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

by J. E. Hopkins

  We will love Sarah forever.”

  Zurich

  The Swiss Confederation

  John and Stony left the EuroDetectiv building with Heinrich at seven that evening. As they entered the elevator, Heinrich told them, “We have three cars waiting. The lights in the parking plaza have been shut down to conceal which one we’re in.”

  Heinrich flipped a switch and plunged them into a disorienting darkness that persisted when they arrived at the lower level. The burble of running engines and the acrid smell of exhaust hinted at the location of the waiting vehicles.

  Heinrich whispered, “Three black BMW SUVs are five paces in front of us, left to right. We go in the last one. No curb, but step carefully, carefully.”

  They lined up like blind circus elephants and shuffled their way forward. The bulk of an SUV emerged from the murk, bracketed front and back by the other two vehicles. Heinrich turned and guided them to the last one in the line.

  “The drivers will leave at the same time for destinations on different sides of the city,” Heinrich said. “I doubt the surveillance agents will have the resources, resources to track us.”

  They rolled from the rear of the building and accelerated onto the narrow Zurich street. John gazed through the window at his side; the tinted glass gave the passing buildings a ghostly, otherworldly appearance.

  By the time they arrived at the Zunfthaus zur Waag restaurant for dinner, Heinrich had confirmed that none of the SUVs had been followed. “Your director apparently didn’t pay, pay, for teams to track you.”

  Stony snorted. “She must be too cheap to pay for more than a half-assed tail.”

  “She’s not penurious,” John said. “Her intent was just to deliver a message that she doesn’t trust us.”

  “That makes us even,” Stony said.

  The face of the fourteenth-century Zunfthaus was painted Wedgwood blue and illuminated by floodlights that cast stark shadows from the ground to the top of the three-story building. They entered and climbed a curved mahogany staircase to a private dining room.

  John felt like he’d entered a small, exclusive art gallery. A half dozen oils and watercolors hung from the alabaster walls, lit by recessed ceiling spots in the darkened room. Small placards next to the paintings identified Swiss-born Paul Klee as the artist. The pieces were abstract, polychromatic, with a contemporary feel, even though they had been painted in the twenties and thirties.

  John smiled at Heinrich. “Thank you, my friend. This a good distraction from our dirty business.”

  For a couple of hours John set aside the pressures of the case. No one raised the issue of their upcoming visit with Upland or their broken relationship with their director. After the dessert plates were removed and they sat enjoying Otard cognacs—Stony, an Unser amber beer—John dragged them back to business. “What’ve you arranged for our meeting with Upland?”

  Heinrich’s face sported a smug grin. “I considered the usual desolate spots designed to intimidate, intimidate—old warehouse, meat locker. However, it’s clear from the police reports that our Miss Upland is comfortable with these environments. She’s used them herself to torture, and kill, kill.”

  John nodded. “What’d you come up with?”

  “Üetliberg. A 900-meter mountain about forty-five minutes from here. A small hotel which closed a couple of years ago sits at the top, top. It’s now quite desolate.”

  “So she’s in the old hotel?” Stony asked.

  “Best to show you.”

  * * *

  As they settled in for the drive, Heinrich handed John a thick manila envelope. “My report on Miss Upland. Includes copies of the police reports.”

  John withdrew the half-inch stack of paper and began reading, passing each page in turn to Stony.

  After reading several pages, Stony commented, “Christ. What an amoral piece of work she is.”

  An hour later, the BMW SUV crunched into the parking lot of the shuttered hotel and stopped. For the last twenty minutes they’d crawled up a series of switchbacks with snowy mountain on one side of the road, vertical drops with no barrier on the other.

  “We hike from here,” Heinrich said. “We’ll be outside—Upland is tied to a chair on the edge of a cliff at the scenic overview. There’s warm clothing up front.”

  Bound and alone on the black edge of a mountaintop. What a nightmare. If evil has nightmares.

  John got out and opened the front passenger door. The driver handed him a polar coat, fur-lined gloves, and a heavy knit cap. He tossed his jacket on the floor and quickly pulled on the offered clothing, happy to bundle up against the wind that swept from the surrounding forest. He retrieved a four-cell aluminum Maglite from the front seat, one for each of them.

  He punched the rubberized button on the torch and swept it around them. A half foot of snow covered the ground. Two new model Land Rovers, empty, were parked twenty feet away, their engines pinging as they cooled. Snow had been dredged into a path out of the lot and through a meadow, leading toward the ghostly hulk of the old hotel.

  Beyond the light of his torch it was as dark as the inside of a black velvet bag. He reached back into the SUV and retrieved his cane. The three of them and the driver gathered in a small circle in front of the car.

  Heinrich said, “Upland is on the other side of the hotel, just below the summit. Jurgen will show us.”

  The stocky driver led them along the rough trail, then uphill, skirting left and downwind of the abandoned chalet. As they emerged from its shelter into the meadow beyond, sharp gusts slapped at their faces and tried to get inside their coats.

  Stony yelled, “After you, Dish,” and ducked behind him.

  They hiked to the edge of the clearing and entered the tree line, following a narrow, steeply rising path. The wind bent the trees and buffeted the little procession with a scent of pine.

  The trail terminated at the foot of a half-dozen steps of rotten, splintered logs. They picked their way to the top and onto a flat, cleared surface about the size of a basketball court. The wind hushed, as if they had sailed into a sheltering harbor.

  John’s light disclosed a stone terrace wrapped on three sides by the mountain rising above them. The end opposite where they stood opened to the shimmering night sky, bound by a knee-high wall.

  A chair, held by one of Heinrich’s men, was perched on the wall. A half dozen more men stood in a tight cluster several paces away.

  John and Stony walked over for a closer look. The low barrier was about a yard thick and made from dry-laid rocks capped with large flat stones. The faint, twinkling lights of Zurich were miles distant and thousands of feet below.

  The ladder-back chair faced out over the abyss. Upland wore the same style coat and gloves Heinrich had provided to John’s team. Her arms and legs were bound by thick ropes, her head covered by a black hood. Her breathing sounded relaxed, unhurried.

  Heinrich tapped John on the shoulder and pointed away from their prisoner. The three returned to the top of the stairs and faced each other.

  “Our guest is ready for your questions, questions,” Heinrich whispered. “She is secure and warm, as long as you wish her to be. She’s had the hood on since we took her, so she can’t identify anyone unless she’s good with voices.”

  “Has she seen where she is?” John asked.

  Heinrich nodded. “A couple of my men donned hoods and removed hers for a few moments after we got her on the wall. Made her take a good look around before they covered her head again, again. She seemed a bit tense.”

  “How far to the bottom?” John asked.

  Heinrich shrugged. “Perhaps five hundred meters, meters.”

  “I want you and your men to take two of the cars and go. Leave one for us. Give us your lights, except for what you need to get back. I’ll call you later to collect her.”

  Heinrich nodded. “You’ll need to capture what she tells you.” He paused, as if uncertain. “And you might require something more to persuade her.” He reac
hed into his coat and retrieved a voice recorder, a slender six-inch folded knife, and a plastic bag big enough to fit over a person’s head.

  John took the offering without comment. He tucked the bag and knife into his jacket pocket and gave the recorder to Stony.

  She turned it on and moved into place behind the chair as Heinrich and his team left. She planted her feet on the ground next to the wall and grabbed the chair’s stiles. John placed all but one of the four-cell flashlights on small mounds of packed snow, throwing a pocket of light around their captive.

  He moved to Upland’s left and peered over the wall, pointing the remaining light down along the rocky face of the mountain.

  Jesus. If I were in this spot you wouldn’t even need to ask. I’d piss myself and spill everything.

  He leaned his cane against the wall and stared at Upland. She appeared to be shivering, despite being bundled tightly against the weather.

  He laid the light on the wall and picked up a fist-sized stone.

  She started, turned her head toward him.

  He tossed the rock over the wall. It crashed and clattered, at first preternaturally loud, bouncing and scraping, then fading, as it sought a new resting place hundreds of feet below.

  “Why are you here?”

  She shook her head violently from side to side and took a deep breath. “No fucking idea, asshole. Let me go and maybe—maybe—I won’t have you killed.” Her voice was coarse, with no hint of the cultivation he’d heard in the bookstore.

  So much for being scared witless.

  “Then allow me to help. Perhaps you’re busy with so many things it’s difficult to choose.”

  She said nothing, continued to stare toward him as if she could see through the hood.

  “You’re not here because you’ve stolen a valuable first edition book. You’re not here because you are a drug smuggler. Small-time thugs don’t rate this treatment. That narrow things down?”

  She turned away, facing the night and the distant Zurich. Snow started to fall, swirling around the chair. John’s feet were freezing.

  “You’re here because you buy and sell children for the Chinese.”

  She snorted, dismissive. “You have no goddamn clue what you’ve gotten yourself into. They’ll kill you and anyone who knows you.”

  “Thank you for the concern about my health,” John said. “Be more worried about your own.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “From whom do you get your orders? Name and address.”

  “Stick your questions up your goddamn ass.”

  He reached over and yanked the hood from her head. She flinched at his touch.

  Upland jerked her head toward John, eyes wide.

  “I don’t give a shit if you know who I am. You’ll either talk and tell me the truth or you will die here tonight. Who gives you your orders?”

  She shook her head, lips mashed into a thin line, as if she feared words might leap out unbidden. Her breathing had become rapid, shallow.

  John withdrew the plastic bag from his pocket and tugged it over her head, pulling it tight around her neck. Upland went rigid, sucked the plastic into her mouth and nose, blew out, sucked back. She thrashed against the ropes as if she’d been hit with a cattle prod.

  He kept the bag sealed, watching, waiting. When her struggles slowed he pulled it free. Her throat rattled as she convulsively gulped the freezing air. She puked, a stinky waterfall of bile. She choked, spit, coughed and grabbed more air.

  John moved back, looked toward Stony, and mimed “hang on” while holding his fists in front of him, like he was gripping the stiles. She nodded, tightened her grip, and leaned back.

  He returned to Upland’s side, grabbed the chair by its back and seat, and dragged until the front legs dropped over the wall. He bellowed, “Look around you.”

  The wind blowing above their heads howled, as if frustrated that it couldn’t reach down and pluck Upland from the narrow wall.

  Stony caught the shifting weight and held the chair at an angle, pointing Upland at the void below. She jerked back, her head smacking the wooden slats with a crack.

  John screamed, “Talk to me, or I’ll throw you down this mountain and laugh all the way home.”

  “Kill me, I don’t care.” Her voice was raspy and tired. She choked as she talked, as if the effort to speak was painful. “The Chinese will, anyway.”

  He warmed his tone and lowered his voice, sounding almost sad for her predicament, like he was just trying to help an old friend “Maybe. Or maybe you can run and hide from them. I’m sure a smart woman like you has a backup plan.”

  He moved behind Upland and helped Stony jerk the chair’s front legs back onto the wall.

  Returning to the shivering woman’s side, he leaned over and put his forehead against her temple. She tried to pull away, but he grabbed and held her, his voice hard as steel. “You can get away from the Chinese. But you can’t run from me. I’ve got you. Right now, right here on the side of this god-forsaken hill.”

  Stepping back, he gave her a few seconds to think. “I’m curious. Does your Plan B include the survival of your daughter Gina and her three girls?” Heinrich’s file was comprehensive. “Andrea, Jana, and Katharina, right? I suppose you even included their dog. Surely you want to keep them safe.”

  He paused for several seconds. “If you die tonight, those plans won’t be worth shit.”

  Her face sagged as if paralyzed by a stroke. She started crying quietly, her nose running, tears mixing with the snot running across her lips, down her chin.

  “I promise you, I will not ask a third time. So before you answer, think of all you value in life.”

  Again he paused. “From whom do you get your orders?”

  She stared into his face. “You cocksucker, you’re no better than they are.” She took a deep breath. “Wu De. His name is Wu De.”

  “Where’s he located?”

  “I’ve met him once a year since we set up the … business arrangement. Always in Shenyang.”

  “How long have you been dealing with him?”

  “Five years.”

  “What exactly do you do for Wu De?”

  “Promise me—”

  “No promises. What do you do for him?”

  Her face remained slack; now her posture slumped to match. “I buy kids for him. They can be boys or girls but must be six or seven.”

  “What countries?”

  “Vietnam. Somalia. Thailand. Myanmar.”

  “How many each year?”

  “Originally, ten. Last two years, twenty.”

  John had promised himself that he’d avoid getting emotional and stick with the facts. His commitment didn’t survive his rising sense of disgust. “So you bought, what, seventy kids like they were furniture and shipped them off to be beaten, raped, killed?”

  Upland shrugged. “They’re worthless trash. No one gives a shit about them. Their lives will be miserable until they die. All they do is breed more useless kids and spread disease. I’m doing the world a favor.”

  John felt like he’d been punched. And felt himself reacting the way he always did when he was threatened. Or when someone he loved was threatened. He wanted to strike out, destroy the threat.

  He stuffed the emotions, returned to his questioning.

  “Give me the names and locations of the slavers in each country.”

  She rattled off the information without hesitation.

  “How much do you get paid?”

  “Five thousand US per kid, plus expenses. Way more than the normal market. I make a killing.” Pride crept into her voice.

  Heat crawled up the back of his neck.

  “How do you deliver them?”

  “Varies. Containers, trucks, planes. Then by plane to Shenyang.”

  He struggled to hang on to the contents of his stomach.

  Six year old kid goes for a walk. She’s grabbed and dropped into a life of brutal horror.

  “What’s the progra
m’s code name?”

  Upland shrugged. “I don’t know. Once Wu De referred to it as Crane, but that was only one time.”

  The picture in Quince’s room. A scarlet fucking crane. He was trying to give us the program’s name.

  “How do you arrange a meeting?”

  She described a simple but ingenious process that left no trail. She’d call an 800 number and punch in a six-digit code that meant she’d be in Shenyang in two days. They met at the small park next to the North Pagoda.

  “What about Wu? Old? Well-dressed or a bum? Smart? Does he speak English?”

  “His English is better than mine. He’s young, maybe mid-twenties, cocky. Likes expensive Western clothes, always wears cowboy boots with silver tipped toes. Seems like he has lots of money or an unlimited expense account. He told me his father is some sort of political bigwig.”

  “Does he meet you or send an intermediary?”

  “Just him. There’s a bench near the entrance to the pagoda grounds. I wait there. He always comes up from behind and scares the hell out of me.”

  “How does he know it’s you? What’s your signal?”

  She sighed. “A bright yellow silk scarf. I have a bright yellow scarf covering my head. If I’m not wearing the scarf, he knows to stay away.”

  He had what he needed. It fit with what little they’d learned in Bangkok and Hanoi.

  He stared out over the cliff at the lights of the twenty-first-century city below.

  There are more kids sold into slavery today than at any time in the history of the world. How can we have progressed so little?

  He raised his cane and pressed it against the back of the chair.

  I’ll see you in hell.

  He shoved the chair over the edge.

  Hoeryong

  The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

  Senior Colonel Zhi, Major Eng, and Thanna sat at a small, round table in a closed room just outside the children’s dorm. Zhi had just finished talking to a gathering of all the children in the school. He’d said that he was sorry for their treatment by Colonel Rong, that Uncle Eng was replacing him and would protect them. After he’d finished, he told Uncle Eng and Thanna that he wanted to talk with them alone.