The Falconer’s Tale. Gordon Kent

‘wanted felon.’ Now be a good fellow for once and sit down.”

      Having scored his victory, Piat had a hard time believing it was true. The shaking in his hands didn’t improve. Much the opposite. He had to struggle to get his jacket back off—a pitiful performance that made him feel even less secure in the face of Partlow’s careful grooming and assurance.

      “How much?” Piat said, reverting to his time-honored role as greedy man of action.

      “Five thousand dollars. In and out. You can be done in two days.”

      “Ten thousand,” Piat demanded.

      Partlow shrugged as if the subject pained him. “If you must.”

      “Okay. Who is it?”

      Partlow took out a sheet of paper. “I think you are familiar with the terms.”

      Piat read it—a standard agency document for the recruitment of agents. Piat had always been on the other side of the document before—the case officer making the recruitment. Case officers were carefully trained professional spies. Agents were their amateur helpers. Mostly riffraff and rejects. That’s me these days, Piat thought to himself.

      Partlow slid over an envelope. “I was sure you’d insist on getting money in advance.”

      Piat cursed under his breath, but he took the envelope and scrawled his name on the agreement.

      “Excellent. Welcome back, Jerry, if only as a lowly agent. You understand confidentiality, etcetera?”

      “You’ll be running me yourself, Clyde?” Piat already disliked being an agent.

      “Of course not, Jerry. I run a department. A case officer will come to deal with you and your needs. He’s waiting outside until you and I are finished.”

      “I smell a rat already, Clyde.”

      “As you will, Jerry. Your man—Hackbutt.” Clyde made a show of checking Piat’s signature before he handed over the dossier.

      “The nerd? Christ, Clyde, what do you want him for?”

      “Nerd?”

      “Nerd. A hopelessly antisocial geek, Clyde. Who specializes to the point of obsession.”

      “I don’t think you ever used that phrase in a contact report, Jerry.”

      “No, I don’t think the agency pays its officers to write reports explaining what a bunch of fucking basket cases their agents are, Clyde. Nonetheless, he’s a handling nightmare and a freak. I take it there is sudden movement in Malaysian oil futures?” Hackbutt had been a small-time informer in Malaysia. Good enough at what he did—report on the oil industry—but useless otherwise.

      Partlow looked at him from under his heavy gray brows. He steepled his fingers in front of him. He was clearly trying to decide what to tell Piat. “He’s now into falconry—the birds, you know.” Partlow started in a patronizing tone. “Falconry is the use of birds for hunting—”

      “Thanks, Clyde, I know what falconry is. Eddie was always into birds—I smuggled him a couple as part payment for one of his best reports. But no way am I getting from here to Jakarta and back in two days.”

      “Mull.” Partlow said the word as if delivering a sentence of doom.

      “Mull? Where’s Mull?” Jerry thought the name could even be local. When Icelandic names weren’t an endless chain of harsh consonants, they were often quite simple.

      “Scotland, Jerry. The Isle of Mull is off the west coast of Scotland.”

      “Scotland? That’s as cold as this place. He used to be cold all the time in Jakarta.” Jerry finished his scotch, rose and poured himself another. Ten thousand dollars and relief from arrest—he had a lot to celebrate. “Whatever—I’ll need a passport.”

      “Absolutely not. Your case officer will walk you through immigration.”

      “Christ—really? You can do that? The world has changed.”

      “The gloves are off, Jerry. People in Washington have realized that we are the most powerful country in the world.”

      Piat shook his head. “Most people in Washington couldn’t find their asses with both hands, Clyde. Okay. I go, I meet this guy, I set him up with—who? Same guy who’s running me? That right?”

      “Yes.”

      “Fine. And no doubt wait around to make sure they get cozy?”

      “Absolutely not, Jerry. You set him up and go home.”

      “That’s all?”

      “That’s all.” Partlow had returned to sounding smug. Piat didn’t like it, or him, but the money was good.

      “So no chance for a little salmon fishing here before I go?”

      “Jerry, sometimes I think you are not quite sane.”

      “The feeling’s mutual, Clyde. Okay, I guess that’s a no. When do you want this done?”

      “There’s a military plane leaving from Keflavik in three hours. I want you on it.”

      “What about my fishing equipment? My luggage?”

      “I’ll see to it that it’s returned to you when your assignment is complete.”

      “Be careful of my rods.” Piat looked out the window at the vividly green grass. The hotel had the largest lawn he had seen outside of Reykjavik, as if a lawn was itself something to watch on one’s holiday. He felt the weight of the fish in his bag again.

      He said, “Dukas? He staying here?”

      Partlow thought a long time before saying, “Yes.”

      “And you’re sending me to Scotland with this case officer, right?”

      Again, Partlow took his time answering. “Yes, Jerry,” he said with mock patience.

      “Okay.” Piat got to his feet. “I’d like to fetch some clothes.”

      “No. You can buy them en route.”

      “Not outa my cash, you won’t.”

      “Fine, Jerry. As you will. I’ll have your case officer take you shopping. Otherwise, we’re done?”

      “Yeah.”

      Partlow got to his feet, looked Piat over carefully, and then walked to the bar’s main door to the lobby. Piat followed him to the concierge desk.

      “I’d like to leave something for one of the guests,” he said. He ignored the heavyset man who appeared by his elbow and crowded his personal space.

      The concierge nodded. “A package, sir?”

      Piat thumped his bag down on the counter. “Dukas—Mike Dukas. Not a package. A fish. See to it he gets it for dinner.”

      Regrettably, the concierge said, Mister Dukas had already checked out.

      Mike Dukas was sitting at a table in an airport bar that was so atmospheric it felt like a film set for the kind of movie he wouldn’t go to see. Still, he knew that the rest of the world might find it warm and comforting and sweet, or at least a relief from Scandinavian modern. The motif was Olde Englande and the beer cost six-fifty a bottle. Dukas, begrudging the money but thirsty, figured the high price was really the admission charge to the Charles Dickens Theme Park, Iceland.

      Dukas had kept his khaki raincoat on but placed his waterproof hat on the table. A small puddle had formed around it. Now, he sat with his right elbow next to the hat and his lower lip pushed against the knuckles of his right hand, watching Alan Craik saunter toward him. Craik was smiling. He looked relaxed and pleased, and also, Dukas conceded, handsome in a sort of rugged, fortyish, Hollywood way. What the hell, who cared about looks, anyway? (The ravishing