The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  The wind suddenly died, and the forest around him was silent, holding its breath. He laid the pages out in front of him.

  Which one?

  A leaf as gold as the rising sun slalomed through the air and landed with a kiss on the page under his left hand. He leaned forward and blew on the leaf; it lifted and settled again on the same page. Dylan shrugged, lifted the page, and began to read in a clear voice that rang through the woods.

  “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…”

  An iridescent lavender glow surrounded him. The air was sharply colder. He moved forward, shutting out the world around him, concentrating on the page on the picnic table.

  “That I make my request with respect and humility…

  “That my heart is pure…”

  The aura deepened and his fingers grew numb from the cold.

  “That my request is worthy…

  “That no request like mine has been uttered since time began…

  “That this is my own true wish…

  “That I willingly surrender my life if I am found unworthy or my request is found wanting…”

  Ice crystals formed from his breath. He shivered and fought to keep his voice steady. He moved into the final—critical—verse, building on the invocation of those preceding.

  “Hear me: Please give me, Dylan Edward Parker, and only me, a new gland the size of a pea, that sits under the skin at the back of my neck, invisible to all people and instruments. This gland will secrete hormones to stop my rages and keep my moods normal for a human my age. I surrender my right hand in exchange for this gift; it will be as if it had never existed.”

  • • • • •

  “Honey, I’m so happy that you finally agreed to do this. I never understood why you insisted on waiting.” To his red-faced embarrassment, Dylan’s mom tousled his hair and reached over to give him a sideways hug.

  They were in Potsdam, New York, waiting for Dr. Sawyer. Dylan knew that he’d need other sessions for adjustments and therapy, but he’d go home today with a new articulated right hand, his first prosthetic and the first time he’d have two hands since his birth.

  “I dunno, but a voice in my head told me that I’d know when the time was right.”

  The voice had come to him in a dream a couple of weeks earlier. A dream that he’d kept secret. In it he was surrounded by a warm purple fog and someone—something—was putting words into his mind. “Dylan Parker, you have paid the price of your magic without complaint. Replace your missing hand and know that I am well satisfied.”

  Dylan had wakened slowly, relaxed and content in a way that he’d never experienced before. That morning he’d told his mom he was ready for a new hand.

  His mother smiled. “And the little voice said your sixteenth birthday was the right time, is that it?”

  “Something like that. You know what I’d really like?”

  “What?”

  “To get back to Boundary in time to have dinner and a strawberry shake at the Pink Apple. We haven’t been there in ages. Who knows, maybe I’ll see if I can pick up the shake with my new hand.”

  “Easy enough. We’ll have plenty of time.”

  A nurse stepped through the door that led to the exam rooms behind her and scanned the room. “Dylan Parker?”

  Dylan laughed. It was a small room; he and his mom were the only ones sitting there.

  He’d never felt so happy.

  2015 CE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  Pasha drove past the ISI main building and around to the side, juking through a chicane of concrete barriers that guarded the staff parking and entrance. He put his sidearm in the glove box, got out, and locked the car. He’d been permitted to wear the weapon in the bunker but only with the DG’s intervention. He decided to avoid the hassle of forcing the issue in the ISI headquarters.

  The campus consisted of various windowless adobe buildings separated by well-kept lawns and fountains. Pasha had never seen anyone walking around the grounds—people chose instead to use the web of brightly lit tunnels that formed a subterranean glue for the complex. The air in the tunnels was conditioned; only fools would walk under the Pakistani sun when there was a more comfortable option.

  He’d worked in one or the other of these buildings his entire career, under three different DG’s, but he’d never been to the ISI leader’s office. He passed through security in the main building, rode alone on an elevator to the top floor, and strode down a marble hallway that was flooded by sunlight from a succession of convex skylights. The natural light was restricted to the halls; the DG feared that U.S. spy satellites could eavesdrop on conversations through the glass domes. Pasha was inclined to scoff at the DG’s almost superstitious belief in the power of the U.S. toys but had to admit that the wise path was one of caution.

  And with drones as thick as flies in our airspace, who knows what is possible?

  The hallway ended at a waist-high counter about twenty-five feet from the elevator. He presented his credentials. The counter and the blonde wood-paneled wall behind it looked like the registration desk at the luxury Islamabad Serena Hotel, except these desk clerks carried Sig P229s and had ready access to automatic weapons.

  One of the DG’s aides appeared like a magic trick from a side door, handed Pasha a bright yellow card suspended from a lanyard, and led him through a door behind the counter. The sunlit hallway resumed on the other side for about 25 meters. The aide took him to the last door on the right and opened it without knocking, nodding Pasha inside. The door closed behind him with a soft click. He glanced back and confirmed that that aide hadn’t followed him inside. Checking his back was an old habit.

  He’d expected to be brought to a conference room but instead found himself in the DG’s office. He’d also expected luxury.

  “You look surprised, Colonel. Come in. Sit. Sit.”

  The DG was perched behind a small gunmetal gray desk on a cracked and worn brown leather chair. He was wearing a faded red polo shirt with an alligator logo over his right breast. The only other furniture in the room was a round, one-meter table covered in chipped laminate and surrounded by four battered chairs. The walls were painted white and unadorned. The only exception to the spartan furnishings was a worn rectangular Persian rug that covered most of the tiled floor and was likely worth thousands.

  “I have another office for more official occasions. But I do all my real work here. Few people even know of its existence.” He rose, picked up a small, blue velour-covered box from his desk and joined Pasha at the table, sitting opposite him.

  “I like it,” Pasha said, and meant it. This was a side to the man he’d never seen. This was the office of a man dedicated to results rather than appearances.

  The DG stared at him for a moment, then smiled. “I believe you may actually mean that.” He put the velour box on the table and tapped the top sharply with his index finger. “Before we get to the main business of this meeting, I have something for you.” He opened the box and withdrew two shoulder epaulets. “I’m promoting you to brigadier general. This business we’re into with the codex requires general officer leadership.”

  Huzzah! I’ve dreamed of this moment since I joined the service. My boldness has led to a sweet, sweet reward.

  He stood and saluted. “Thank you, Sir. I’m honored.”

  “Sit. And don’t be so honored. This is a much more visible rank. It required the Prime Minister’s agreement. Fortunately, our minister is a biddable man and was willing to sign your commission without asking questions. If you fail to satisfy the demands of your assignment—” He paused. “If you fail to satisfy me, you’ll find that you’re not one of the ISI’s leaders but one of its targets.”

  Pasha had returned to his seat and was gazing at the gold insignia. He looked up. “Very clear, Sir.”

&nbs
p; The DG stared at him for an uncomfortably long minute. “Moving on. It appears the unfortunate event in Washington has created a vacancy at the top of the U.S. Department of Transition Security. I received a call from the man who’s been appointed by the U.S. president to fill that position. A Senator Nebelhorner. The man’s a fool.”

  “What was the purpose of his call?”

  “He told me about the Georgetown explosion and the codex, although he said nothing about its contents.”

  “Perhaps they don’t know,” Pasha said.

  “You’re dreaming. Of course they know.”

  “Any suggestion who might have planted the bomb?”

  “None. But it’s clear they’ve uncovered a connection between their archaeologist and the Institute professor Rahman. Nebelhorner wants to send two DTS agents to Islamabad to follow up.”

  “Shit. What did you tell him?”

  “Yes, shit. Before we get to what I told him, how long before we’ll be able to use the codex and confirm its validity?”

  Pasha was thinking furiously. “A week, perhaps, if all goes well. Rahman has a kid in Transition with him who we can use to test the codex. Perhaps we could refuse entry to the Americans, but that would trigger a diplomatic stink, and they’d probably deploy one of their CIA fools anyway. I need to get Rahman and the kid someplace they can’t be traced. But moving them may scare them so badly that we can’t get a reliable test.”

  The DG nodded. “I told the senator that we’d welcome his team.” He raised his hand to stop Pasha before he could object. “Hear me out. We’ll brief the Americans and feed them a fantasy. Tell them that Rahman has fled into Iran. That we know his location and it’s very near the border. You’ll have planned a mission to extract the good professor. A mission that one of your hand-picked men will lead. The Americans will beg us to join your team.”

  Pasha smiled. “And our friends in Iran will insure they never return. Nice.”

  “If the Americans refuse to go along, you’’ll take them into the countryside and kill them. Doing that inside Pakistan would be much riskier for us, but we’d have no choice. We’ll use Taliban bandits or some other nonsense as cover.”

  Pasha nodded. “I’ll leave the professor and the kid where they are and set up a sham apartment in Islamabad to show the Americans. We’ll arrange evidence to make it look like Rahman left in a hurry.”

  “It’ll take the Americans two days to get here. Work out the details and put this into motion.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  “Did you know that only three hotels have ever been bombed in Islamabad?” Stony asked.

  She and Kyle were sitting in the back of an armored Toyota Land Cruiser on their way from the Islamabad International Airport to the Marriott Hotel. The Toyota had been waiting for them curbside when they left the terminal. She gazed through the bullet-resistant side window at the tree-lined boulevards. The car was as quiet as the inside of a tomb, with an occasional soft thump when the tires smacked a pothole.

  “I didn’t know that,” Kyle mumphed. He was leaning his head against the car door, his eyes closed.

  The twenty-hour trip had ground her new partner into dust. She, on the other hand, had gotten more wired as the trip wore on. “And all three hotels that’ve been bombed were five-star hotels.”

  “And our Marriott?”

  “You guessed it—five bright, shiny stars. Was bombed in ‘08. I tried to get security’s agreement for us to go down-market but couldn’t convince them. Would you look at this city? It’s beautiful.”

  It was three in the afternoon, and the big car crawled through heavy traffic.

  “May I ask you something?” Kyle’s voice was a barely audible whisper.

  “Sure, what?”

  “How can you have so much energy?”

  “Dunno.” His question reminded her of the agreement she and John had come up with when her constant chatter was driving him up the wall. He’d rub his nose and she’d shut it down. She missed his crotchety complaints.

  Fucking Nebelhorner.

  She picked up where she’d left off. “Islamabad was built in the sixties. Did you know that? Was a wide spot in the road and now more than a million people live here.”

  “May I ask you something else?”

  “Kyle, you don’t have to get my permission to ask a—”

  “Will you shut up?”

  She glanced across the seat. His jaw was tight, his eyes squeezed shut, but he was smiling.

  That works too. Wonder why John never tried it?

  She managed to complete the trip in silence and spoke only once after they’d registered, to ask Kyle when he wanted to meet for dinner—never—and to tell him to join her in the lobby for breakfast at eight-thirty.

  • • • • •

  “It’s a safe city, except for the terrorists and everyone hating Americans.” About five and a half feet tall, with dark skin and a shaggy beard, U.S. Ambassador Bahrani looked more like a native Pakistani than the usual lily-white U.S. diplomat.

  It was mid-morning the day after their arrival in the city.

  Stony thought she could detect a twinkle in the ambassador’s eyes.

  A joke? Scaring the in-country neophytes?

  She’d researched Bahrani before leaving the U.S. He was born in Washington to first-generation Egyptian parents. He was in his late forties and a State Department lifer. His appointment as ambassador was one of those rare ones based on demonstrated competence rather than politics.

  “Dress conservatively, keep your arms and legs covered. If anyone asks, you’re Canadian. Don’t worry about not sounding like it—very few here could tell the difference.” He paused, staring at Stony. “Agent Hill, I suggest you wear a hijab when you’re out and about. The purple streaks in your hair and your nose stud will make you a target.”

  “Not necessary,” Stony said. “The dye rinses out and I’ll pocket the stud for the duration.”

  He didn’t really need to warn us. Just getting into this building told me all I need to know about security.

  The compound was spread over twenty acres in the northeast quadrant of Islamabad’s diplomatic conclave and housed two thousand Marines in addition to embassy staff. The U.S. had spent a billion dollars in the past couple of years expanding the facilities. What they’d built was an ugly fortress surrounded by a layered defense of iron, concrete, and trees. The high walls surrounding the place were covered with anti-American graffiti, written in Arabic and passable English. She and Kyle had passed through three security stations before being shown into the ambassador’s conference room.

  Strangers in a strange land.

  “Let me get our CIA station chief in here so we get down to business.” Ambassador Bahrani reached over to a star-shaped coms pod in the center of the table and pressed a button. “Please tell Mr. Baker that we’re ready for him.”

  A few moments later, the door to the room opened to a wiry man about six-four with bright blue eyes, freckles, and red hair. He carried thin manila folder in his left hand.

  Tall, skinny Opie. He needs more than a hat to blend into this town.

  His long legs swallowed the distance from the door to where Stony and Kyle were sitting. “Greetings and welcome to paradise. I’m Abel Baker.”

  Bogus name. Or maybe his parents were twisted, like mine. No one believes Stony Hill, either.

  The ambassador introduced Stony and Kyle as they shook hands with the CIA agent. Baker took a seat next to Stony, across the teak conference table from the ambassador.

  “Mr. Baker will be your guide and guard while you’re here. You’re fortunate. He’s one of the best of his kind that I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.”

  If Baker was embarrassed by the fulsome praise, he didn’t show it.

  “Just to make sure we’re all on the same page,” Stony said, “what has Acting Director Nebelhorner told you about our assignment?”


  “Just this,” Ambassador Bahrani said. He pushed a plain kraft folder across the table.

  The folder held three pages of double-spaced text on unadorned bond paper. She scanned each page and passed it to Kyle.

  Shit. Pretty much everything, except what might be in the codex. Is there anyone Nebelhorner hasn’t told about our mission?

  “I don’t see any classification rating on the folder or the document,” Kyle said. “Must have been some sort of snafu. This information is top secret.”

  The ambassador scowled. “The communication came to me as you see it. If you have an issue, it’s in your own shop. I shared it with Mr. Baker, on a need to know basis.”

  “Anyone else aware of the purpose of our trip?” Kyle’s smooth southern accent had a coarse sandpaper edge.

  “Not that I know of. But based on my conversation with your boss, I’d guess that ISI Director-General Tulpur has been fully informed about your mission.”

  Baker cleared his throat. “I’m going to speak out of turn here. But in my judgment, your director’s decision to trust the ISI was a mistake. The history of that organization reads like a Steven King novel. Lots of blood and death.”

  “That horse is long out of the barn,” Stony said. “And to be fair, the ISI should be able to lay hands on Professor Rahman with a lot less fuss than if the CIA had to do it alone.”

  Ambassador Bahrani looked over his steepled fingers at Stony. “The briefing says that you’re looking for an ancient book, or at least a translation of an ancient book. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell us what’s in it.”

  Stony shook her head. “Sorry, but need to know only.”

  She turned to Baker and asked, “What can you tell us about Professor Rahman?”