The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller

by J. E. Hopkins

  4

  Washington, DC

  John Benoit stalked along the Georgetown sidewalk, approaching the columned visitors’ entrance to the Department of Transition Security. While he had an office in Washington, he was based in Cincinnati, where he had a home in the northern suburb of Glendale. He hadn’t been in Washington for more than three months; even longer since he’d been home. He was not happy to be back in DC.

  His cane smacked the ground in a syncopated rhythm matching his long stride. In John’s opinion, the tactile pleasure of the cane was reason enough to carry one. It was also an affectation, designed to deceive. He was in his early seventies, with a dense thatch of wavy white hair curling against the collar of his dress shirt. Surely an old man who needed the support of a cane wasn’t a threat.

  This newest stick was a tapered piece of ash with a polished ebony finish, topped with a brass gorgon’s head. Like its predecessors, the cane concealed a fourteen-inch blade that could be deployed with a twist of the wrist.

  Not dangerous at all.

  He stopped and faced the building entrance, thinking of the local businesses that had been flattened to make room for the latest DC edifice. In the name of national security, of course. The government spread over DC like an amoeba of stone and mortar, inexorably growing and brushing aside any opposition.

  Weeping cherry trees and dogwoods in concrete planters dotted a plaza the size of a football field in front of the building. Fifty feet from the street’s edge, a dozen broad steps ascended to the six bronze doors of the main entrance. The steps were wider at the base than the top, but a dozen people could climb them hand-in-hand if they were so inclined. Broad, switchbacked ramps flanked the steps.

  Might as well get this over with.

  He crossed the plaza and climbed the granite stairs, suppressing a grimace. When he wasn’t playing the old man card, his pace could outdistance people half his age, but it came with the increasing cost of aching knees and stiff legs. He’d recently added ibuprofen to his morning dose of orange juice.

  As he was signing in at the security desk, he noticed a stack of wallet-sized laminated cards listing several facts about Transition.

  Good! They’ve gotten them out.

  He grabbed one and studied it as he made his way to a first-floor conference room.

  The Truth About Transition

  All children experience Transition.

  In Transition, all children have the power to perform magic for one month.

  Transition starts at different times for each child as he or she nears puberty.

  The irises of their eyes become an iridescent lavender during Transition.

  The power that rules Transition is an unknowable force.

  Ritual words must be used to invoke magic.

  The magic must be the child's sincere desire.

  The magic must be unique.

  Transition has existed for thousands of years.

  Nothing is unique.

  Any child who uses the ritual words to perform magic will die.

  US Department of Transition Security

  Such a simple thing, but it pretty much stands at the pinnacle of mankind’s attempt to control the threat from Transition.

  Until the Internet came along, governments had used secrecy to keep kids safe and protect the world from magic. If kids didn’t know the words to the ritual, they couldn’t do magic. But secrecy was a sieve and untold millions died.

  The Internet made secrecy impossible, so policy focus shifted to education. The TransitionWeb site was launched in 1990, giving kids the facts. Five years after it was up and running, TW had reduced deaths in the developed world by more than ninety-five percent.

  The truth is better than secrecy. Imagine that.

  But now, deaths were on the rise again. Six months ago, DTS research analysts finished a year-long study that documented a seven percent spike in the number of deaths. Most all were attributable to poor education—children trying magic, ignorant of the dangers.

  The cards were part of a multi-faceted campaign to reverse that trend. The goal was a genuine BHAG—big, hairy-ass goal: get a card into the hands of every kid on the planet. Hundreds of millions of them had been printed, in more than a hundred languages.

  He flipped the card over. The URL for TransitionWeb was at the top. Below that was a single phone number that would work from pretty much anywhere in the world, automatically routing calls to Transition crisis centers in participating countries.

  Spotty coverage in Africa. North Korea and some countries in the Middle East still think secrecy is the best policy. So maybe seventy percent of the world’s kids are covered. Not too shabby.

  The cards were the brainchild of Akina Pearl, former director Marva Bentley’s number two. The director had approved the concept and thrown her considerable influence into making them a reality.

  Marva, John’s boss and friend, had been murdered in a Georgetown bomb explosion a month earlier. Today was his first time back in the building since her death. A mantle of profound sadness weighed on him as he moved along the maze of hallways.

  John cleared his mind and focused on the meeting he was about to walk into. Martin Lewis, the Director of National Intelligence, ran his empire from an office in McLean, Virginia, but the DNI had business in DC and had arranged to meet John at the DTS.

  Lewis had appointed Akina as the acting director for the agency until a permanent replacement could be found and approved by Congress. John thought she would be a great permanent replacement. Unfortunately, DNI Lewis seemed obsessed with the idea that John was the only suitable choice.

  Lewis’ first attempt to replace Marva had led to John being forced to retire. The appointee had triggered a disastrous chain of events that had nearly given Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence apparatus, the ISI, access to unrestrained Transition magic.

  Lewis had realized his mistake, sent his nominee packing, and called his most senior agent back into active service. John and his partner, Stony Hill—a fiery, pierced, purple-haired agent half his age—had followed the bloody trail from the Georgetown bombing to the mountains of northwestern Pakistan, where they tracked down a remarkable young man in Transition. The boy used the unfettered magic against itself and terminated the threat.

  John knocked on the conference room door, pushed it open, and entered. He and DNI Lewis exchanged perfunctory greetings, sat, and stared at each other in an uneasy silence. Lewis was a career spook, an alumnus of various clandestine operations, and a conniving son of a bitch. That may have made him the perfect person to lead the country’s intelligence community, but John would have preferred to be locked in a room with a nest of vipers.

  “Welcome home, John. You and Stony did a great job in Pakistan.”

  “No thanks needed. The Kalash boy saved our asses. Stony and I were bystanders.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Lewis said. “Tareef Khan, right? According to Colonel Liberty, you and Stony played a key role in buying the boy time. Learn to accept a compliment, John.”

  Benoit laughed. “Good advice. Something my mother used to bang into me, but it never took.” He paused. “Thank you.”

  Lewis nodded. “Before we jump into today’s business, I have a personal favor to ask.”

  John’s senses would have flipped to full alert if they hadn’t already been there. He lifted his cane off the table and balanced it on the floor between his knees, one hand palm down on the gorgon’s head. Release, catch, repeat. The small ritual helped him focus.

  “What would that be?”

  “You’ll be seeing Stony and Akina while you’re in town, right?”

  “At breakfast tomorrow.”

  “I understand that the two women have a personal relationship. Our policies prohibit boss-subordinate…” He struggled for a word. “Things. Partnerships. Whatever. Even if Akina weren’t the temporary head of the agency, she’s a senior exec. I want you to remind them of their responsibility to their organization and their peers. Get
them to either drop it, or one of them has to go.”

  Oh, hell.

  “What’s the source for this? Just some—“

  “I run seventeen intelligence shops, for Christ’s sake. It’s a solid source or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I notice you don’t deny the problem exists.”

  John felt his face tighten with anger. “I’ve never asked either one of them about their private lives. One of my personal policies.” He paused and slowed his breathing. “Why don’t you do your own dirty work?”

  “I would, but this will go a lot better for everyone if you’ll carry the message. I can’t get involved without this becoming an official rebuke.” He paused a moment. “John, this isn’t about anything but perceived unfairness. Even if Stony and Akina could compartmentalize their feelings for each other, how the hell would others in the organization—“

  “I know, I know. I’ll talk to them, but you’re going to need to handle my burial arrangements because this isn’t going to go well.”

  “Bullshit. It’ll go fine.”

  Right. Shows how little you know.

  “Which brings us to today’s business. Sorry I had to bring an early end to your vacation, but I’ve got to get the DTS director’s role filled.”

  John had remained in Pakistan after the case had been completed, visiting the country’s cemeteries and studying their burial rituals. He was an ardent taphophile and believed you could learn more about a culture by how they treated their dead than by what they said about themselves. He came away conflicted by the beliefs of the Pakistani people. So much to admire, so much anchored to an ancient and brutal past.

  “You have it filled already,” John said. “Give Akina the appointment. She’s earned it and will do a much better job than I ever could.”

  “I need you to formally accept the director’s appointment so you and I can get busy with planning.”

  He’s not even listening. This guy’s stubbornness is one of his greatest strengths and most dangerous flaws.

  “Good try at a presumptive close, Martin, but I neither accept new jobs nor buy cars from salesmen who use that approach.”

  “So?”

  “With respect, I decline. I’m built for the field, not a desk. What in hell makes you think I’d be a good administrator?”

  Lewis stared at John for several long seconds before responding. “You did it well five years ago when Director Bentley was out for surgery. You’d be a restless and demanding administrator, certainly. That’s a good thing. Goddammit, John, you’re getting too old to be in the field.”

  The image of a bottle of ibuprofen popped into John’s head. “This must be your day for working personal shit, Martin. Name one instance where my age has interfered or caused a problem on a case. Just one, and I’ll agree with you.”

  Lewis waved his hand as if brushing a fly away from his face. “Not going to debate with you, John. You’re old enough now that I can force you to retire.”

  “You did that once already. How’d it work out? Who’d you call to save your political ass?”

  For a moment, John thought the DNI was going to burst into flames.

  He’s not used to blunt disagreement. A common weakness at the nosebleed level of government.

  They sat in silence for several minutes. Lewis’ complexion returned to normal and the scowl on his face was replaced with a rueful smile.

  “I apologize,” Lewis said. “Threatening you with retirement was stupid. You’ve spent your entire adult life confronting threats and you’ve never backed down. Let me reset this conversation.”

  John reassessed his earlier characterization of the DNI.

  Stubborn, but flexible, and willing to change tactics. Interesting combination.

  “The DTS is first among equals with State and Defense. I need the best we have to lead it. You.”

  John smiled. “Flattery now? You’re not going to change my mind. Martin, you have a chance at a win-win here. Don’t screw it up. Keep me where I’m best, as an agent. And Akina where she’s best, as an administrator.” He hesitated. “As Nixon used to say, ‘let me make one thing perfectly clear.’ I’ll retire before I accept the post.”

  No way he can know if I’m bluffing, because I don’t know.

  Lewis smiled. “We’ll see. This is a presidential appointment, after all. And the president has asked for an opportunity to share his thoughts on this matter.”

  Shit.

  “Unfortunately, he leaves today for the World Economic Forum in Davos and a European tour, so I won’t be able to arrange a meeting with him for a couple of weeks.”

  “A visit with the president isn’t necessary.”

  “You want to tell him you decline to meet with him?” Lewis asked. “I’m sure as hell not going to do it.”

  John sighed and surrendered. “Fine. I’m sure Akina has something to keep me busy until—”

  “Huh-uh,” Lewis said. “I want you to go home, relax. I’ll be in touch.”

  Ah, damn. You want me to think about what it would be like to walk away from this place. Nicely played, Director.

  The battered Red Top cab slid along the street in the Adams Morgan section of Washington. The sun was up, but hadn’t yet crept above the businesses that crowded the sidewalks.

  “There,” John said.

  The cabbie rolled the car to the curb in front of the bar and looked at John in the mirror. “Never thought the new law allowing bars to be open 24/7 made any sense. But what the hell do I know? Maybe the law will be good for hacks after all.” He passed a card back over the seat. “Don’t try to walk drunk in this city. You’ll get mugged, even in the daylight and even in this part of town. Call me when you’re ready.”

  John laughed and took the card. “Thanks. I’ll need a ride to the airport in an hour or two.”

  He swam through the humid August air and pushed through the polished wood door of the Whiskey Beer Tavern. Meeting at Whiskey’s had been Stony’s idea. She wanted to support the owner, apparently a guy she and Akina had gotten to know.

  An aroma of hot waffles and freshly ground coffee blended with the buzz of murmured conversations. The place was half-full; mostly college kids with a smattering of professionals in tailored suits. Ten booths lined the left side of the long, narrow room; all dark red leather, with tattooed oak tables. The bar ran opposite the booths, across a ten-foot aisle of scarred pine flooring. He noted a small pass-thru to a kitchen in the back. John could understand why Stony and Akina liked the place—no blaring TV’s, no brass eye candy, no canoes hanging from the ceiling.

  He spotted Stony flagging him from the far booth where she and Akina sat facing the door. With a tap of his cane, he strode to the back of the bar and gave each of them a rare hug. They settled into the booth and opened the menus waiting on the table.

  Akina glanced up. “Glad you’re home, Dish. I was starting to think you liked Pakistan more than DC.” Short for disheveled, the nickname came from John’s ability to make a tailored Armani suit look like he’d slept in it.

  Akina’s natural elegance was breathtaking. Her burnished mahogany skin, almond eyes, and willowy frame could make torn jeans and an old shirt look like they belonged on a fashion runway.

  “First, it’s only been a couple of weeks,” John said. “Second, I do like Pakistan more than DC, which should tell you something.”

  He looked at Stony. “How you been, partner?”

  “I must be losing my grip,” Stony said. She shook her head in mock dismay and the halogen spot over the booth caught the berry-blue Jell-O highlights in her hair. “I think I might’ve actually missed you. Either that, or the Mexican food I had last night is about to explode.”

  Where Akina was all concealed power, Stony was five-foot two and a hundred pounds of in-your-face intensity. Her intellect and instincts made her a superior agent and one of the best partners he’d ever worked with. She could talk non-stop, which drove John up the wall. But he’d learned that she used chatter as a di
straction, much like he used his cane. They’d worked out a deal—if her babbling got too much for him, he’d rub the side of his nose and she’d shut it down. Sometimes.

  John stretched across the booth and tapped Stony’s turquoise nose stud. “Matches your hair. Glad to see you’ve started dressing more professionally.”

  A thirtyish brown-haired guy with frosted tips approached the table carrying a tray of cups and saucers. “Café au lait for the stature-challenged one, hot green tea for the government potentate, and black coffee for the cane wielder.” He placed the steaming, fragrant drinks in front of them and extended his hand to John. “I’m Rick. Stony tipped me that you prefer a dark roast, no pollutants. This is a Kona, hope it’s okay.”

  John gripped the offered hand. “Not a blend?”

  “Not a blend.”

  “Perfect,” John said, and meant it. Kona, especially Kona that hadn’t been mixed with Columbian or other cheaper beans was tough to find.

  Rick smiled. “What can I get you?”

  He listened to their orders, promised to return with their food within ten minutes, and disappeared.

  John glanced at Akina. “How you getting along with the DNI?”

  Akina stared at him for a few moments before responding. “You don’t really expect an answer, do you? Or did your time in Pakistan weaken your understanding of appropriate boundaries?”

  Akina’s undivided focus could make anyone, John included, uncomfortable. She’d learned the trick from her former boss. If John’s cane and Stony’s chattiness were deceptive, Akina’s affable manner concealed a bright, focused, and goal-driven professional.

  Charles the Fifth’s “Iron fist in a velvet glove.”

  John cleared his throat. “Sorry, what I meant to ask was how you’re doing with the new gig. You hanging in okay?”

  Akina smiled, like a cat looking at an uncaged bird. “John Benoit, you never ask a question you don’t intend. I’ll chalk your transgression up to your super-agent’s natural urge to poke and see what happens.”