The Falconer’s Tale. Gordon Kent

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ