The Falconer's Tale (8 page)

“I do. I like it here.” Piat glanced out over the cliff to the
brilliant blue sea and the black volcanic beach. It all flitted
around his brain—Hackbutt and Irene and the birds and Dave
and Partlow and the sea trout in the loch. On balance, it didn't
look very attractive from here. It looked like work. “How much?”

“I'm just the messenger.” Dukas was looking over the
balcony. Piat realized that Dukas's wife was directly below
them on the street.

They both watched Leslie. Her laugh and the baby's mewl
of delight were easy to hear. Then Dukas said, “Listen, Jerry—
Al Craik thinks it's important. You know—”

“I know you two go way back. Everyone in the business
knows.”

“Okay. That's all I can say, except I've been straight with
you, and now I'd like a little payback. I'd like to know what
this is about.”

Piat sat back. “I don't really know, Mike.” He didn't want
Dukas to feel he was shutting him out—Piat was gathering
his thoughts and trying to decide where his interest lay. And,
he admitted to himself, Dukas
had
been straight with him.
“Partlow asked me to re-recruit an old agent.”

“In Scotland?”

“Mull.”

Dukas made a gesture: “Mull” had no meaning.

“Mull's an island. Scotland.” Piat shut up. He'd said
enough—way too much, probably, but he'd provided plenty
of data for a guy like Dukas.

“And?” probed Dukas.

“I signed a piece of paper. Ask Partlow.” Piat indicated the
backpack, and by extension, the phone number.

Dukas shook his head. “That's the best you can do for me,
Jerry?”

Piat sipped the last of his Helenika. He found that he
wasn't thinking about what favors he might owe Dukas. He
was seeing another angle—his own safety. Something about
this operation just didn't smell right. Now it stank more. He
felt the pull of the scrap of paper and he thought that he
might just tell Partlow to suck eggs—but he suspected Partlow
was going to have to make a big offer. After all, Mike Dukas
had come all the way here with his pretty wife. So, big
money. And Piat reacted to big money.

So, say he did it. Took the money. Dukas might give him
an angle. What if the whole thing was
bad
. Piat had seen
ops go bad, back in the day.

All that in the blink of an eye and a sip of Helenika. “The
guy—my old agent—is a falconer.”

They shared a long look.

Piat pushed his cup aside and leaned forward to Dukas.
“My turn. I really don't know squat about this, okay? And
I just told you everything you'd need to know—right? Okay.
So here's my side. Give me your home number and an
address. Maybe I'll tell you a thing or two as we go along.
Or maybe I'll tell Clyde to fuck off. Okay? And in return—
in return, if I do this, and it goes to shit, you get me out.
Because, let's face it, I don't like Clyde Partlow.”

He certainly had Dukas's attention. “Get you out? Jerry,
no offense, but I'm no part of this.”

Piat looked him squarely in the eye. “Bullshit. You want
the goods on Partlow's op. Frankly, I think Partlow will work
overtime to keep me in the dark, but I'm offering you my
‘cooperation.' Right? And you give me a nice number on a
piece of paper somewhere, and poof! I'm an informer, and
you can protect me. Right?”

Dukas shook his head. “I don't hire informers inside the
CIA.”

Piat laughed. “You would if there were any available. I'm
not ‘inside the CIA' anymore. I'm some guy, a petty crook,
that Partlow wants for the great game. I could even be a
pretty decent source on antiquities.”

Dukas looked so dubious that Piat laughed, and then they
both laughed. Other patrons glanced at them.

Dukas leaned forward and shook his head. “No, Jerry. No
protection. I'd like to hear what you have to say. I'd probably
go to bat for you if Partlow tries to screw you in the
end. But I'm not going to give you a security blanket so that
I can find in a year that you left it wrapped around my head
while you liberated the contents of the British Museum.”

Leslie returned and interrupted them. They were staying
in Skala Eressos and she said they had to go. Piat walked
them down to the old Turkish gates as if he were their host,
pointing out other features they might enjoy, rating the
quality of pots in each shop, indicating the good silversmith
and the bad one. In the tunnel of the gate, he stopped, and
he and Dukas shook hands. Dukas's handshake included a
slip of paper.

When he opened it in his house, it had a phone number
in Naples and an address. Piat smiled. He realized that he
felt reassured. Few things and fewer people had that effect
on him anymore.

He went out the door to call Clyde Partlow.

Piat's passport was less than a year from expiry. This cost
him an hour in UK customs at Glasgow and preyed on his
mind as he drove his rental Renault up the A82 along Loch
Lomond and into the highlands. Ingrained paranoia and a
horde of legal issues prohibited him from simply renewing
it.

The Green Welly Stop at the turn for Oban provided him
with terrible coffee and a delicious, fat-filled pastry, and fuel
for his car as well. He browsed the sporting goods, annoyed
as usual by the prices that the English and Scots paid for
stuff that would cost a few dollars in a Wal-Mart. He was
looking for something to buy for Hackbutt or Irene. Nothing
offered—and besides, he didn't have a contract yet. No need
to spend his own money.

Oban reminded him of Mytilene—same harbor shape,
same stone houses, same odd mixtures of industry, fishing,
and tourism. He parked on the high street, checked his
time, and whiled away fifteen minutes in a very promising
shop that catered to high-end “anglers” and sportsmen in
general. The shop carried rifles for stalking and shotguns
for pheasant and grouse—not that Piat ever felt the need
to have a gun, but always handy to have access. They also
had a wide selection of sporting clothes—decent wellies,
good boots, shooting coats. In his mind, he was spending
Partlow's money. He thought that he knew what was coming
with Partlow. Why else summon him back?

When his watch read three exactly, Piat paid for a tide
table for the area and a handful of flies and walked through
the door, casually checking his car, the street, and the faces
and apparel of passers-by in one sweeping glance. He didn't
see anything to alert him and moved off down the high street
toward the Oban Hotel. He entered the lobby at four minutes
after three and went to the main desk.

In minutes he was on his way to meet Partlow. The opening
door revealed a cheerful room with a view of the harbor and
two comfortable chairs. One of them was occupied.

“Hello, Clyde,” Piat said.

Partlow smiled. It was a rare smile—quite genuine as far
as Piat could tell. It told him a great deal. Partlow was
genuinely glad to see him. Piat added a zero to his fee.

“Right on time, Jerry. I'm so glad.”

Piat considered saying that the ability to be in a place on
the dot of a particular minute from half the world away
was a matter of basic competence in the profession. He
thought about several ways of saying it—snappy, derogatory,
modest.
Wrong. Partlow needs me, and this is the time to
make a new start
. Because he couldn't decide how to begin,
he said nothing.

Partlow didn't seem to know how to begin, either. He
cleared his throat, twice. “Good trip, Jerry?”

Piat shrugged. “My passport's almost expired. It cost some
time. I'm here.” Now he was enjoying it. Partlow was discomfited
by the absence of raillery or outburst.

Partlow nodded as if Piat had said something important.
He clasped his hands over his knees.

Finally, Piat decided that they might sit that way all day.
He
was
curious. “I take it Hackbutt tossed Dave out.”

Partlow rubbed his face. He looked short on sleep. Piat
couldn't remember seeing Clyde Partlow short on sleep. After
a few seconds, he said, “Well, no. I tossed Dave out, Jerry.
But in effect, the result is the same.”

Piat nodded. “And you want me back, I take it? Or just
some advice?”

Partlow had been fed the hook, but he didn't take it immediately.
“Where did you leave Dave with the matter of the
girlfriend, Jerry?”

Piat narrowed his eyes and slouched. “I told him we had to
recruit the girl to get Hackbutt back. He told me to fuck off.”

Partlow nodded slowly, as if his fears were confirmed. “No
bullshit, now, Jerry. You
told
him to recruit the girl.”

Piat was annoyed. He took his time, and then said, “Yes.”

“Dave believes you sabotaged him and the operation.”

“He'd have to believe that, wouldn't he? Otherwise he'd
have to believe he wasn't competent to recruit and run a US
national in a friendly country.” Piat allowed a little edge to
creep in, but otherwise stayed at Partlow's level—remote,
professorial, as if the operation were an academic exercise.

Partlow steepled his hands and pursed his lips. “My fault.
I should have kept you on board. I did have another CO
lined up, but he went to Iraq instead.”

Piat spoke quietly, the way he did when he consoled a
survivor. “I tried, Clyde. He just played the goon, and I walked
away.”

“You could have warned me.” Partlow held up a hand and
winced. “No, forget I said that.” He blew out several puffs
of breath. “You
did
try to tell me.”

Piat raised his eyebrows.

They sat in silence for a while. It finally dawned on Piat
that there might not be an operation anymore. Pisser if true.
He glanced at Partlow, who was watching a sailboat, a two-
masted ketch out in the harbor, as she got her foresail up,
the boat and the sail crisp and clear against the blue water
and the clear sky. Maybe not a pisser. Back to Greece and
shot of the whole thing.

“I could run you directly. That's how I should have done
it to begin with. Free hand, Jerry. On an op that matters.”

Piat had pretended to be a gentleman for ten minutes, and
he found the restraint wearing. “I could make a real difference?”
he said with gentle sarcasm. “I've heard this speech
a few times, Clyde. Hell, I've made it a few times.”

Partlow nodded, or rather his head swayed back and forth
as if he were laughing very softly. He said, “Listen, Jerry. As
such things are reckoned, you were one of the best of your
generation. So good that everyone passed you over for promotion
so that they could use your reports and your agents to
make their careers.”

Piat shrugged. The flattery was an essential part of any
recruitment speech, but he couldn't completely resist its
allure, as he suspected it was true.

“Now I have an operation with one of your old agents, a
prickly man with a bitch of a wife. I need him, Jerry. I don't
have another falconer to hand, and Mister Hackbutt gets top
grades from some people that matter in the falconry world.
And here you are. Will you do it?”

“What, for love?”

Partlow sighed. Piat thought he was secretly pleased to be
on familiar ground. “For money, Jerry.”

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.”

Piat had this part ready. “Fifteen hundred a day. All
expenses and no bullshit about them. That's going to be a
lot, because Hackbutt's a social basket case and needs clothes,
deportment, time eating where rich people eat, all that stuff.
No bullshit about any of it.”

Partlow looked over his hands. “Jerry, why do you think
Hackbutt needs all these things?”

Piat was dismissive. “Falconry is about money and power.
You're targeting an Arab right? Somebody rich, somebody
with old money and birds.”

Partlow deflated very slightly. “Touché,” he murmured.

“Ten thousand advance, ten thousand on termination.
Success bonus—up to you. Payment monthly. In cash.”

Partlow nodded.

“An EU passport for me. And you walk my true-name
passport through State and renew it for ten years.”

“Not possible, Jerry. I mean, sure, I can get your true-
name passport renewed by Friday. You could do it yourself—
I know, paranoia reigns supreme—but I don't hand out cover
passports to agents, however much I need them. I
can't
, Jerry.
The world has changed.”

Piat leaned forward. In his head, he was already a case
officer again. It was an odd change, to suddenly think like
a case officer and not like an agent. “Clyde—you want me?
I want to play. I want to do a good job. And I'll still be me.
You want to bury me in flattery, Clyde? Look how many ops
I lost in my whole career—two, and how many were penetrated—
none, and how many of my agents got waxed—one,
Clyde, one, and that was the lapse of some dickhead in SOG.
I run a tight ship. The tight ship starts with operational security.
I'm a petty black-market art dealer. Small-time. But
still—by now, somebody has noticed me—the Brits, the
Swedes, the Russians. No way am I jogging back and forth
from here to Dubai or Riyadh or wherever the fuck you want
Hackbutt going without a passport.”

Partlow smiled. “I'll pay fifteen hundred a day for
that
,”
he said. “I'll consider the passport. To be honest, I hadn't
imagined you'd travel with the falconer. Tell me why you'd
need to.”

“I wouldn't send Hackbutt to cross the street on his own.
He'll need control all the way. He'll panic the first time he
sees the target. He'll suck at border crossing. He'll take Irene
as his security blanket, but he'll need a shoulder to cry on—
she's hard as rock.”

Partlow uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. “The girl?”

“We have to get her on board and keep her happy.” Piat
was holding Partlow's eyes now.

“Bad operational procedure.”

“Yeah, for newbies. If this doesn't matter, Clyde, if this is
some petty-ass grab at some two-bit creep, then just walk
away. Okay? Hackbutt's a pain in the ass and Irene's going
to do something fucked up, and they're a tangle of loves and
resentments. On the other hand, Clyde, if this operation
counts
, if this one could
make a difference
, then you need that
woman and all the risk and crap and baggage that she'll
bring.”

Partlow had both hands up in front of his face. “Sold—
sold—sold before you told me. We need the woman. If we
didn't, Dave would still be here. How do we keep her?”

Piat shrugged. “Money?” he asked. “Works for most
people.”

“Dave thought she was ‘anti-American.' Said she hated
everything about the administration—” Partlow gave a little
half-smile. “I gather she's Canadian.”

“She's sounding better by the second, isn't she? Come
on
,
Clyde.”

“How much for her?” Partlow asked. The word “soul”
lingered invisibly in the air at the end of his sentence.

“Hundred thou?” Piat guessed.

“Christ Jesus!” muttered Partlow, in Anglican agony.

“Let me promise Hackbutt a new bird.”

Partlow hesitated, his hand on his chin. Piat drove over
his caution.

“You want this guy? Promise him a bird. It'll help, both as
a control tool and as a bargaining counter. And it can stand
in lieu of payment, I'll bet. Promise him a bird at the end and
he'll be happy. Besides, we'll need a McGuffin for the Arab.”

“I've never said the potential target was an Arab.”

“You never said your wife was the daughter of an Anglican
minister, either.”

“Sometimes I find you just a little scary, Jerry.”

He saw the challenges and the roadblocks ahead and he
had to swallow a laugh.

“You can work for me, Jerry?”

“Yep.” Piat looked around the room. “Got anything here
to drink? Yeah, Clyde. As long as I get to write the contract
and as long as you let me
consult
on operational issues, I can
work for you. Just this once, old times' sake, all that jazz.”

“Scotch in the bedroom. Laphroaig and a local—try it. You
just added two hundred thousand to my operational budget.”

“Air travel. Probably six trips—three for training, three for
real. Three contact attempts—he'll fuck up the first one, so
I'll plan it for him to fuck up—third one just to have a fallback.”
Piat was feeling a little high. The scotch settled him.

“You still don't know what the op is. Aren't you curious?”

Piat spread his hands. “No. Yes. Listen—first I lay out my
terms. Then you accept them and we sign something. Then
you brief me. Right?” He shrugged and waved his glass. “Or
you reject them and I walk away.”

Partlow made a moue of distaste. “Not much chance of
that, is there, Jerry? Which you bloody well know.”

Piat raised his glass to Partlow and drained it. “I think I'm
being damned good about the whole thing,
old boy
.”

Partlow leaned forward. “That's what worries me.”

Piat laughed. One scotch had hit him and his adrenaline
high like a hammer. “You know what, Clyde?”

Partlow looked a little pained.

“I think I want to do it. One more time.”

Partlow went into the bedroom and poured them both
more scotch, and then they raised their glasses and drank.

And then they signed some papers and made a plan to
communicate. They discussed Piat's cover and Partlow's role
and the nature of the target—“no names yet, Jerry, we're not
there yet”—and Piat, despite three glasses of scotch, had no
difficulty dictating notes on targeting possible meeting venues.

Partlow handed over ten thousand dollars, mostly in
pounds. “All I have. I want hand receipts on that. Deduct
your travel here. I'll meet you in a week and we'll see where
we are on cover and money.”

Piat had a faraway look in his eyes. “Don't come near
Scotland again, Clyde.”

“Where?” Partlow was in the room's tiny front hall, ready
to walk out the door, dapper in light tweeds, and somehow,
obviously American. “Jerry—I'll decide the meeting location,
okay? Try and remember that I'm your case officer, and not
the other way around.”

Piat shrugged. “Whatever. Just not Scotland. London,
Antwerp, Dublin. Athens would be nice—I could get some
stuff from home.”