The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1) (28 page)

Hoeryong

The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

Zhi stood in the Attainment Unit’s observation room, staring through the one-way mirror in rapt attention as Eng prepared to lead three kids in Transition magic.

The previous evening, he and Eng had gone into Hoeryong to enjoy the camaraderie of the dancers at a new lady bar. Between personal visits to the club’s back room, the two had found time to discuss the children’s preparation for magic. He’d convinced Zhi they were ready.

Now Eng sat facing the three girls who would be using magic under his direction. He smiled, his face warm and encouraging. “Let’s begin.” He nodded to the girl on his left.

“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 …”

While she continued, Eng pointed to the girl in the middle, who began:

“I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition. I beseech this Power to grant my request. I …”

While the first two carried forward, he gestured to the girl on the right, the recent arrival from Hanoi. She began:

“I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by …”

And on with the remaining verses, a coordinated symphony.

Eng was certain that he needed only one day to prepare children for the successful use of magic, not the weeks of preparation that Zhi and Rong had thought necessary.

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

“That my heart is pure …”

The key was to have the children use magic for something that hooked them emotionally, something they desired. In this case, the hook was their fear of Rong Ming, who had terrorized them the night of their attempted escape. The kids believed they were using Transition to punish Ming. They didn’t understand their magic would kill him.

“That my request is worthy …

“That no request like mine has been uttered since time began …”

Zhi had selected three different genes that caused cardiac arrhythmia if they were damaged. The children were going to destroy each of them. Damage to a single gene was dangerous. The destruction of all three would be fatal.

“That this is my own true wish …”

The Conservatory was bathed in the familiar frigid, iridescent lavender glow.

“That I willingly surrender my life if I am found unworthy or my request is found wanting …”

The three moved into the final verses, referring to the cards Eng had provided them for the specific language.

First the child on the left:

“Hear me: This is directed at Colonel Rong Ming, who has caused children in Program Crane to fear him. Destroy the SCN5A gene in Rong Ming’s cardiac DNA. So thus I beseech.”

Then the child in the middle, the same invocation but aimed at a different gene:

“Hear me: This is directed at Colonel Rong Ming, who has caused children in Program Crane to fear him. Destroy the KCNH2 gene in Rong Ming’s cardiac DNA. So thus I beseech.”

Then the final verse from the Vietnamese girl, targeting the third gene:

“Hear me: This is directed at Colonel Rong Ming, who has caused children in Program Crane to fear him. Destroy the JCNZ5 gene in Rong Ming’s cardiac DNA. So thus I beseech.”

The lavender light winked out without a sound and the children looked around in wonder. Eng dropped to his knees and held out his arms. “You have earned a mighty hug. Captain Rong has been disciplined.” The kids leaped into his grasp, chittering with excitement.

Zhi slumped away from the glass, relieved that the children lived. He looked forward to a call from Comrade Wu relating the sad story of Rong’s sudden death.

He glanced at his watch. His new house guest should have arrived. He hurried across the compound to Security, shivering from the infernal North Korean wind as he climbed the two steps into the sheltering warmth of the building that contained the holding cell.

A day for irony.

He removed his coat and asked the watch captain, “Has our prisoner arrived?”

“Just a few minutes ago, Senior Colonel. The doctor is with her.”

Zhi marched through the twisting corridors and into the space that served as receiving area and jail. Two guards stood at attention outside the room; two more, next to the open door of the cage in the center of the room. The camp physician was bent over a form on the cell’s pallet.

“How is she, Physician Chou?” Zhi asked.

The octogenarian straightened and shook his head. “Unconscious and a bloody mess.”

“Stupid idiots. How is this woman going to tell me anything?”

Chou said, “She was sedated for the trip. That, plus the injuries …”

“I need her talking and coherent.”

“None of her wounds are fatal, and the sedation should be out of her system in a few hours. Give me two, maybe three, days to find a good balance between pain medication and alertness.”

“Don’t worry about her pain. You have until this time tomorrow.”

Hoeryong

The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

“One more time,” Eng told Thanna and the other two kids, “and you’ll be ready.”

There were six children in the school who were in Transition. Thanna was one of three who’d used magic to punish Uncle Rong for the way he’d treated them the night of their failed escape. Now she was practicing to cure Comrade Wu. The other three kids were going to cure a sick American.

Thanna’s group was sitting in three big, comfortable chairs in a cozy room with a huge mirror on one wall. The room lights were dim, except for a bright light shining down on Uncle Eng, who sat facing them. They recited the words they’d been taught, like they were speaking the verses of a song. The only difference between practice and the real thing was that they didn’t usually say the first part—”I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition.”

This time he had them say the first part and signaled them with his hands to stop before they finished. Eng nodded and smiled. “Perfect. Cake with your ice cream tonight. You’re excused to return to your dorm.”

The kids jumped out of their chairs, happy to be finished, and ran to hug him. Thanna flinched inwardly and held back as much as she could without attracting notice.

He seems nice, but Uncle Rong seemed nice, too.

When Thanna entered the dorm, Duc and Kim jumped out from behind the door, tackling and dragging her to the floor, giggling hysterically.

When the tickling had ended, she asked, “How was your Mandarin class?”

Duc shook his head. “The words hurt my mouth.”

“Yeah,” Kim said, “but at least we’ll be able to beg from the Chinese tourists when we get home.”

I don’t think we’ll ever see home again.

Kim pulled on her shirt sleeve, “Do you know magic now?”

Thanna had explained to them that she was learning the words for Transition magic.

“Yes, so now you’d better behave or I’ll really turn you into frogs.” They laughed, tickled her again, jumped up and skipped across the room to play with their new friends.

Thanna got up and walked over to the girls in her practice group, Bian and Ly, who were sitting on Bian’s bed. Ly could have been Thanna’s sister, tall and wiry, with short hair and bronze skin. Bian was a head shorter, pale, her dark eyes hidden by long black hair, which she refused to let anyone cut. Bian was as timid as Ly was full of fire. They’d been stolen from Ho Chi Minh City four years ago.

The two girls were in an empty corner of the dorm, taking turns reading aloud from the Chinese lesson book. Thanna sat down next to Ly, pulled her creased postcard from her pocket, and unfolded it. “Wanna see something cool?”

She had learned that if Ly liked something, Bian would like it too.

“This is a picture of the best place ever,” Thanna said. The back of the card had a picture of deep blue water washing onto a wide beach surrounded by palm trees. Under the picture was a message that she’d memorized long ago. She read it to the girls. “The friendly people of Moorea welcome all to their earthly paradise.”

Ly took the card and gazed at it, like she was lost in the cloudless sky. “I wish we were there. It looks warm.”

Thanna held her breath. The idea that had popped into life when Uncle Zhi agreed to let her use magic had grown until it was all she thought about.

Can I get her to go along?

“Me too,” Thanna whispered, and told Ly about the island of her dreams. She told her about the people and how friendly they were, and how much they loved children. “Wanna go there? All of us kids?”

“Go? What’re you talking about?”

Thanna described her idea, using all her street skills to persuade and convince. She contrasted life in the school with the joy of the island. Always enough food. Always safe. Always loved.

Bian had quit reading and was listening to Thanna as intently as her friend. Thanna finished and waited to see what would happen. She was surprised when it was Bian who spoke first. “Would it work? Really work?”

Ly answered before Thanna could respond. “Why wouldn’t it? Uncle Eng is teaching us how, isn’t he?”

“But we could die,” Bian said.

“Do you really believe they’ll let us go home after we do magic for them?” Thanna asked, her voice crackling with anger. “Do you? ‘Cause I don’t. If we stay here, we’ll die for sure.”

“But—”

“Besides,” Thanna said, “We can divide the magic into tiny pieces, one part for each of us, just like Uncle Eng does. It’ll work, I know it will.”

Tears filled Bian’s eyes and overflowed onto her cheeks as Thanna talked about their fate. Ly reached out, pulled her tiny friend into her lap and cuddled her.

Ly’s voice was quiet and calm. “How do we divide the magic?”

Shenyang

The People’s Republic of China

John stared through the tinted glass of the Haval H3, concentrating his Leica binoculars on a bench about a hundred feet away, near the entrance of Shenyang’s North Pagoda. Wendy White, one of Hale’s agents, was playing the Victoria Upland decoy. She sat alone, small and vulnerable, waiting for Wu De to appear for the noon rendezvous. A cadmium yellow scarf, Upland’s signal to Wu De that all was clear for a meeting, concealed her face.

He wiggled in his seat and checked his watch for the umpteenth time in the last hour—five minutes until noon, when Wu De was due to appear.

“Why don’t you give me your damn watch?” Nate asked. “You’re driving me crazy.” Hale sat beside John in the rear seat of the Chinese SUV. Their driver, a Chinese national, was another from Hale’s embassy staff.

John smiled. He wasn’t the only one anxious. Hale had been gnawing his fingernails like a dog worrying a bone.

Two other agents sauntered around the perimeter, keeping their distance, the only visitors in the small park.

The choreography of this snatch and grab was going to be a little tricky. They were in a hostile country and had to keep electronic communication to a minimum. Everyone on the team carried low-power, encrypted comms gear, but the Chinese could still detect transmissions if they were in the neighborhood and listening. None of that would matter much if Wu was wired. Then their success would be a matter of speed and luck.

“Heads up. Likely target half a block distant, headed this way,” John muttered into his shoulder mic. Upland had told him Wu De wore cowboy boots with silver tips; the light from those tips sparkled in the Leica’s lenses

Wendy remained motionless. Hale’s two agents began a slow, meandering stroll in her direction.

The man, round and soft, about five-five, cut across the grass and approached the bench with a smile on his face.

“Bingo,” John said. “He’s approaching the bench from the rear and about thirty feet away.”

“Man, who taught this guy spy craft?” Nate whispered. “He sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb.”

Wu De’s voice carried through Wendy’s mic. “Hello, Victoria. What a pleasure to see you again.” His voice was loud, intended to startle.

Upland was right. His English is flawless.

Wendy stiffened but didn’t turn. Wu rounded the bench, his smile growing until Wendy rose and faced him. His expression cascaded into puzzlement, then alarm as she leapt toward him and wrapped an arm tightly around his shoulders. She carried a P226, which was undoubtedly pressed into Wu’s ribs.

A panel van driven by yet another of Hale’s team pulled quietly to the curb, its side door open.

“Make a sound and you’re dead,” Wendy’s voice growled in John’s earwig.

Just as the two agents neared her to assist, Wu slammed his elbow into Wendy’s face, yelped “
Bāng wô
!”—help me—and lunged away. Blood streamed from Wendy’s nose.

He got a single step before Wendy smacked him in the back of the head with her SIG. Wu collapsed like a ruptured hot air balloon.

“Shit,” Nate said. “Why don’t we just get on a bullhorn and announce we’re kidnapping the guy?”

John panned the Leicas for anyone paying undue attention. The place was deserted.

The two agents and the ersatz Upland hauled Wu upright and quick-marched him to the curb. They tossed him in the van, dove in after, and drove away. John’s driver pulled away from the curb and followed at the same casual speed.

Nothing happening here folks. Go about your business.

* * *

Twenty minutes later John stood in awe next to the rusting hulk of a half-built steam locomotive. The steel beast was a study in shadows, illuminated by scattered light from portable arc-lamps powered by embassy generators. A musty mix of machine oil and mold tickled his nose.

Hale’s team had found this abandoned locomotive factory on the northern outskirts of Shenyang for Wu’s interrogation. It seemed a good choice, surrounded by block after block of mostly empty streets and decaying structures. John and Nate were waiting for Hale’s lieutenant to tell them Wu was in place for interrogation.

“Impressive, huh?” Nate asked. He’d quietly stepped to John’s side. “It’s an early Chinese QJ Class engine, a 2-10-2.” Surprised by both the information and its source, John glanced at the station chief. “Ten powered wheels on five axles, plus non-powered leading and trailing axles.”

“A special interest?” John asked.

Hale nodded. “I’m a steam locomotive nut. Shenyang is an ancient industrial city, and locomotives were a specialty for a hundred years. Nirvana for someone like me. There’s a great museum not far from here. Wish we had time to visit.”

“I understand,” John said. “Remind me to tell you about some of my favorite cemeteries.” It was Hale’s turn to look surprised.

John was restless. “How much longer?”

Hale was about to respond when his number two exited from an office on the other side of the building and approached his boss and the DTS agent. He nodded to John. “Ready to go. He’s blindfolded and naked, like you asked. We left him alone otherwise, but he’s already pissed himself.”

Hale turned to John. “Are you sure you don’t want us to question this guy? It’s what we do.”

“Nope. I can manage.” John checked the pocket of his jacket for the SIG and Swiss Army knife he’d gotten from Hale. “Pull your guys back to the perimeter.”

Hale barked into his mic. The orders to his men echoed in John’s ear. They were still keeping electronic communications to a minimum.

“Finish this as fast as you can,” Hale said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if a militia team rolls through this neighborhood a few times a day. The Chinese have security everywhere, even in forgotten places like this.”

John strode across a floor blackened by decades of coal dust and stopped before the door to the impromptu interrogation room. He switched off his mic to prevent broadcasting to the Chinese. Or to Hale.

Here goes, kiddo. Wish you were here to bitch about my technique.

He swung the door open to a bare office the size of a microscopic Manhattan studio apartment. The floor was the same filthy concrete as in the foundry, the walls a dirty cinder block. A work light pointed upward from one corner, bouncing light off an elaborately embossed tin ceiling, where a hint of navy blue paint peeked through the grime.

Wu De was bound to a chair in the center of the room, head bowed. The sharp stink of fear assaulted John’s nose. Wu’s feet rested in a small puddle of piss.

Wu started and stared blindly at the door. “Who’s there?” A trace of dried tears streaked his cheeks.

Jesus, he looks like a lost little boy.

John shoved the door closed and marched to within a couple of feet of their captive. He jabbed Wu in the chest with the tip of his cane, cutting his skin and knocking the chair onto its back.

Wu squeaked and whimpered, “Please don’t hurt me.
My father is Wu Jintao. He’s rich, he’ll pay you to release me.”

A stupid kid so scared he gives up his father’s name.

“Listen.” He punctuated his words by smacking Wu’s forehead with the brass dragon head on the top of his cane. Smack. “Your money means shit.” Smack. “Your daddy can’t help you.” Smack. “Answer my questions, and I may let you live.”

He thumped Wu’s head a last time, jerked the chair upright, and stood in front of his captive. Blood leaked from Wu’s forehead and soaked into the blindfold.

“Did you think we kidnapped you for a ransom?”

Wu De nodded.

“That makes sense to you?” John asked, his voice derisive and taunting. “American cowboys, kidnapping the son of a prominent man for money? That happens a lot in China, does it?”

Wu didn’t respond.

“Didn’t think so. We snatched you because you’re a slaver. You buy kids on the trafficking market for a secret Chinese program. But you don’t work alone. Who brokers the kids for you?”

Wu coughed and shook his head violently. “Lies! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John sighed loudly. “Answer my questions, or I’ll start cutting pieces off you until you do.” As he talked, he stabbed at Wu’s genitals with the tip of his cane. “Your choice.”

Wu wailed, his body racked by convulsive, hysterical sobs. “Nooooo. I can’t, I can’t …” His cries trailed off into incomprehensible whimpers.

A daddy’s boy, in the deep end of the pool and unable to swim.

“Oh, you can and you will.” John reached over and yanked the blindfold off. Wu blinked away the blood from the cuts on his forehead. John watched his eyes skip around the room and settle on him.

“Who brokers the kids for you?”

Wu shook his head, tears mixing with his blood, spreading like shiny crimson tributaries across his cheeks, dripping onto his chest.

John withdrew the Swiss Army knife. He pulled the three inch blade out as Wu watched him closely, a mouse staring at a cat. “This is plenty sharp to slice the important bits off you.” Wu’s whimpers grew. “But something else would be more fun. For me, at least.” He winked at Wu.

John wanted to puke. He wasn’t acting from impulse as he had with Upland. This was cold, thoughtful. A vision of Stony, battered and bleeding, hardened his resolve.

He slowly closed the blade, opened the corkscrew, and scraped the sharp tip along the tender skin under each of Wu’s eyes. Tiny drops of blood oozed from the scratches.

“I’ll save the best for last.” He bent and jabbed the chromed steel auger into the man’s right knee.

“NOOOOO! STOP, PLEASE STOP!”

John paused and glared into his eyes. “You can’t imagine what I’m going to do to you.” He twisted the corkscrew through a full rotation.

“Upland!” Wu screamed. “Upland is my broker. In Zurich.”

John stood, leaving the screw hanging from Wu’s knee.

“Upland’s dead,” John said. “I killed her. Shoved her from a cliff after torturing her.” Shock twitched across Wu’s face. “I’ll know if you lie to me. And if you do, I’ll cut your eyes from your face, one at a time. You clear on that?”

Wu’s head bounced up and down, flinging snot and drool.

“Where does Upland buy the kids?”

“Vietnam. Somalia. Thailand.” His voice drifted away. “Myanmar.”

Shit.

John pulled the corkscrew from Wu’s knee.

“Aieeee! Please, no more …” Wu paled and his voice drifted into a whisper.

Shit. He’s going into shock.

John flipped on his mic. “Hale—get me a blanket or coat or something to warm this guy up.”

“You’re safe now, Wu De.” John’s voice was soft, nurturing. “You can relax. No more pain. All you have to do is tell me what you know.” John slipped behind the chair and lowered it to the floor to get Wu’s feet above his head.

“What’s the name of the program you’re getting the kids for?”

Wu had closed his eyes. “Crane.” His voice was a whisper but stronger than before.

“Good,” John said. “Good.” He patted him on the shoulder.

“Now tell me where Crane is located.”

“North Korea. Next to a concentration camp twenty klicks from Hoeryong.”

Shit. How will we get at them in the PRK?

“Who runs the program?”

“Senior Colonel Zhi Peng. He reports to my father. Bastard.”

John heard rustling behind him, glanced back at the noise. Hale had come into the room, his face twisted with concern. No blanket or coat for Wu De. “We’re busted. Three militia SUVs are parked in front. Someone must’ve seen us. We’ve gotta go, now.”

“I need two minutes,” John said. “Send a couple of your men in here. I want to take this guy with us; he can tell us more. And get me a goddamn blanket for him.”

“You’ve got forty-five seconds,” Hale said, and rushed from the room.

John started cutting the ropes that bound Wu De to the chair. “What do you know about an American who was captured at the airport?”

Wu hesitated, like the question confused him. John asked again, slowing the words. “What do you know about the captured American?”

“My father’s private guard took her. They questioned her.”

“What did they learn?”

“What? I—”

Hale and two of his team burst into the room. “The militia are using bolt cutters on the main door padlock,” Hale said. “They’ll break through any second.” He hurried over to Wu De, pulled a silenced Glock.

John lunged toward the station chief. “Don’t—”

Hale double-tapped Wu De, once in the head and once in the chest, the concussive blasts from his Glock ricocheting off the walls of the room. He glared at John. “Orders.”

“You fucking asshole. Whose?” John’s voice quavered with anger.

Hale shook his head. “Classified. And we don’t have time to argue.” He turned to his men. “Bring this dead son of a bitch with us. We can’t let the Chinese learn we snatched him.” He tucked his weapon inside his coat and shoved John out the door.

A loud crash resounded from the distant main entrance, followed by harsh commands and the drumbeat of boots. It sounded like half the Chinese army had invaded the building.