later he sat on a polished wooden bench facing a dozen headstones worn smooth by time. No names were legible, but the first two numbers of a year—11—were shadowy ghosts on several of the markers. A small verdigris sign on the back of the bench proclaimed this the La Ville cemetery.

  I’d like to be buried in a place like this. A place that persists, that creates its own solitude.

  He’d purchased a plot in the Gates of Heaven cemetery in Cincinnati, but never really liked it. Too new, too big, too commercial.

  Just never seem to have the time to find another place.

  He smiled as he remembered his mother’s face—he was in the fourth grade—as she scolded him about the perils of procrastination.

  Once this assignment is over, I’ll find a better place. Maybe in Europe or Asia, where they value permanence.

  The smile fell away as his mind turned to the shadowy Chinese program.

  This is going to get messy, and I’m seventy goddamn years old. Maybe it’s too late for a new burial site.

  He thought about Stony.

  I’ll ditch her after we finish in Zurich. Tell Marva I lied to her, misled her. Finish this business on my own.

  John pulled the smell of earth and grass deep into his lungs and released it slowly, savoring the ageless aroma. Rising and approaching the nearest gravestone, he rested a hand on the bleached marble, caressing the rounded edges. He shivered, shook his head.

  He left the cemetery and quickly covered the four blocks to the address for Heritage Trading. He was surprised to find a retail store, wedged between Tommy Hilfiger and Maryse Parfumeries in a tony gothic building on the Bahnhofstrasse.

  This is the outfit that specializes in rare books, the one that didn’t include China in its list of trading countries.

  Two small display windows were recessed into the building’s stone facade on either side of a door that appeared to have been pilfered from a fourteenth-century castle. A video camera was mounted above the door, scanning the street in front of the store. One window had a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird on a blue velvet background. The other held a small brass plaque on a miniature easel:

  Heritage Trading, LLC.

  Global Buyers and Sellers of Rare & Antiquarian Books

  Inquire Within

  Someone’s doing well in the export/import business to afford this place.

  He pushed the latch and found the door locked. A small round doorbell was embedded in the doorframe to the le
ft. He pressed the button, heard nothing. A couple of seconds later he was rewarded by the sharp clack of a retracting deadbolt. He grabbed the latch and swung open the heavy door.

  John felt as if he’d entered the private study of a centuries-old mansion. Ceiling-high mahogany bookcases surrounded a walnut parquet floor. A few volumes rested on each shelf. Glass display cases, each holding a single book, stood a few feet in front of the bookshelves. A round royal blue carpet filled the center of the floor. The ceiling appeared to be embossed tin, painted to match the rug. Pinpoint recessed spots gently illuminated the interior and he caught a whiff of jasmine tea.

  A woman with silver hair and wire frame glasses, a couple of inches taller than Stony, entered the display room through a rotating section of bookcase.

  “May I help you?” she asked. A tear-shaped port wine stain spread from her left eye, covering about half her cheek. Her face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a prominently hooked nose.

  The Wicked Witch of the West without the green complexion.

  “I’ve been searching for a first edition of a particular volume for some years. Perhaps you can help me.”

  She walked over and extended her hand. “I’m Miss Upland. This is my establishment. Welcome.” Her English carried a hint of German.

  John slid into a cover ID. “Jack Dunning, Miss Upland. Delighted to meet you.”

  She gestured around the room. “What are the particulars?”

  “I’m looking for the two-volume Hearst Egyptian Expedition - Early Dynastic Cemeteries. Written by Arthur C. Mace and published in 1909 by Hinrichs.”

  Upland blinked. “You are a taphophile, Mr. Dunning?”

  “As time permits. Not to be condescending, but my compliments on your familiarity with the word. Most people use ‘grave hunter’ and consider the hobby ghoulish.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t possess the volumes you are seeking. I can conduct a search if you wish. I should have results in two or three weeks. The cost is 500 Swiss francs, about 550 US. I’ll refund half if I don’t locate at least one volume.”

  John said, “I’ve been told that the Chinese are fascinated by historical cemeteries and have been very active in acquiring rare books on the subject. Could you include China in the search, and if you find a volume, arrange for a purchase?”

  “Certainly. I deal with the People’s Republic routinely.”

  So much for the accuracy of Swiss records.

  John provided a credit card and email address for the alias. The DTS maintained multiple cover identities for their agents. Many otherwise paranoid criminals would accept the validity of an identity as long as you could produce a working credit card.

  He left the store and caught a cab for the twenty-minute ride to the second Heritage Trading, the one that listed China among its agent countries and that dealt in antique furniture. The driver wound his way to Langstrasse, past a massive rail yard, and stopped across from a four-story eighteenth-century office building.

  He arranged for the driver to wait, climbed from the car, and looked around.

  The threat of rain had abated, and patches of blue peered through holes in the clouds. Similar buildings lined both sides of the two-lane road, crowding narrow, crumbling sidewalks. No trees, no grass. No one on either side of the street and little car traffic.

  Anyone following me would have a bitch of a time staying concealed.

  John crossed the street and into a building entry not much bigger than an old phone booth. The layout reminded him of ramshackle railroad apartments where the entrance to each unit faced a hallway surrounding a central stairwell, and the interiors were a series of connected room. A realtor might say “cozy” and forget to mention the bathtub was in the kitchen.

  A list of tenants tacked to the wall didn’t include Heritage Trading. A building manager was listed on the first floor. John walked down a hallway with pitted black and white checkerboard linoleum and bare light bulbs for illumination. He knocked on the manager’s door.

  A few seconds later the door swung open to reveal a young man in running shorts and singlet, barefoot and carrying a pair of Nikes.

  “Ja, bitte?”

  John said, “Sorry, I understand very little German. Sprechen sie English?”

  “Some. Help you?”

  “I’m looking for Heritage Trading. The address is in this building, but I didn’t find them on the list out front.”

  The guy stood on one foot, pulling a shoe on the other and tying the lace.

  “Herr Schumacher died two months ago. Heritage was his.” The guy switched feet, tied the other shoe.

  “You certain he was the only person? Maybe the company was operated from somewhere else?”

  “Nein. Him only. A liebenswürdig—” He paused to regroup. “A kind old man who traded furniture. I helped care for him.”

  “Danke,” John said.

  “Keine Ursache.”

  John returned to the waiting cab and directed the driver back to the Storchen.

  Hard to believe Upland is a kid-trafficking ringleader. Am I missing something?

  He climbed from the cab at the hotel entrance and checked his watch. He had an hour before he met Stony. Just as he decided he’d use the time for another stroll, she came through the doors.

  “Good timing,” Stony said. “Want to see if our bench on the Weinplatz is free?”

  The earlier wind had cleared the clouds and blown itself out. John filled her in on his two visits as they strolled to the park, found the available bench, and sat. The sensuous aroma of chocolate from a nearby boutique chocolatier teased their noses.

  “The PIs we hired to watch over us should be on the job already,” Stony said. “Haven’t seen them and don’t expect to.”

  “When will surveillance begin on the import companies?” John asked.

  “Dunno,” Stony said. “Depends on how fast Heinrich can pull information about the owners. He promised no later than tomorrow morning.”

  Stony’s cell broke the quiet of the park. She pulled the phone from her pocket, glanced at the display, and accepted the call. “Yes?”

  She listened for a couple of minutes and disconnected. “We meet Heinrich at his office at noon tomorrow. Sounds like his information matches what you found, Dish. There’s only one Heritage Trading. Owned by a Miss Victoria Upland. No employees of record. His people have her under surveillance and are on their way to bug her home.”

  “Heinrich say anything about us being followed?”

  “They’ve seen nothing. So far.”

  * * *

  John returned to the American Consulate at ten the following morning and called Marva. She took the call alone.

  She’s cutting Akina out of the loop.

  “Morning, John. What’s your status?”

  “We’re having a little trouble identifying the Heritage Trading owners. I figure we’ll get that done today. Then we’ll set a time to meet, conduct standard interviews as you ordered, and head home.”

  “What did you tell Stony?”

  “About all I could tell her. For reasons above her pay grade, we can’t put pressure on the Heritage guys. She was frustrated, but fell in line.”

  “Good job, Dish.”

  “Marva, one last time. Turn us loose on this. It’s too important to sweep under the rug.”

  She’ll expect me to try.

  She appeared saddened, like she’d just learned her new puppy had been run over. “No, John. Don’t ask again.”

  “I’m disappointed, Director. I never thought you’d give me such bullshit orders.”

  “I want you out of Switzerland by Thursday or Friday at the latest.”

  “Huh uh. Bad enough you’ve castrated this investigation. I’m not leaving until I conduct the interviews. Unless you’re ordering me to shut everything down. In which case, you have my resignation and we’ll leave tomorrow.”

  She won’t shut us down. The record has to show that we hit a dead end.

&nb
sp; “Give me a date, Senior Agent. Don’t worry about quitting, because I’ll fire you if you persist with this insubordination.”

  John paused as if he was thinking. “We’ll be back to D.C. next Tuesday, a week from today.”

  Marva frowned and shook her head. “The weekend is worthless except for travel. Be here Monday.” The display went dark.

  If she’s working against us, Heinrich’s guys will pick up a tail in the next few hours. We’re across the Rubicon.

  * * *

  John and Stony were sitting in EuroDetectiv’s main conference room at eleven fifty when Heinrich swept into the room, shoving the door shut behind him. He looked like a sober Boris Yeltsin—big and strong, with thick gray hair combed into a pompadour. He carried a thin red folder.

  He embraced John in a fierce bear hug. “Welcome, my friend. Time is treating you well, well.” Heinrich repeated words; not a stutter, but a habit, like a high performance car reluctant to shut down.

  “You haven’t aged a day, Heinrich.”

  Heinrich laughed and sat across from them. “Aging is for pussies, Dish. Pussies. Shall we do business?”

  “I appreciate that you haven’t had much time,” John said, “but we’re anxious to hear what you’ve learned.”

  Heinrich smiled. “Two things you know already, already. There’s one Heritage Trading, run by an older woman, a Miss Upland.”

  John nodded. “I scouted her store yesterday and met her. Hard for me to imagine she’s anything but a bibliophile.”

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover, John,” Heinrich said. “Her retail operation conceals a—”

  The door opened. A cadaverous Asian man floated over to Heinrich, bent and whispered into his ear. Heinrich frowned, nodded. The agent left, closing the door softly.

  Heinrich resumed. “The retail store is a front. The Zurich Canton police have been watching her for more than a year. Heritage is an import-export business, yes, yes. But for drugs and stolen artifacts. And, based on what Stony told me, stolen children.”

  “Your bugs get anything?” Stony asked.

  He shook his head. “I have a contact inside the police department and my information comes from him. We didn’t try to place any devices in her home because the police, police have already done that.”