The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1) (5 page)

They reached Vlad’s place by late afternoon. The narrow three story building stood alone, surrounded by piles of debris and trash.

They were tired, cold, and hungry. “You sure you don’t want to just go back to the shelter, get warm, and have dinner?” Irina asked. “You can do this later.”

Anya ignored her.

They followed Vlad to the back of the building and squirmed through a broken basement window, feeling their way in the dark, climbing down a pile of shipping crates to the floor.

A crash slammed through the inky space like a gunshot. “Shit!” Nonna hissed. “I ran into a crate.”

“Stand still! Let your eyes adjust,” Vlad warned. The gloom lifted enough to reveal a wooden staircase along one wall. “I’m on the third floor. No one likes it there because the wind always howls, but that means I’m safe. Stay close to the wall. Some of the stairs are rotten.”

The boards creaked and snapped as they climbed to the second floor and turned to push through piles of trash to get to the stairs that led to the top floor.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU KIDS DOING HERE? GET THE HELL OUT! NOW!” A screaming goblin rose from the pile of stinking clothes and lurched at Anya, waving a splintered piece of wood topped with a couple of rusty nails.

Vlad jumped between Anya and the old man. “Lev, it’s me! I live here, remember?” The stinking specter froze and stared at them with a toothless smile. “Here for some fun, eh? Get on with you.” He melted back into his pile of trash.

They scrambled to the third floor, hearts racing.

Vlad’s nest was in a corner. Three cardboard boxes had been cut and laid together to form a long tube open at one end. A single thin blanket lay on the floor of the tube. Pieces of wood from broken shipping crates were piled near the open end of the box, next to a charred spot on the floor. The wind whined through the twisted wire of the broken windows.

“You want me to make a fire?” Vlad asked.

“Nah,” Anya said. She pulled the piece of paper from her coat and shuffled to the opposite corner. The others hung back. She looked at them. “You can come closer.”

The three scrambled to join her. “Hope you get what you want Anya,” Vlad said.

“Yeah,” from Irina and Nonna.

Anya stared at the paper.

I finally get to do this and I’m scared shitless. I’m not even sure I can talk.

She cleared her throat and began, surprised that her voice sounded strong and confident.

“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…

“That I make my request with respect and humility…”

Suddenly she felt a deeper cold than she’d ever felt before.

Is this part of the magic?

“That my heart is pure…”

Cool!

A lavender cloud had surrounded her, growing brighter with each phrase.

“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…”

She closed her eyes.

“Hear me:  Take me and my mother from the streets. Give us food, shelter, and happiness. Give us normal lives…

“So thus I beseech.”

Awareness slipped from Anya as death slithered in. Immediate, stygian, without mercy.

* * *

The three collected their dinner from
tetya
Masha and huddled alone at the end of the dining table.

“I wish we could have taken her somewhere better,” Irina whispered, tears dripping from her cheeks onto her plate.

Vlad shook his head. “We did the best we could. It took us forever to just get her out of the building.”

Nonna looked at Vlad. “You shouldn’t have taken her coat.”

Vlad shrugged and went back for more bread.

* * *

It wasn’t as if she’d forgotten  who she’d been. Not at all. But the fears that had plagued her no longer mattered. Now she was among others like herself who had tried magic and failed. She could sense their presence and she shared their sense of wonder.

After an age, the swirling lavender mist that surrounded her faded, pushed aside by a golden light, like a glorious sunrise. A voice filled her mind and all memories of Anya Terasova began to slip away.

IT IS TIME.

Transition’s voice, like gravel ground between stones.

DO NOT FEAR.

The power of the voice cleansed and comforted.

YOU SOUGHT TRANSITION’S POWER FOR SURVIVAL, NOT AVARICE.

The sunrise that embraced her transformed into the dark of a warm summer evening, laced with iridescent lavender threads.

SO YOU SHALL BEGIN AGAIN.

Her serenity was destroyed by chaos.

IN A LIFE THAT WILL NEED NO MAGIC.

Unfathomable noise battered her senses. Pressure threatened to crush her small body. She was drowning.

REBORN.

Hanoi

The Socialist Republic of Vietnam

Stony and John left D.C. at nine the next morning and arrived at the Hanoi Noi Bai airport at midnight the following day. Being good, loyal civil servants, they’d flown coach with two long layovers. Twenty-eight hours total, eleven time zones.

As they trudged from the plane Stony grumbled, “Sleep on a plane doesn’t count as sleep. Why the fuck couldn’t this source live in Miami? They have bad guys in Miami. But noooo, we have to go around the frickin’ world.”

John felt like he’d been beaten with a rubber hose, but he’d be damned if he’d let her know it. “Suck it up. You sound older than me.” He accelerated through the short terminal connector to immigration.

The Noi Bai international terminal was small for a capital city of six million and looked like an amalgam of airport architecture from the last forty years: tall, narrow arched skylights, steel surfaces painted in greens and blues, and polished concrete floors. To his surprise, the customs agents were efficient and friendly—more so than, say, at Kennedy. Their bags arrived quickly. Definitely better than Kennedy.

As they entered the terminal, Stony turned to John, speaking softly. “Marva said the ambassador was the only person who knows we’re here. But someone was obviously tipped about Quince, so our arrival may not be a surprise. This would be a good time to start detecting.”

A cadaverous, gray-haired Vietnamese man stood just inside the entrance, holding a sign for a Mr. Underhill. John smiled at the Lord of the Rings reference. He was fine with being Frodo Baggins. Marva had arranged for an embassy escort, since Stony’s fluency in Mandarin wouldn’t be much help in Vietnam.

He approached the sign-bearer and bowed slightly. “We’re the Underhill party.”

The old man smiled and returned the bow. “Not a total surprise,” he said in softly accented English. “You do stand out. I’m Nguyen Van Giap. My English friends call me Uncle Dragon. I would be honored if you would do the same.”

“We’re John and Stony, Uncle Dragon. Thank you for meeting us.”

“Of course. Welcome to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. This way to the car.” They had to scurry to keep up as he led them from the terminal.

Bugs the size of small birds buzzed under the street lights. John was drenched in sweat before he’d taken a half-dozen steps.

They approached a black Ford Escape. “A black SUV?” Stony said. “Seriously? Jesus, someone watches too many movies.”

“The U.S. Embassy buys cars that no one in Viet Nam wants because they all waste fuel,” Uncle Dragon said.

They left the airport for the Trun Nam Hai hotel. Where Quince had been murdered.

They arranged to meet at 9:30 the following morning. John noticed three things as they crossed the lobby. It was as cold as a meat locke; the smell of flowers was a physical presence; and an anatomically correct brass monkey sat on the bell desk.

Guess it’s not too cold. The monkey still has its balls.

John flushed with chagrin, remembering what had happened to Quince.

Goddamn.

* * *

He and Stony met for breakfast at eight the next morning, both wearing a hot-weather uniform of light khaki pants and polo shirt. They sat in an isolated corner of the hotel cafe.

“Uncle Dragon will bring the case when he picks us up,” John said. The case would contain a Glock 23, holster, three 13-shot magazines, and ammo for Stony. Concealed carry was going to be nasty in the hot weather.

“Didn’t take me long to feel naked without a weapon,” Stony said.

Nine months earlier the DTS had begun arming its agents. Until then, they’d teamed with the FBI when the situation warranted. The training process was exhaustive, and more than half the DTS field agents still weren’t certified.

Like Quince Adams.

John and Stony had been among the first to qualify. John banged his cane on the marble floor. “I’m happy with my stick as long as you’re carrying. And I’m obliged to remind you that if you’re caught, the Vietnamese militia will toss your ass in jail and lose the key.”

“Gotta catch me first,” Stony said.

He switched subjects. “I still haven’t heard from Quince’s source.” He’d tried to make contact before they left D.C. He could get the embassy to try to track him down, but John wanted to avoid that to minimize the risk of leaks.

“So we stick to our plan and see what develops,” Stony said. “We’ll retrace Quince’s path as best we can. That’ll teach us a little about the streets, and maybe the asshole source will see us and get in touch.”

They finished breakfast and waited in front of the hotel. Uncle Dragon rolled up and parked. He hoisted an aluminum briefcase from the passenger seat and climbed from the SUV. Stony took the case and went back into the hotel while John explained their plan for the day.

Stony returned wearing a half-zipped lightweight nylon jacket over a Def Leppard T-shirt.

Uncle Dragon frowned. “I can guess what was in the case.” Before Stony could protest, he put up his hands and stopped her, “I know—none of my business. Just keep the none-of-my-business well hidden.”

* * *

Uncle Dragon seized the opportunity to dunk them in Hanoi’s history. Just when they thought they were about to drown, he’d give them a rest before immersing them again.

They retraced Quince’s path, stopping in stores that might sell pictures like the one in Adams’ room. Hanoi’s streets were jammed with small, one-product mom and pops. It seemed you could get anything you wanted—rocking chairs, sinks, dried snake. But not, apparently, pictures of a red bird.

Late in the morning Stony announced, “We have company. A heavy-set guy—maybe Vietnamese—in a Hawaiian shirt has been following us for the last half hour. He sticks out more than we do.”

“Huh. He’s not worried about being spotted,” John said. “Keep an eye on him.” Their uninvited guest became a constant presence, hanging back a couple hundred feet.

They bought lunch from a street vendor, taking their
Chau Tom
—charcoal-grilled crab paste over sugar cane, wrapped in rice paper—to a nearby bench. Steamy, sticky, unmanageable, and delicious. Mr. Hawaiian disappeared while they were eating, but reappeared when they resumed Uncle Dragon’s forced march.

The old man’s energy and enthusiasm seemed to grow as the day wore on. It was nearly five when they trudged into another shop with small framed pictures hanging in the window. Dozens of images of disparate sizes smothered the walls, all monotone drawings.

“After this,” John muttered, “we find a restaurant that serves iced drinks and hot food.”

Stony sighed. “Thank God.”

An elderly Asian woman, dressed in a maroon
ao dai,
shuffled through a curtain of opalescent beads that separated a back room from the small storefront. John could see past the beads to a bowl and chopsticks sitting on a low shelf. The store smelled like dust, peppers, and hot oil.

Uncle Dragon bowed and offered the traditional Vietnamese hello. “
Chao Chi.”

The woman smiled, bowed, and said, “
Nín hǎo
,” then, “
Chao Chi
,” and finished with “English, a little.”

Stony’s interest sharpened. “
Nín hǎo
is a Mandarin greeting.” She greeted the woman and continued in Mandarin. The old lady’s face lit up and the two chatted for a few moments.

“She’d prefer to practice her English,” Stony said, “even though it’s difficult for her.”

Stony turned back to the woman and showed her a picture of Quince. “Grandmother, we have a friend who bought a picture of a bird when he was in Hanoi. We’re trying to find where he bought it.” This was followed by a short give and take in Mandarin.

The old lady frowned. “No American buy here. You wait.”

She turned, shuffled into the back room, and returned with a stack of heavy papers. They were the same red abstract that was in Quince’s room. “Sell many.”

More Mandarin. Stony said, “She wanted to know the English name for the bird. I told her we call it a crane.”

“Crane most favored bird in China,” the shopkeeper said. “Give long live.” More Mandarin, with a sprinkle of English. “Symbol for long life,” she corrected.

John asked, “You’re certain you didn’t sell this to an American? Maybe a month ago?”

The wizened shopkeeper squinted at John, then addressed Stony.

Stony grinned and translated. “She says she’s old, not stupid. She hasn’t sold the print to an American.”

John bought one of the crane pictures and they returned to the street.

“That was no help,” Stony said.

“No, but at least we know the bird is an important Chinese symbol.”

Uncle Dragon led them to a restaurant owned by his brother, where they settled into a small outside cafe. John gulped a sweet-sour-salty-lemony Chanh muối and groaned with pleasure as the cold drink slid down his throat. He checked the street and confirmed that their minder was still present. The big guy had popped out of an alley between two buildings a couple hundred feet away and stood with his back to the alley. John used his phone camera to snap his picture. Didn’t seem to bother him, but he didn’t wave either.

John looked at Stony. “I want to know what Mr. Hawaiian knows. You up for some more exercise?”

“To nail this guy? You bet your ass.”

“There’s an exit at the end of the hallway where the bathrooms are. Saw it when I went to take a leak. The door opens onto a street that runs the length of the block. Go inside as if you have all the time in the world, then run like hell and circle around behind this guy. I’ll give you a five-minute head start, then I’ll walk toward our Hawaiian-shirted friend. He’ll probably jump back into the alley he came out of. You come in from the back, me the front. We’ll trap him in the middle.”

“Good times.” Stony smiled, rose, and strolled into the restaurant.

Five minutes later, John said, “I’ll be right back, Uncle Dragon.” The old man smiled and raised his cup of tea to his lips, like every American did crazy things before a meal.

John left the restaurant and strode toward their shadow, tapping the ground with his cane as his long legs swallowed the distance between them. The guy remained motionless for a few seconds, then turned and sprinted past the alley and away from John, who jogged after him.

A few seconds later, Stony emerged from the alley, scanned the street, and sped after their quarry, Glock at her side.

The man was as fast as he was big. He raced to the middle of the next block and dodged into a narrow passage between multi-story junk shops. Stony reached the opening a minute later and disappeared into it. When John arrived, he found her standing in thigh-high piles of trash that covered the ground. Alone.

She turned to him, and rasped, “Nothing.” Three closed doors faced the narrow shaft between decaying buildings. She seized another breath. “He could’ve jumped through any of the doors, or gone out the other end by the time I got here.”

“Well, shit.”

* * *

They returned to the restaurant and learned that Uncle Dragon-approved restaurants were to be respected. John’s rice with roasted duck was spiced perfectly and painfully hot. Their tagalong had apparently decided to leave them alone for the evening. The sun had slipped behind the trees and was painting the side of the hotel with gold when Uncle Dragon dropped them off.

The desk manager called to John as soon as they entered the lobby. “Dr. Benoit! A courier left something for you about an hour ago.”

John diverted to the desk and accepted a sealed manila envelope. “Thank you.” He walked over to Stony, tore it open, and removed a single sheet of paper. “Turtle Lake Shrine—7 p.m. Come alone.” was printed at the top of the page.

“From the guy who’s been following us? He’s our source?” Stony asked.

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter, I have to go.”

“
We
have to go,” Stony said. “We’ll be lucky to get there by seven. It’s not an accident that we don’t have time to plan or arrange for any backup. No way you’re going alone.”

John nodded agreement. Ten minutes later they were in a cab on their way to the shrine, which they’d toured earlier in the day. It sat on a small rocky island at one edge of Hoan Kiem Lake, connected by an arched pedestrian bridge.

Stony yelled to be heard over the traffic noise assaulting them through the cab’s open windows. “Not many choices on how we do this. The bridge is the only way on or off the island, and there aren’t any places to hide around the shrine itself. That’s the only thing that makes me think this isn’t a trap—no easy way out and no good place to hide.”

John said, “Jesus, you were paying attention on our tour. Amazing.”

His partner nodded absently. “I’ll cross the bridge first, make contact, and assess the risk. I’ll wave you across if everything’s clear.”

“And if it’s not clear?”

“Then I’m going to run like hell and suggest you do the same. Regardless, if I’m not back in five minutes, head for the embassy.”

“Okay,” John said. “But no heroics. The paperwork to ship your body back to D.C. would be a pain in the ass.”