The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  “No more than you know already,” Baker said. “Your acting director was very clear that we were to wait for you and not try to surveil or contact the good professor.”

  “We’ll decide how to approach him after we meet with the ISI,” Stony said.

  “Speaking of which,” Kyle said, “what can you tell us about the director-general?”

  It was the CIA station chief’s turn to slide a file toward the two DTS agents. “This is what we have, but the long and short of it is that he’s an intelligent, ruthless leader who will do just about anything to achieve his objectives.”

  “Which are what?” Kyle asked.

  Baker shrugged. “He’s very open about that. He wants to exterminate Pakistan’s enemies and have his country respected as a global player.”

  “Does he think the U.S. is his enemy?”

  “Probably, but he’s too cagey to be obvious. He leaves the hate-mongering to the extremists in the military.”

  Stony scanned the file and passed it to Kyle. “Is he looking to move from the spook business to the prime minister job?”

  Baker nodded at the file. “The CIA’s analysts think so. My personal opinion is that he prefers to remain a master puppeteer. Being in the spotlight in Pakistan can get you killed.”

  “Can we trust him to help us find Rahman and the codex?” Kyle asked.

  “I have no idea. But if I were you, I’d start sleeping with one eye open and a Glock under my pillow. Course, that’s the way I always sleep since I moved to this fucking country.”

  The ambassador cleared his throat.

  What? He doesn’t like the word fuck? Gives me hope the spook might be a decent guy.

  “One last thing,” Baker said. “I have a little gift for DG Tulpur. Something he can’t get in Pakistan and that’s a bitch to import. Maybe it’ll get your meeting off to a good start. Help you guys bond.”

  “What is it?” Kyle asked.

  Baker grinned. “You’ll never guess. And I’d appreciate it if you’ll agree to wait and find out at the same time as the director-general.”

  Stony laughed. “I like it. Glasnost, Pakistani-style. Let’s go see what it gets us.”

  • • • • •

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Director-General Tulpur said. Stony, Kyle, and Agent Baker had just taken seats at a small round table in the DG’s ornate office, along with a trim man in a tailored grey suit whom the DG had introduced as General Ahmed Pasha. Stony had washed the dye out of her hair, ditched the nose stud, and was wearing the navy blue pants suit she bought in case she ever met the U.S. president.

  “There was no wait at all, Director General.”

  Bushy, gray unibrow and hair sticking out of his ears. Not a good look.

  The three Americans had no sooner announced themselves at the reception desk in the ISI’s tiled and marble-columned entrance rotunda than they were whisked to the top floor and shown into the DG’s office. The only security she’d seen was a lone sergeant with a sidearm standing by the entrance.

  “Please, call me ‘Tul.’ That’s what my friends call me. And my aides, when they think I can’t hear them.”

  His courtesy spurred a round of first name introductions.

  Tul? Not happening.

  The DG smiled. “My apologies for not telling you in advance that I asked General Pasha to attend our meeting. The General will marshal the resources necessary to assist you and insure that you have our priority attention.”

  Great. One more ISI person that knows our secrets.

  Stony nodded but said nothing.

  Tulpur’s face became somber. “Please accept my condolences for the loss of your director. Have you made any progress on identifying a motive or the responsible party?”

  “Thank you,” Stony said. “Nothing definitive. The investigation is ongoing.”

  “I’ve asked your acting director to keep me informed. Allies must band together, particularly during difficult times.”

  Bet Nebelhorner was delighted to hear that.

  “Thank you again, and thank you for your assistance with our visit,” Stony said. “Before we dive into specifics, Agent Baker has a small gift for you.”

  Stony leaned forward as Baker placed a brown-leather briefcase on the table and pressed the snaps to release the two brass locks securing the top. He lifted the top and rotated the case toward the director-general.

  It was stuffed edge to edge with Twinkies. Stony stuffed an almost overwhelming urge to fall on the floor laughing.

  Twinkies? The head of the ISI has a Jones for Twinkies?

  The DG’s face lit up with surprise and glee. “Your file on me is very complete, Mr. Baker. My thanks.”

  He closed the case, placed it on the floor at his side, then got up and walked to his desk. He picked up a small, leather-bound box, returned to the table, and looked at Stony. “I apologize, Ms. Hill, but my information about you and Agent Kain is lacking. However, I do know a thing or two about your embassy guide.” He handed the box to Baker.

  When Baker lifted the lid, his face mirrored the DG’s earlier expression. He turned the box so that Stony and Kyle could see inside. “Havana cigars. Good ones,” Baker said. He nodded at the director-general. “Your agents have outdone themselves.”

  Enough already of the spy one-upmanship.

  “What can you tell us about Professor Rahman?” Stony asked.

  Pasha leaned forward in his chair. “The professor operates on a global stage, but he’s never come to our particular attention. I suspect you know as much about his background as we do. He’s what he appears to be—an expert in Central and Middle Eastern ancient languages.”

  There’s the first lie. After Nebelhorner’s call, you dug up all you could about Rahman, down to his favorite color M&M.

  “I’m sure you know more than that,” Kyle said. His tone was abrupt and impatient. “His address, for example. We’d like to visit him.”

  Rather than get irritated with Kyle, DG Tulpur glared briefly at General Pasha. “We do know more, to be sure. He has a small efficiency apartment in the middle of Islamabad. Apparently he likes being in the urban center. We’d be happy to take you, but you won’t find anything. He’s fled the country.”

  “Fled the—Where’s he gone?” Stony asked.

  Another lie?

  “Iran,” the DG said. “Sirkan, a small town just across our southern border. General?”

  Pasha’s face looked like he’d just sucked on a lemon. “I want to emphasize that this is preliminary information. But we’ve learned that Rahman has an aunt who lives in Sirkan. And he’s been seen there within the last day.”

  “Seen? By whom?” Kyle asked.

  Pasha’s face froze, as if carved from stone.

  “You must forgive General Pasha,” the DG said. “He’s not used to sharing information with anyone, much less with U.S. agents. I suspect Mr. Baker would feel the same if the situation were reversed.”

  Baker said nothing.

  “General, do we need to have a private word?” Tulpur asked.

  Pasha glanced at the DG, then glared at Stony and Kyle. “We began monitoring Rahman immediately after your director’s call. Which was fortunate, because he fled his apartment that same afternoon. He was seen in Sirkan by an agent of Iranian security. They called us when they learned that he’d recently arrived from Pakistan.”

  “Your information doesn’t sound all that preliminary,” Kyle said. His tone was accusatory. “Why don’t you just skip the bullshit and tell us what you know.”

  That’s my good little pit bull.

  General Pasha shrugged. “I’m sending a team into Iran to bring Rahman back. They leave tomorrow and should be back in Islamabad within a week.”

  “You have that kind of relationship with Iran?” Stony asked.

  DG Tulpur interrupted. “We do, but we’re not going to bother the government. They have many higher priorities, so we’ll maintain a low profile.”

  “So a secret
snatch and grab, is that right?” Kyle asked.

  Pasha seemed to be warming up. “If you mean it’s a clandestine mission to return a fugitive, you are correct. But it’s not a military assault—that would attract too much attention. My people will pose as a group of visitors who are helping a sick friend return to Pakistan.”

  We’ll never see Rahman. Some accident will happen in the desert. He’ll be disappeared. Either killed or tucked away by the ISI.

  “You’ll permit us to join your retrieval team, of course,” Stony said.

  The CIA station chief seemed startled by the sudden direction of the conversation. His face lost much of its color. “Uh, Agent Hill, can we discuss this before—”

  Stony shot Baker the stink-eye, cutting him off without saying a word.

  Not now, CIA man. The success of this entire trip hinges on this.

  Pasha also appeared startled. “Impossible. Did you not hear? He’s in Iran. America’s relationship with Iran is worse than it is with Pakistan, if that’s possible.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Stony said. She looked at the director-general. “I don’t like this situation any more than General Pasha does, but I don’t see how we have a choice.”

  “Your only choice is to remain here,” Pasha said. “Director-General, surely you agree having the Americans tag along is lunacy.”

  Stony didn’t give the DG an opportunity to respond. “First, we wouldn’t be tagging along. We’re both fully capable field agents and you yourself said this isn’t a military incursion. Second, we need to question the professor as soon as he’s captured. Third, unless I misunderstood, you’ve pledged your cooperation.”

  Director General Tulpur stared at her for several moments before answering. She couldn’t read his face. “I shall talk with your director, but privately. Wait here.” He stood and left the room.

  Shit. Should have insisted on talking to Nebelhorner first. I have no clue how he’s going to react.

  Stony tried to learn the details of the planned operation while they waited for the DG’s return, but General Pasha was having none of it.

  “Waste of time talking about it. You won’t be going along.”

  After fifteen minutes of stony silence, the DG returned, his face unreadable. “Your boss will make an able director for the DTS. He’s very persuasive. I’ve agreed to let you join the extraction team.”

  Stony, Pasha, and CIA agent Baker started talking at the same time.

  Tulpur cut them off with a raised hand and locked eyes with Stony. “I’ve agreed to this extraordinary request because I sincerely wish to improve the relationship between our countries. We’ll provide you with handguns for your personal protection, but you’ll have no operational role. Only you and Agent Kain will be permitted to go. And you’ll be under the command of General Pasha’s team commander. You must agree to accept the commander’s orders or you can remain here.”

  Again the three started talking simultaneously.

  “Quiet!” the director general barked. “Agent Hill, do you accept these conditions?”

  Well? Isn’t this what you asked for?

  She looked at Kyle. His face reflected concern, but he tipped his head.

  Then at Agent Baker. The CIA station chief shook his head in a single sharp gesture, his face crimson with anger.

  John would have a cow. And then he’d agree.

  “Yes,” Stony said. “We appreciate your flexibility.”

  She turned to General Pasha. “When do we leave, and how do we get the clothing and gear we’ll need?”

  The general was silent for several minutes, his concentration clearly elsewhere. He sighed.

  Yeah, I know. You’ve been asked to shoulder an impossible burden. Deal with it.

  “Be in front of the Marriott at 0400 tomorrow. Major Usama Davi is leading the operation. One of his men will pick you up in a Land Rover Defender and transport you to the staging area. I’ll arrange for all the gear you need.”

  “Good,” Stony said. “Now, please take us to Professor Rahman’s apartment. I want to examine it before we leave.”

  • • • • •

  “A brilliant move, Agent Hill, brilliant.” Nebelhorner bubbled over with enthusiasm. Stony had fended off Abel Baker’s complaints about her decision to go into Iran and called the DTS acting director as soon as she got back in the embassy car.

  “We’ll see,” Stony said. “But my embassy friend with the three initials is having a cow.” She glanced at Baker. That was a considerable understatement. “Don’t be surprised if there isn’t blowback.”

  “The CIA? Don’t worry about them. I’ll also take care of State. I’ll get the director of National Intelligence to handle both of them. The DNI’s late getting a promised document about this mission to me anyway, so he owes me a favor. I’ll also get a briefing lined up for you about the Sirkan region of Iran.”

  Man, this guy will say anything over a cell phone.

  “I don’t think the DNI deals in favors, Director Nebelhorner. It’s not like the Senate.”

  Nebelhorner laughed. “You’re right. Senators would eat these intelligence guys alive. Gotta go.” The connection went dead.

  Stony shivered. She felt as if she’d stepped outside her body, her mind a camera, doing a long pull-back shot like those that were so popular on Public Broadcasting. She saw herself from above, sitting in the car, phone to her ear. Then the view slid out to encompass the roads around her, then Islamabad, then Pakistan, then central Asia. Without warning, the view collapsed back to the rocky surface of the desert. She was no longer in the car, but scrambling along an animal track in a desolate moonscape. Alone and terrified.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  “Sleep, then we’ll we work,” Rahman said.

  “But—”

  “Hush. You’ve been in the desert all night. You need a clear mind to learn the Transition ritual. Go rest on my bed, and I’ll wake you for our mid-day meal. No sleep, no instruction.”

  Tareef studied the professor’s face for any hint that he might be persuaded to begin immediately. All he saw was a tired man who carried his troubles in his face.

  More creases than when I first saw him, and they grow deeper each day.

  “I’ll never be able to sleep.”

  “Try,” Rahman said. “You might surprise yourself. And no faking; I’ll be checking.”

  Tareef got up, walked into the bedroom, pushed the door closed, and lay on the soft green spread that was stretched across the mattress. He stared at the ivory ceiling, his head cradled in his palms, his thoughts filled with the possibilities offered by magic. The bed sat in a corner of the room, with an open window on each side. A warm breeze pushed its way inside the room, tickling his curls and whispering soft promises. He was asleep within minutes.

  • • • • •

  Tareef woke to the smell of grilled lamb, sprang out of the bed, and ran into the kitchen. Rahman was in the back yard, turning three kabobs that were sizzling on a small brazier.

  He bounded out of the house and looked up at the pale blue sky. The sun was past its zenith. “You said mid-day! It’s past that.”

  Rahman smiled. “Not so much past, but we don’t have to eat if you don’t want to. I can put these away for later.”

  Tareef’s stomach growled so loud that the professor heard it and laughed. “Perhaps we should eat first, or you won’t be able to hear my instruction over the complaints of your stomach.”

  They ate their meal and cleared away the dishes. Tareef twice tried to get the professor to start telling him the ritual, only to be told to wait until they’d finished.

  As they put the last of the dishes away, Rahman said, “Let’s take a walk.”

  Tareef was about to protest, then recalled what the professor had said when they took their walk with Mika.

  It’s always better to be outside when you want privacy.

  Rah
man led them from the house to the street. He looked toward the city, paused a moment, then turned toward the desert. They walked side by side without speaking for several minutes.

  “Is something wrong?” Tareef asked.

  Rahman glanced at him, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you keep delaying. And because you’ve taken us outside, where no one can hear us.”

  “There is much wrong in the world, Tareef. Sometimes it weighs on my mind.”

  “Like my father being taken and Colonel Pasha saying that he’s dead?”

  “Yes. Exactly like that.” Rahman’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

  Tareef glanced over and was surprised to find Rahman walking with his eyes closed.

  “You’ve done all you can to help us, as if you were my brother,” Tareef said. “You’ve done no wrong.”

  “I brought you here. Whatever befalls you and your father, I am responsible.”

  “I don’t understand what—”

  Rahman reached over and tousled Tareef’s hair. “Enough of my mood.” His voice had returned to its normal strength, like he’d shaken off a momentary sickness. “What have you been taught about Transition, other than its dangers?”

  Tareef tried to remember all his father had told him. Only two things, told in lots of different ways, came to him. “It’s existed forever. Kids die using it.”

  “We don’t know how long it has existed,” Rahman said. “The earliest written evidence is from the people of northern Africa, the Egyptians. There are one or two ancient cave paintings that some interpret as a representation of Transition, but those are only guesses.”

  Tareef smiled.

  This is the first time I’ve heard him sound like a professor.

  “All scholars agree that our world has been shaped by magic because the earliest uses must have been original. Yet we have no evidence proving it. If magic changes something, it’s as if that change has always existed. There is no way for the people living after the change to know what it was like before.”

  “Could magic destroy the world?”

  “What do you think? Could it?” Rahman asked.

  Tareef stopped walking and turned to face the professor. “I think it could. It’s magic. Magic can do anything, as long as it’s unique and a true wish.”