The Falconer’s Tale. Gordon Kent

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.”

      Partlow nodded. “Athens it is. I have business there.”

      They shook hands. Partlow’s jawline moved, but whatever he had to say, the moment passed, and he was out the door.

      Piat lay on the bed and started his shopping list.

       5

      Piat woke next morning in Oban with a hangover and a mix of foreboding and guilt. The operation was all very well when discussed from the