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

by J. E. Hopkins

  Sweaty from the heat and shaky with adrenaline, John worked to absorb the shooting and its implications. Kids were being stolen for some sort of twisted Transition experiment. China—and, as only John knew, perhaps the PRK—was at the center of the plot, and whoever was running it was willing to kill to keep it secret.

  So why aren’t we dead? The sniper was good and had time for more shots.

  They reached the intersection of Tràng Thi and Bà Triệu streets. The air was heavy with fumes and the drone of traffic—a perfectly ordinary Hanoi crossing on a hot fall evening, fifteen minutes and five hundred feet from a murder.

  John hurried to the curb and raised his arm to hail a cab. Three empty taxis sped past. “Shit.”

  “Let me,” Stony said as she shuffled in front of John. She didn’t get her arm raised half way before a taxi—a1960’s VW bus—pulled to the curb. She looked at John with a smile. “Cabbies prefer women—it’s a universal thing.”

  They piled into the back seat of the wheezing microbus.

  Life has not been kind to this beast.

  The gravel on the street was visible through large holes in the floor. John guessed from the smell that the car’s exhaust emptied just beneath them. No air conditioning, but no glass in the windows either, so it was only stifling. He wondered what the guy did when it rained.

  “Take us to the U.S. Embassy,” John said, in English and then Vietnamese, keeping his face in the shadows. This was one of the phrases he’d committed to memory in the event—unlikely, he’d thought—of an emergency.

  The cab crawled through the evening crush of scooters, bicycles, and wandering pedestrians. The trip passed in a sweaty, nauseating mix of exhaust and noise.

  John called Marva’s personal cell number; she answered in one ring. “It’s Benoit. We’re okay, but there’s been a shooting. Two dead. Contact the U.S. Ambassador and get us cleared. Brief you once we’re in.”

  * * *

  The VW squealed to a stop before the closed embassy’s gate. John tossed two bright green 50,000 dong bills—ten bucks—over the seat and hustled from the cab. The shaded two-lane street was calm. Two bike riders chatted quietly as they pedaled past. The heavy night air carried the whisper of a distant siren.

  The embassy had been an office building. The slender five-story structure of yellowed concrete and black glass sat about thirty feet from the street, across an expanse of lush grass dotted with beds of orchids and fronted by a twelve-foot wrought iron barrier that ran along the edge of a sidewalk. A closed iron gate blocked an entrance wide enough to permit a car to enter the grounds. An intercom panel was embedded in a colonnade to the left of the gate, below a small brass plaque proclaiming this the Embassy of the United States of America.

  John hurried to the intercom and punched the only button. Quiet. He looked up at the closed circuit camera mounted on the building, raised his DTS badge, and mashed the button again.

  It took about a minute for a disembodied voice to respond. “That’s sufficient sir. How may I help you?” The siren he’d heard when he got out of the cab was louder, like a distant train approaching a lonely crossing on a foggy night.

  “This is an emergency. We’re DTS agents and need shelter in the embassy. I’m Senior Agent Dr. John Benoit. The ambassador should have contacted you.”

  “Sorry sir, but no one’s called about you or anyone. What’s the nature of the emergency?”

  Shit. Marva must not have been able to reach the ambassador.

  “I can’t disclose that.”

  “I can’t admit you without authorization, and there’s no one here who can do that. You need to come back in the morning at nine.”

  The siren’s warble was a few blocks away, no more.

  John said, “I’ll tell you what, son. Call the ambassador or anyone else that’ll make you feel better, but get approval and open the damn gate. If it takes you more than thirty seconds, I’ll make calls of my own and shit will rain down on your head. I’d hate—”

  “One moment, sir.”

  A car with flashing blue lights turned onto Long Ha about four blocks away and accelerated toward them.

  John mashed the button again. “We’re dying out here! The police are about two blocks away. Open the gate.”

  An agonizing pause. John turned to Stony. “Toss the Glock onto the grounds.” Stony started to comply just as a buzzer sounded and the gate began to open. They scrambled through the narrow gap, the gate closing behind them as the police car screeched to a halt. An officer leaped from the car, weapon drawn, and bellowed through the fence.

  The front doors to the embassy building swung open. A harried looking Marine Private First Class waved to John and called, “Wait in here while I explain to Hanoi’s finest that this is way over his pay grade.”

  * * *

  John and Stony watched through a window as the embassy guard approached the gate. The Hanoi officer was loud enough to be heard through the glass. The Marine pushed a card through the bars of the gate. The cop grabbed it, took a quick look, shredded it, and tossed the pieces in the air. He flipped two middle fingers at the embassy and returned to his car.

  The guard returned to the embassy and logged John and Stony in. All the bureaucratic barriers to their entry had fallen.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” John said. “What was on the card?”

  “Sir, you’re welcome. It had a message in Vietnamese directing him to contact our liaison in the morning if he wished to file a complaint.” He closed his logbook. “I’m to make you comfortable in the ambassador’s conference room. He asked that you wait for his arrival before contacting your director.” He led them to a spartan room on the top floor that contained the usual secure video equipment.

  John sat at the table, dug a piece of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Stony. “Dinh gave me this just before he was killed. Said this is the name of the business running the kidnapping operation.”

  She read the message and muttered, “Heritage Trading—Zurich. We paid a lot for this. Hope to God it’s true.”

  * * *

  The ambassador rushed into the conference room an hour later. “Pete Hogan. Sorry to keep you waiting.” He appeared to be in his early fifties, with hair more gray than black, dressed in wrinkled khaki pants, a pink polo shirt, and creased deck shoes with no socks. John caught a whiff of grilled chicken and bourbon as they shook hands.

  Hogan sat down in front of the video comms dashboard and punched in a call to DTS. The screen came to life with Marva at her conference table, Akina sitting to her left.

  “Morning all,” she said. It was nearing ten a.m. in Washington and she looked as fresh as John felt tired. “Mr. Ambassador, I wanted us all on the call because we may need your assistance.”

  John interrupted. “That’s fine, Director, but nothing we say leaves this room. Someone in the embassy may be playing both sides of the street. It appears we have a leak, one that led to Quince’s death and to tonight’s shooting.”

  The ambassador’s tanned face paled, then reddened. “I have a hard time believing that. It’s much more likely you were followed by agents related to your investigation. But if there is a leak, I want it eliminated and I’ll work with you to get that done.”

  “Appreciated,” Marva said. “Let’s table that discussion for now. What’ve you learned, John?”

  They spent the next ninety minutes reviewing what had happened since John and Stony’s arrival in Hanoi.

  Ambassador Hogan seemed shaken, but remained silent. A frown grew on Marva’s face as the details emerged. “One thing you didn’t cover. Why are you and Stony still alive?”

  “Who knows?” Stony said. “I gotta believe the sniper could have killed at least one of us, so there are layers here we don’t yet understand.”

  “Too damn many layers,” Marva said. She paused for a few seconds. “John, what I told you in Washington … I’m authorizing you to share that with Stony.”

  John doubted he’d ever see a sign
ed memo that granted him authority to share the possible North Korean involvement. But at this point, covering his ass didn’t matter. He would’ve told Stony anyway. He glanced sideways at Hogan. If the ambassador was bothered by this cryptic exchange, he didn’t show it.

  “The two of us are obviously burned in Vietnam,” John said. “Before he was killed, Dinh said the kidnappings were also happening in Bangkok. I’ll head there and work with the national police to see if I can uncover anything related to a spike in child disappearances. I want Stony to return to D.C. to dig into patterns of kidnapping in other countries and to go deep on Heritage Trading. Assuming the Heritage info holds up, we’ll hook back up in Zurich.”

  Stony grimaced, obviously unhappy. “John, the director can assign a team in D.C. to do that research. I can be more helpful with you.”

  “Yeah, but I want you there,” John said. “I don’t want this to be some academic exercise that takes too long and produces nothing. Drive that team hard and get results yesterday. I want to know the scope of what we’re dealing with and I want to know what the head of Heritage Trading puts on his toast in the morning.” While he was talking, he scribbled a note and passed it to her. Sit tight. I’ll explain.

  She glanced at the message, scowled, and nodded.

  Marva said, “If that’s settled, Stony, I’ll have your team ready by the time you get here. John, I’ll work with the Secretary of State to get you an introduction in Bangkok.”

  “Thanks, Director. That’s all for now.”

  The ambassador ended the call, thanked them for including him, and left the conference room.

  “So why the hell are you sending me to D.C.?”

  “Partly what I said. But also something that I’ll cover privately with the director. The leak could have come from Washington or Vietnam. You go figure it out and shut it down.”

  Hoeryong

  The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

  “Sir? Delegate Wu calling to speak with you,” Zhi Peng’s aide announced over the intercom. Wu Jintao was a member of the Chinese Politburo Standing Committee, one of the three most powerful men in China, and Zhi’s commander.

  Comrade Wu was calling from his office in Beijing, fourteen hundred kilometers distant. Wu had entrusted Zhi with a program that demanded absolute secrecy—from others in the Chinese leadership and from the world’s governments. Secrecy best achieved by isolation. So Zhi’s command was located in North Korea, near a remote camp for political prisoners, a tiny Chinese island in an alien sea.

  His aide added, “He sounds unhappy.”

  I suspect that’s a considerable understatement.

  Zhi punched the communications button on the intercom, lifted the receiver, and flipped a red toggle for a secure line. “Good day, Comrade Wu. How may I assist you?”

  Wu’s voice was clipped and angry. “My network in Vietnam tells me you acted against the Americans. Why didn’t you inform me? Worse, the Americans still live? You could’ve eliminated them but chose not to. Is that correct?”

  His complaint was a sham, part of a long-standing dance between the two men. Wu wanted Zhi to make the hard decisions so any blame for failure would lie with Zhi.

  “Killing the Americans would have been a serious mistake,” Zhi said. “My objective was to eliminate Dinh before he could harm the program. Mission accomplished.”

  Wu Jintao screeched into the phone. “Dinh was a minor thug. He was a gnat. Less than a gnat—he was a flea on a gnat. A nothing. You killed him and let the American agents live? How can I trust a man who makes such decisions?”

  Zhi held the phone away from his ear. Much louder and he wouldn’t need a phone. “Comrade Wu, we knew they were meeting at the shrine. We had devices in place to monitor their conversation. The Americans know very little. Killing them would have sharply escalated Washington’s interest, and that would be a much greater threat.”

  Momentary silence. “Perhaps that thought has marginal merit. Perhaps. But do not underestimate the Americans. They are naive oafs, yes, but they can be dangerous.”

  “So? Would you have me kill them now? Doing it would be easy enough.”

  Wu snorted and hissed, “You are a swaggering, stiff-necked ass. No, don’t kill them. At least not yet. But hear me. You’re a year behind your promises, and I tire of your words and failures. Show me success, or I will find another commander for the Crane program. Then I will roast you and take a long, satisfying piss on your ashes.” He broke the connection.

  Wu’s threat to kill him raised the hair on Zhi’s neck. He shivered convulsively.

  Four years earlier Delegate Wu had plucked him from a military post in Tibet, promoted him to Senior Colonel, and challenged him to find a way to harness Transition magic for the Chinese state. Zhi now understood that the real motivation was Wu’s lust for power. Crane was no sanctioned government program. Neither the Premier nor anyone else on the Standing Committee knew about it.

  Each year Zhi’s agents bought twenty children, all age seven or eight, from the international child trafficking market. He drew from countries where a few missing children wouldn’t raise an alarm. Vietnam, Somalia, Thailand, Myanmar.

  The children in Cohort 1, taken four years ago, had all died the year before, the consequence of a failed series of attempts to use magic. Those in Cohort 2 were now ten or eleven, and some were starting to enter Transition.

  Once again, he was close. Much closer than Wu Jintao realized. Weeks—perhaps only days—from demonstrating that he could use magic at will. Not for the Chinese state, not for Wu Jintao. For Zhi Peng.

  The program’s school principal was due momentarily. Zhi took a deep breath and pushed away from his eighteenth-century antique desk, once owned by the American, Patrick Henry. Rising, he crossed to the door, opened it wide, and turned back to the nearest of two glass walls, hands clasped behind his back. He gazed over the solitary plains, not because he appreciated the view, but because of the impression it created for the principal. A benevolent monk, lost in thought; bald, wearing round wire spectacles, his gaunt build stretched over a six-foot frame.

  “Senior Colonel Zhi?” asked a quiet feminine voice.

  Zhi waited a moment and turned to the door. “Come in, Principal Chu-hua. Take a seat.” He strutted back to his desk and slid into his chair.

  Chu-hua Li was a product of The People’s Liberation Army. She’d been taken from an orphanage at age one, reared in foster homes by military nurses, and provided an education in the finest schools and university. Now sixty, she’d spent her adult life tutoring the children of senior officers. She was the first person Zhi brought into Crane. Together they’d built a quality school for the program’s children. They were taught science, math, reading, and Mandarin, the program’s official language. The school shielded the program’s true objectives.

  He peered across his desk at the silver-haired woman. Already petite, Chu-hua seemed to shrink when she entered his office. She avoided eye contact. “Have any more children entered Transition?” he asked.

  “No, Senior Colonel Zhi. The number remains the same. Four of the twenty in Cohort 2 are in Transition. One will exit Transition in eight days. The others started later and so have a little longer.”

  “And are they ready to use magic as you’ve taught them?” Transition magic must be invoked by children of their own free will. After three years of indoctrination by Chu-hua and her staff, the children ardently believed everything they were told. Free will wasn’t a problem.

  “The three girls are ready, Senior Colonel. Each has learned her part.” She hesitated, then continued, “I’m less sure of the boy. Occasionally he wishes to use magic for something frivolous.”

  After his failures with Cohort 1—not really failures, he thought, because he’d learned so much—he had an epiphany. He would control magic by assembling it like a mosaic. Whatever he wanted to achieve, he would divide into at least three pieces. Each would be learned by one child. Each child would invoke magic for
his piece in concert with the children who’d learned the other pieces, in a controlled order, with precise timing. A small Transition orchestra. Uniqueness would be satisfied because each element was trivial and without meaning. But power unlimited would flow from the sum of the parts, the tessellation. The children would invoke magic, survive, and be used for other spells until they exited Transition.

  Cohort 2 would confirm the brilliance of his approach.

  He looked at Chu-hua, “Transfer the boy to the Repatriation Unit. We can’t risk failure because he decides he’d rather have ice cream.”

  As far as she understood, children who went to Repatriation were sent home. The reality was different. No one could know what was going on here; no child could return to the outside world. Children were taken from Repatriation to a remote location, shot, burned, and their ashes scattered across the North Korean plains. As this little bastard would be.

  Chu-hua appeared distressed, but fealty and a lack of curiosity were her strongest assets. “As you wish, Senior Colonel Zhi.”

  “Transfer the three girls to the Attainment Unit so they can be prepared for the next test, and inform Colonel Rong that we’ll run the test in five days. Tell the Colonel that I will visit shortly.”

  Chu-hua nodded, eyes fixed on Zhi’s desk. “One other matter, Senior Colonel, if I may. We will receive seven more children this week for our classes. From Hanoi. One of the girls is older and in Transition.” She continued before Zhi could protest. “I’m told she understands Mandarin. We have a number of Vietnamese children and too few instructors. I thought she could assist in training, and you could use her in one of your tests.”

  Zhi’s voice sharpened. “You’re not to make such decisions. Do you understand?”

  Chu-hua bowed in her chair and whispered, “Yes, Senior Colonel.”

  He considered for a few seconds. “You may accept her.” Vietnamese brats who used a few words of Mandarin to beg from Chinese tourists weren’t that unusual. But having one who knew the language and who was in Transition was a stroke of luck. If she didn’t work out, he would simply dump her into Repatriation.