The Falconer’s Tale. Gordon Kent

dry, almost no analysis at all—and now he turned to the color plates of the finds. Most of them were dull, and worse, unsaleable—who would buy a three-thousand-year-old bundle of ferns once used as bedding? But there were valuable items, as well: a single gold bead, a copper axe head, a remarkable slate pendant shaped with sides so well smoothed he could almost feel them under his hands.

      Crannogs were late European Bronze Age. And the cold water preserved things very well indeed. Piat sipped coffee and ordered a third. He felt rich.

      Lesvos was full of tourists. Piat had avoided them for a year by leaving the island during the height of the season—one of the reasons he’d headed off for Iceland, and devil take the consequences. Now Molyvos was crawling with them, and his chocolate shop perched on the edge of the town with a hundred-foot drop to the old Turkish gate below was filling up. Soon enough, Sergio would give him the eye and suggest that he move along and make room for more customers. Piat looked into the shop. There was a big, dark guy at the counter with a very pretty woman with a baby. Piat admired the woman’s backside for a moment, and then—

      “Jesus,” Piat said, out loud. The man at the counter was Mike Dukas. Again.

      Dukas led the woman out on to the balcony. The whole structure moved under their weight—it was sturdy, but it did protrude well out over the cliff. Dukas looked embarrassed.

      “Jerry?” he said. His hand was out.

      There wasn’t anywhere to run. Piat shook hands. “Mike.” He gave the woman a smile. She smiled back, and then looked up at Dukas as if exchanging a joke.

      Dukas said, “This’s my wife, Leslie.” Leslie Dukas was twenty years younger than her husband, rather stunningly pretty next to such an ugly man despite the pack full of baby that she carried.

      Piat indicated his table and waved through the window for Sergio.

      Leslie stood for a moment, shaking hands with Piat. “You guys can just do the guy thing. We’ll go have a feed, won’t we, kiddo?” A tiny pudgy hand reached out of her baby pack and tweaked one of her nipples. She laughed. “Gotta go, guys.”

      Piat was left with Dukas. Dukas ordered coffee and a big pastry. He made a joke to Sergio in decent Greek.

      “Your wife’s lovely,” Piat said.

      “Yeah,” said Dukas. And again, “Yeah.”

      “That’s the small talk, then. What are you doing here?”

      Dukas still looked embarrassed. He doesn’t want to be here, Piat thought.

      “Partlow wants you back,” Dukas said. He shrugged.

      “Dave’s already fucked it away?” asked Piat.

      Dukas shrugged again, looking as Greek as a local, his arms spread wide on the bench back, his weight slumped a little. “Did you expect it?”

      “Phff.” Piat’s noise was contemptuous. He had realized himself that he was still smarting under the speed with which he’d been tossed aside. “I don’t know what Clyde was thinking. The guy couldn’t handle a hooker.”

      Dukas snorted. His eyes were on Piat’s book, but they flicked up and met Piat’s quickly. Piat was off thinking about Dave and Partlow. “So where do I meet Clyde? Is he hiding in a hotel in Mytilene?”

      Dukas passed Piat a slip of paper. Piat disappeared it into his pack with a minimum of fuss. Dukas said, “Not as far as I know.”

      “Still in Scotland?”

      It was the look on Dukas’s face that finally warned Piat—a little look of interest, almost triumph, at “Scotland.” Dukas had been looking at the book—Dukas hadn’t said anything—

      “You don’t know, do you?” Piat said.

      Dukas hesitated and then shook his head. “Nope,” he said. And then he smiled and said, “But I bet it’s in Scotland.”

      Piat leaned closer to Dukas. “I thought you were in on this.” He shoved the crannog book into his pack and glanced at the slip of paper—just a DC telephone number.

      “Partlow doesn’t know where to find you.” Dukas rubbed his nose and his eyes met Piat’s. “I thought you might prefer it to stay that way.”

      It wasn’t said as a threat, or at least it didn’t sound like a threat to Piat, and he had been threatened by experts. But it did speak volumes. Dukas was saying I could have fucked you and I didn’t, so you owe me.

      “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