The Falconer’s Tale. Gordon Kent

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       4

      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.

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