The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1) (7 page)

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.

“Thank you, Senior Colonel.” She rose and backed out of his office.

* * *

Usually Zhi would use his office for any meetings with Colonel Rong. However, he wanted to underscore the importance of the upcoming test, and going to the Attainment Unit would do that. It was worth the frigid walk.

He crossed to his closet and dressed as if he were about to be abandoned on an ice floe, in a long woolen coat, ermine ushanka, and gloves. A brilliant blue sky greeted him when he left the Admin building, an icy wind squeezing tears from his eyes.

Crane was housed in four buildings just outside North Korea’s Camp 22 political prison, about twenty kilometers from Hoeryong and across the Tumen River from China.

He replayed his conversation with Chu-hua as he dueled with the wind. She couldn’t wait to flee his office. But she was distressed about the boy’s repatriation. And taking the initiative about the girl in Transition? Very unusual.

Someone’s been talking to her, undermining her willing obedience.

She would take too long to replace, but perhaps the person who had been educating her was dispensable. Zhi made a mental note to assign this new problem to his head of security.

As for Chu-hua, what’s she going to do? Nothing.
That’s one of the reasons I selected this location in this abominable country.

Colonel Rong Ming met Zhi at the building entry vestibule. Chu-hua had obviously wasted no time alerting him. He led Zhi to his office, a cold, windowless closet with scarcely room for his small desk and two cane chairs.

Rong was Crane’s Charon, ferrying each child to their final destiny in their four-year journey. If the magic failed to meet Transition’s requirements, the children died. If they lived through Transition, their value to the program ended, and they were sent to Repatriation for disposal.

Zhi pushed the door closed. “Principal Chu-hua will be transferring three of her children to Attainment for a test in five days.”

“Yes?”

“I decided to repatriate the boy. He’s too unpredictable. So you’ll need to adjust their tasks to compensate for that. One of the girls will have only two days remaining in Transition. Since we must have three children to insure uniqueness, we won’t have much time if we require multiple attempts.”

Rong nodded. “They’ll be prepared.”

Zhi worried that Rong’s reassurance was the glib response of a career military officer. He wanted more. “This is the first time we’ve divided the spell to achieve uniqueness. The girls must learn their revised spells in the next five days and accept them as their own. I would rather repatriate them than report another failure to Delegate Wu.”

“I understand, Senior Colonel.”

“Failure would bring consequences, Colonel Rong. Are you certain?”

Rong stared down at his hands, then back up to Zhi. “Certainty is unattainable, no matter how long I have.”

Zhi was pleased to see a slight sheen of sweat on the Colonel’s forehead.

Better.

“Get very, very close to certainty, Colonel.” Zhi turned and left.

As he braved the return to his office, his face twisted into a distorted smile. Five days. In five days the magic from three young girls—his magic—would trigger an unprecedented problem in the nuclear core of the USS Enterprise.

Then he would move on to other objectives, like eliminating the threat from the American agents.

Washington, D.C

The United States

Stony bounced from one foot to the other, claiming her share of the congested aisle on the Boeing 777. It had taken five days and the intervention of the U.S. Secretary of State to get permission to leave Vietnam. Another thirty hours of connections and layovers to D.C. It was six in the evening, and she felt like she’d been beaten with a tire iron.

Come on already. Get me off this damn plane.

The line of restless passengers finally began to move. She shuffled up the aisle to the jetway and bounded into the terminal.

Okay, the floor’s too dirty to kiss, but I am sooo glad to get home.

“Stony!”

She jerked her head in the direction of the sound and saw Akina waving from the far edge of the crowd clustered around the gate. Seeing her friend’s welcoming face triggered an emotional rush that caught Stony by surprise.

I will not fucking tear up. Shit. Maybe I should punch someone to distract myself.

She swiped her eyes, weaved through the mass of humanity, and grabbed Akina in a quick hug. “What’re you doing here? How did you get back to the gate? How are you? Is anything wrong? Have you heard from Dish?”

Akina laughed and rubbed her nose. Stony cracked up at the unexpected use of Dish’s “stop talking” signal. John and Stony’s arguments about her chattiness and the nosy signal had made the rounds at the DTS.

“I’m fine, and nothing’s wrong. Can’t talk about the team; that’s between you and Director Bentley. She asked that I pick you up, and I’m happy to do it. And the gate’s easy when you have a badge.”

They sped toward the terminal exit.

“No baggage, right?” Akina asked.

“Nope. An excuse to do some shopping. First priority is a long hot bath and a twenty-four hour nap.”

“Nuh-uh. I’ll run you by your place for a quick shower, but the director wants to see you before the end of the day.”

Stony’s shoulders sagged. “That explains the generosity of the meet and greet.”

“Not totally. I’ve missed my bar buddy.”

They emerged to a cold moonless evening. Akina pointed them to a small parking area for VIP vehicles. “Nice,” Stony said. “You rate. Hang on.” She scooted from the sidewalk to the grassy berm that separated the parked cars from the access road, bent down to all fours, and kissed the ground. Twice. She jumped up, sputtering grass and dirt, and rejoined Akina.

“Lady, you are nuts!” Akina said, shaking her head. “Yeech.”

* * *

An hour-and-a-half later Stony found herself sitting in the director’s waiting area, wondering how it was possible to feel simultaneously refreshed and bone weary.

Maybe it’s like bumble bee flight. Impossible, but don’t tell the bee.

She was nodding off when she heard the swish of a door, followed by the strike of stilettos on hardwood. She snapped awake and stood.

Director Bentley grasped her hand in a warm, tight grip. “Stony, I’m so relieved to see you. Welcome home.” She focused on Stony’s face with concern. “Come on back.”

They sat opposite each other at Marva’s conference table. Stony noted a dozen fresh yellow roses on the credenza with a note card lying beside them.

She turned back to the director, who had watched her study the flowers and was smiling. “None of your damn business.”

Stony flushed and asked, “What’s new from John?”

“He’ll get to Bangkok early tomorrow. The Thai ambassador is waiting for him.”

“Peachy,” Stony said. She tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

Bentley smiled. “You’ll have Akina as a full time Number Two. She’ll cut through the bureaucratic crap—people are more afraid of her than me. Wise of them. Also, the President has granted us the authority to consolidate Chinese intercepts from the various spook shops until this entire situation is resolved. Your team has full access.”

“Very peachy,” Stony said.

“I had your new team stay late so you could meet them. Akina will take you around and do the introductions. Then go home and get some sleep. You’re punch-drunk.”

“Totally peachy.”

* * *

Stony woke at four the following morning, jet-lagged, feeling worse than before she’d crashed. She was punching the button for the elevator in the DTS building when she realized she didn’t recall the drive in. Not getting in the car. Nothing.

Akina had shown her the assigned space for the new team before taking her home the evening before. The maze of cubes occupied a top-floor corner of the building with an empty twenty-foot space surrounding them for additional privacy.

As she now crossed this demilitarized zone she called, “Anyone here?”

“Over here.”

She followed the voice through the labyrinth and found Akina in one of two offices that had actual thanks-be-to-god doors. She sat next to a small round table sipping coffee. There were four boxes of Daylight Donuts, a Georgetown passion, on the table. An empty coffee cup with “Boss” in bright red letters sat next to four carafes of coffee.

“I sing your praises from on high,” Stony said.

“Many do.”

Stony sat and tried to force a decision from her foggy brain. Donut or coffee first?

“Chase a donut with the coffee.”

“And you read minds. How handy.” Stony reached for a cup and looked around. “This is your office?” Akina nodded. “And mine?”

Akina’s raspberry chocolate frosted donut pointed next door.

Even senior managers in D.C. with thirty years service worked from cubes. “Now that is a blatant use of beltway power.”

“You have to exercise it to keep it strong,” Akina said. “The director gave me a heads up about digging into Heritage Trading and analyzing global kidnapping patterns.”

“Before we get to that, I have a question. The director expects you to report every detail, right?”

Akina shrugged. “I’m on this team to help your sorry ass. Without me, you might as well have gone to Bangkok.”

“That’s comforting. And?”

“And I’m to report everything to the director. But I’ll decide what to say and when to say it. If you get into something you don’t want me sharing with her, don’t let me hear it.”

“That’ll work,” Stony said. “So. The top thing on my list is to figure out where the leak came from that got Quince killed. Second priority is Heritage Trading. Third is analyzing kidnapping patterns, if that’s even possible. We have a lot to do and not much time. John wants to finish in Bangkok this week so we can head to Zurich.”

“I’ve set a meeting at eight for everyone on the team. You’ve generously provided donuts and coffee for the eight o’clock—out of your own pocket—so they’ll love you.”

“Mind reader. Damned handy,” Stony mumphed through a custard-filled pastry. “Set a daily call with Dish. And let’s have a twenty-minute standup meeting with the team every morning at seven-thirty. I’ll expect you to be in any meeting I’m in. I want you to play the devil’s advocate. Speak up and push back, hard, when you feel it’s needed. I don’t want any group-think going on.”

“I can do that,” Akina said.

Stony stood and gazed at her friend. Thoughts of rumpled sheets pushed team planning from her mind and warmed her face. And parts further south. She smiled and headed for the door. “See you at eight. I’m going to settle into my palatial office. Have the food in the room before we start to assemble. I don’t want anyone confusing you with foodservice.”

“No one on this team that would make that mistake.”

* * *

Stony surveyed her task force. Twelve agents, five analysts. Three sat at the table, the rest along the walls. “Everyone up to the table. No back benchers here.” She watched them settle and dive for the donuts.

Director Bentley strode into the room and casual conversation ceased. Stony hadn’t expected the surprise cameo. “Morning all.” Murmurs back. “Stony, with your permission?” Stony nodded. “I’ll be brief. I expect a lot from this team. I’m not exaggerating when I say that children’s lives and the security of the nation depend on you. Work your hardest, delight us with the insight from your findings. Any roadblocks, Agent Hill will let me know, and we’ll take care of them.” She looked at each of them, grabbed a powdered donut, pivoted, and left.

Stony felt like she’d been anointed by a master Washington power player.

Time to see what I can do with all the rope I’ve been handed.

“So much for foreplay; let’s get started,” Stony said. She summarized the context of Quince’s death—what they knew, what they thought they knew, and the recent events in Vietnam—then fielded questions.

“State will provide a specialist for Vietnam and Thailand by this afternoon.”

An older agent held a pen in the air. “When do we get tasked?”

“Right now.” I’ll visit each one of you after this meeting.”

“How long do we have?”

“Plenty of time. Figure a week.” Groans and protests rolled through the room. “What, you think we can study our navel for a month? One of our own is already dead. God knows what’s being done with kids. We’re playing catch-up and losing.”

Stony waited for them to settle. “Go get settled into your new offices, and I’ll find you there.”

She left the conference room, Akina by her side. “Nothing about the leaks?” Akina asked?

“Nope,” Stony said. “That’s for the two of us. While I’m doing task assignments, I want you to grab all the communications with the embassy going back to whenever we got the first tip about the kidnapping. Then start organizing it by person. I want to know who was aware of the tip and who knew Quince was in Hanoi. I’ll join you for lunch at two.”

“On it.”

Lunch never happened. Stony fought to keep her head above water as detailed briefings, questions, and a sea of logistical details washed over her. She was exhausted when she surfaced at four.

She grabbed her coat and took a quick power walk through the streets that surrounded the DTS building, stopping to grab a couple of piled-high sandwiches at a local deli before returning to the top floor.

She poked her head into Akina’s office. “How about my place? Grab a couple of drinks. I have sandwiches.”

“Food? I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Stony dropped the deli bag on the small round table in her office and hung up her coat.

Akina joined her, carrying two diet Cokes and a two-foot stack of computer print-outs. “Wait a sec,” she said, and ducked back out of the office. She returned with an aluminum easel on which was mounted a two-by-three foot pad of paper. “Can we work while we eat?”

“Sure. Pick whichever sandwich you want. One’s chicken, the other’s beef.”

Akina pulled a sandwich and a bag of chips from the bag. “Cool! You got jalapeño.”

Stony took the bag and pointed toward the pile of paper. “What’s this?”

“It’s what’s known in the business as a clue. The director had a team start sifting intercepts with the embassy right after the two of you talked yesterday. The stack is part of the communications that have anything to do with the initial rumor, with Quince, or what’s happened since.”

Stony swallowed a too-large bite of chicken sandwich and fanned the pages. There was a classification code stamped on each page. “And the easel?”

Akina stood and pulled a blank page from the top of the pad. The pages below it were part of an obviously large flowchart with various circles interconnected by a series of lines. Each circle contained a person’s last name. The pages were giant Post-its. Akina began pulling the sheets from the pad and sticking them to Stony’s office wall until she’d formed a diagram about four feet tall by ten feet wide. She looked at Stony. “Good news or bad?”

“Start with the good.”

“The director’s team worked all night and finished early this afternoon.” She pointed at the wall. “This is the result.”

“And the bad?”

“They concluded that we do indeed have a leak.”

“Well? For God’s sake, spit it out.”

“Ambassador Hogan. And the son of a bitch knows pretty much everything.”

“Jesus, what about John? He’s probably in Thailand by now. Hogan could have tipped the locals to his arrival. Fucking hell!”