The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1) (8 page)

Bangkok

The Kingdom of Thailand

John arrived in Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport at nine in the evening. He cleared customs without a bag search and caught a green Toyota Altis taxi. The driver fought his way through the traffic and stinking air to the Anantara Baan Rajprasong Suites.

The next morning he found his way to the cantilevered mahogany deck of the hotel’s outdoor cafe. Glass-topped tables surrounded a night-flowering jasmine that grew through a hole in center of the deck. A white canvas roof soared to a peak over the tree.

Eight a.m. and the heat and humidity are already impressive.

He wore black jeans and a torn black tee shirt with “Putting the Fun back in Funeral” in flowing red script across his chest. His suitcase had been returned from the Hanoi police with its contents tossed and drenched in cigarette smoke.

Getting clothes back from them is like pissing off a waiter and then ordering soup. Bad things can happen.

He’d picked the least smelly clothing and sent everything else to a one-hour laundry.

A server appeared by his table. John’s phone buzzed with a text message as he ordered tropical fruit and a bowl of Thai jok. He checked the phone and found a message from Stony:

watch ur back. u may not b unannounced. details coming.

John cleared the message and tapped his cane on the deck.

Crap. What she’s onto?

He thought for a moment. The ambassador expected him at ten, and the embassy was only a ten-minute walk from the hotel.

I’ll take the long way and see if anyone makes an appearance.

* * *

John left the hotel and breathed in deeply. The smell of rain hung in the air; clouds had chased the sun into full retreat. He’d changed into a light blue suit and a starched ecru shirt with an open collar. The three-hundred-baht tip to the bell captain for quick laundry service had paid off.

The desk attendant had given him directions that would take him to a local park and from there to the embassy. He strode along the curving hotel access lane and turned left, onto the sidewalk bordering Raidamri Road. There he stopped and spun slowly, checking the streets. Jogger with purple socks, old man talking on the phone, woman pushing a stroller, teen in lime T-shirt.

Nada
.

He strolled down the tree-lined boulevard, passed a multi-story building housing the AUA Language Center, and arrived at the intersection of Raidamri and Sarasin Roads. He crossed the street and maintained his direction, passing the stone arch of a park entrance on his left. A fecund smell tickled his nose.

A lake or pond somewhere in the park.

He continued past the park entry. The desk clerk had said there was another one a half-kilometer farther along. He slowed his pace and ambled along the edge of the green space. Ten minutes later he came to the next cross street, noisy with traffic. An arched entrance to the park lay to his left.

Time to mix things up.

The walk signal flipped to green. John started across the street. About five feet from the far curb, he reversed course, jogged back to the sidewalk amid blaring horns, and loped under the arch into the park.

About fifty feet in, the path split into a “Y.” An unoccupied wooden bench, painted in shiny black enamel, squatted in the grass beyond the trail’s divide. The bench faced the park entrance that lay behind him. He sat, enjoying a clear view of the grounds.

Let’s see what we can see.

He catalogued the rumble of nearby traffic, crickets, a couple of bullfrogs, and some birds. The smell of foul water was stronger here. A man wearing a beige linen suit and turquoise tie strode into the park, followed closely by a man and woman together, dressed in jogging shorts and tees. All were Asian. The suit took the branch to the right, the two joggers bore left. No eye contact.

Bingo. The woman with purple socks again. Could be coincidence, but not very damn likely. I’m being tailed. Shit!

No one else entered the park in the next five minutes. Thunder rumbled like distant cannon fire as the clouds began to boil.

He rose and strode back toward the street. He could get to the embassy faster by cutting through the park, but he didn’t like the isolation.

Safer on the streets. I hope.

* * *

Lightning and thunder played hide and seek with the clouds as John hurried along a broad sidewalk. An eight-foot brick wall, painted white and topped with razor wire spirals, had lined the sidewalk on his right for the last quarter mile.

You could tuck the Hanoi embassy into a corner of this place.

The thunder had become a constant drumming by the time he arrived at the pedestrian entrance to the embassy.

He turned into a landscaped courtyard. Embassy walls bounded the space on either side. Moss-stained cobblestones covered the ground under a scattered green canopy of tall figs. John gazed past the trees to the back of the square. A flat-roofed guardhouse the size of a small apartment sat about fifty feet away. Windows filled the front of the white brick structure, flanking a central glass door.

A few fat raindrops pelted the ground as he jogged to the entry and hurried inside. A cloudburst hammered the building. Lightning strobed, and rain assaulted the windows as if someone was pointing a fire hose at them.

Bangkok natives probably consider this a light shower.

Marine guards stood behind a counter on his right. A whole body scanner and an airport-style x-ray machine sat about twenty feet away, opposite the entrance.

He informed a guard about his appointment with the ambassador, offered up his ID, placed his cane on the x-ray belt, and passed through the scanner. The guard operating the machine moved to the end of the belt and retrieved the cane, admiring the brass dragon head.

Almost as an afterthought, the Marine asked, “Sir, does this come apart in any way?”

John had never been asked that specific question in all the times he’d been subjected to security. Sheepishly, he said, “As a matter of fact …” He grabbed the top of the cane and depressed the dragon’s ruby right eye while twisting. The head popped loose. It formed the handle of an eight-inch stiletto that John slid from the body of the cane and handed to the guard.

The marine whistled. “Impressive. That’s one sweet killing blade. Why the hell did my machine miss it?”

“The cane has a metal lining. The blade looks like part of it.”

“Which is why we’re taught to ask, no matter what. Although I doubt a bad guy would share the secret. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you carry this in. You can pick it up when you leave.”

The guard directed him to an exit that opened onto a wide, covered stone walkway. The arched roof sheltered him from the worst of the ongoing storm as he strode toward the embassy portico. A cool mist brushed his face.

He registered at the embassy’s front desk and was given a yellow “Authorized Visitor” badge. A marine private accompanied him to a conference room in the ambassador’s office complex on the fourth floor.

The PFC promised that the ambassador would be with him shortly and left him alone, closing the door. John gazed at the intersecting patterns of golden shadow trees that filled the silk wallpaper with the soft color of the morning sun. A teak and rosewood conference table stretched the length of the room. One end of the room was dominated by a large video monitor. The air felt like it was about fifty degrees. The door swung open.

“Welcome to Bangkok, Agent Benoit. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Ambassador Rosemary Strong whisked into the room, smiling widely, carrying John’s cane. A slender six feet with hazel eyes and gray hair, she had the easy, practiced manner of a lifelong diplomat. John guessed she was in her fifties, maybe early sixties. She grasped his hand firmly and asked him to be seated.

“When I heard about the cane, I had to see it. Security had a snit, but I saw no reason you shouldn’t have it with you. It’s beautiful, as is the blade.” She passed the cane over the table.

“Thank you, Madam Ambassador. And it’s John.”

“Rose, please. I’ve known Marva Bentley since we went to Georgetown together. You DTS guys are extended family. I’ve worked with her a number of times, particularly in this posting. The Bangkok embassy is pretty much a clearing house for Southeast Asia. Seems like something is always going on that brings us together.”

She used a remote to power the video monitor and punched a number into the console. Marva, Akina, and Stony snapped into focus. “Evening folks,” the ambassador said. “Appreciate your flexibility on the late hour.”

The Director shrugged. “No problem, Rose, we’ve had plenty to keep us busy. Good to see you outside the Hanoi embassy, John. Let’s get right to work with a report from Stony.”

“Just one thing before we do that,” John said. He summarized his morning game of cat and mouse.

“Interesting that she wore purple socks,” Rose said. “Purple is the traditional Thai color of mourning worn by widows. Makes me suspect she was some nationality other than Thai.”

“Chinese maybe?” Stony asked. “John, I’m not surprised you’re being tailed. That fits with my news. It looks like Ambassador Hogan has been our leak in Hanoi and it’s likely he’s tipped someone to your trip.” She shared the details of the work done by Akina and the DTS analysts. John and the Ambassador interrupted several times with questions, all of which Stony and Akina had anticipated.

Rose shook her head. “Your analysis is solid, but I’m still having trouble believing it.”

“It gets more damning, I’m afraid,” Marva said. “Once we were certain, I shared our conclusions with the Secretary of State. She decided to call Hogan back to Washington for a policy review. Trouble is, no one knows where he is. He left the embassy mid-afternoon yesterday to go home but hasn’t shown up. State is looking for him, but nothing so far.”

“Well, at least the source of the leak has been shut down,” John said.

Marva asked, “Anyone have anything else?”

“One thing,” Rose said. “I haven’t talked about this with John yet, but I’ve called in some favors. To my surprise, I’ve gotten some cooperation from the Thai National Intelligence Agency. So far they’ve identified three child trafficking rings that appear to meet your criteria.”

“Excellent,” Marva said.

“It gets better. We think one of the gangs is shipping some kids out day after tomorrow. The NIA has agreed to a bust, and John is invited.”

Hoeryong

The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

Thanna jolted awake to the screeching of metal and the shrieks of the other kids packed in the steel box.

After she’d been taken by the boogiemen, the
Ông Ba Bị,
she’d been locked in a small windowless room with Duc and Kim and six other kids from Hanoi. The room had been warm and they’d been given rice and porridge to eat and more bottles of water than they could drink. Every now and then one of the street gang would unlock the door, lean in and switch off the lights, telling them to sleep. The kids had forgotten their fears and spent the lighted hours playing and singing and napping. Thanna was the oldest in the room, old enough that her fear had grown each day, wondering what was to become of them.

On the morning after the third sleep, they’d been awakened and herded into the steel box. Bottles of water, a big sack of bread, and jars filled with cold steamed rice were piled in one corner. Empty pails lined a wall. The biggest of the
Ông Ba Bị
had leaned into the box and warned them, “You’re going on a trip. If you make any noise, you’ll be killed.” He’d closed the doors and slammed locks into place with a loud bang.

She’d lost track of time, but it felt like they’d been in the foul box for days. Their prison shuddered and banged, like it had been dropped, then dragged across rocks. The slop buckets tipped over, spilling their foul contents and tarring the kids near them who were too slow to get out of the way. Thanna retched from the stench. Light streamed through the holes cut into the sides of the box near the roof.

She gathered Duc and Kim to her, hugging and shushing them, making promises of safety she knew she couldn’t keep. The temperature was falling; she could see her breath. The other kids gathered around, listening to her assurances, sharing the scant warmth from their tiny bodies. She would use magic to save them all, if only she knew how.

The box’s jarring movement stopped abruptly, and the doors at one end squealed open. Frozen air stole her breath. She squinted from the sharp, sparkling light.

An Uncle and Auntie stood like giants in the open doors. “Where is the girl in Transition? The one who speaks Mandarin and Vietnamese.” The woman spoke in Mandarin.

Thanna stood on quivering legs. “Here. I’m here.”

“I’m Principal Chu-hua. Tell the children that they’re safe now. Tell them to follow us. We’ll get them clean and warm, feed them.”

Thanna hesitated.

The man spoke, a kindly grandfather. “Hurry child, or we’ll all die from the cold.”

Thanna turned, looking down at expectant faces. “Go with Auntie Chu-hua. She has blankets and water and food. Quickly! Go!”

The kids scrambled to their feet and out the door. Thanna kept Duc and Kim close, leaving last, afraid to follow her own words.