The Falconer's Tale (19 page)

Dykes's hesitant movements of the rod tip had apparently
lured a small brown trout. Dykes got it ashore. It was
ten inches long and worth eating.

“And we'll just find them,” Dykes said. He killed the fish.

“And I'll sell them. If Howse runs his mouth, it'll just
help sell the idea that we've found a site.” Piat took the
dead fish and put it in a mesh bag in the cold water of the
loch.

Dykes was casting when McLean walked up, dropped his
pack, and lit his pipe.

“I caught a trout,” Dykes said.

Piat had to hide a smile. Dykes had done HALO jumps
and desperate missions, and he was beaming at having
landed a ten-inch trout on a borrowed rod. It was one of
the things that made Dykes so easy to like.

McLean spoke around his pipe. “We've got the fishing?”

Piat said, “Yeah. For two weeks.”

McLean nodded, took in a lungful of smoke and exhaled
slowly. “You going to stand there with that rod, or you
going to fish?”

That night, they went over the possibilities. McLean and
Dykes had made a single dive in the last good light, swum
all the way around the foundation of the crannog, lifted
the silt a little.

McLean had another bite of fish, chewed, swallowed. “No
way we can shift the foundation of that thing. The base
timbers must weigh a ton.”

Dykes shook his head. “Maybe a tackle from the shore.
But it'd show, Jack.”

McLean said, “And it'd wreck the fishing.”

Piat ate more fish, drank some wine. “Okay. Let's just
sift the silt around the edge. With the blower. Can we do
that?”

Both men thought that they could. They all clinked their
glasses.

Piat relaxed and enjoyed himself. He had too much wine,
but he still managed to issue them a communications plan,
pay them for two weeks, and work out a schedule.

McLean looked inside his envelope and frowned. “This
is spy shit.”

Piat shrugged.

Dykes put a hand on McLean's shoulder. “I told you how
it would be.”

McLean looked from one to the other. “I went out of my
way to avoid this kind of shit in the RN. Dykes said cash
for some cold water dives and no questions, eh? That's
good. But the rest of this shit. Comms plan? Fallback? Who
are we fooling, the KGB? Eh?”

“Humor me,” Piat said quietly. “Old habits die hard.”

McLean stared at him for a long ten seconds. Then he
gave a quick smile. “Okay. Just don't push me. I always
thought James Bond was a twat.”

Piat knocked back the rest of his wine. “Me, too.”

The next time he went to the farm, Hackbutt wasn't there.
He didn't know that when he pulled in, scratched the dog,
and looked up to find Irene leaning in the doorway with
a peculiar smile on her face. “Well,” she said. She leaned
against the door sill. “Edgar isn't here. I tried to call you.”

“You want to offer me a cup of tea?” he asked. He
wondered if in fact it was a good idea.

“Of course. Come on in.” She was wearing lavender
track pants and an old T-shirt. A yoga mat stood rolled up
against the fireplace. She had incense burning in the grate
and a single candle on the old trunk that served as a coffee
table. The smell of incense caught at Piat's throat, as did
the smell of pot. Music with a heavy beat played in the
background.

“Did I interrupt?” Piat asked.

“No. No, I did a little meditation, and then—”

And then you smoked a bit
. “Sure,” said Piat. He was a little
off balance, just looking at her.

She stepped past him, headed for the kitchen. Her trailing
hand touched his cheek, just for a moment, and moved,
feather-light, along the line of his jaw.

He sat down quickly.

“Herbal or caffeine?” she called.

“Caffeine.”

She brought him a pint glass of water. “You need this
more than caffeine, sweetie.” She folded her legs under her
on the floor and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

“How's Annie now? She's forgiven Hackbutt?”

“Ach, who cares?” Irene laughed, her accent a fair
mimicry of Annie's. Her laugh had a contemptuous edge
to it.

She
was
high.

The kettle started to whistle, and she rose to her feet and
went to the kitchen. Piat watched her straight back and her
legs and he wanted her. Just that simple. But he wouldn't
do it, because he wanted the operation more. His brain,
like all human brains (like hers, if he'd thought about it)
was a curious place, full of contradictions and rooms with
closed doors. Even as he slammed down the blast doors
against the notion of fucking Digger's girl, he was planning
a different kind of operation, this time involving Bella.

“She seems good with Bella. Not afraid of her.”

“
I'm
not afraid of Bella, Jack.” Irene's voice was almost
girlish. “I just don't like her.”

Piat felt as if he were interrogating a prisoner on truth
drugs—a babbler. “You don't like Bella?” he asked.

“Bella, Bella, Bella.” Irene came back with a teapot and
two ugly cups. “She's a dumb, mindless killer. She throws
me off my center. You going to try to fuck me? It's the best
chance we'll get, if you don't mind fucking somebody's girl
in his own house.” She smiled.

He shook his head.

She smiled some more and nodded. “I told you it had
got complicated.” She giggled.

She poured tea. “Could we at least talk about something
different for a change? I hear enough about birds—”

Piat took the tea. “I just wonder if Digger knows what
she's worth,” he said.

Irene spilled tea on the floor. She gave him a false smile
and went back to the kitchen and returned with a rag. The
area she wiped became the cleanest spot on the floor. “He'd
never sell her,” she said. “I don't want to talk about money
or birds. Understand?”

Piat sipped his tea. He couldn't help looking at her. She
looked at him. The silence lengthened and Piat thought of
how much she had aroused him at first. Forbidden now
because she was Digger's, forbidden because only an idiot
fucked an agent, with all the consequent messiness. In those
first two days, when he thought he was in and out—in and
out. He grimaced at the turn of his own mind.

Irene got up. “You're boring.”

“And you're just bored,” Piat said.

She laughed, a long, girlish peal. “With everything.
Every
-
thing.” She lit the butt of a joint from the candle, took a
deep drag, offered Piat the smoke. He shook his head. She
said, “I think I'll go do some work.”

Piat finished his tea. “I don't want Digger to be unhappy,”
he said. It was weak, but he wasn't thinking very well.

“Not until you have what you want from him, anyway.”
She took another hit, flinched as the coal burned her fingers.

Piat winced at her tone and the truth behind it. “I like
Digger a little better than you think.”

She raised an eyebrow and ground the butt of her joint
out in the ashtray. “Eddie saved me from a stupid, bad relationship
with a stupid, bad man. I owe him for that. I reckon
I've paid. Eddie's a nice boy. He's growing up now.”

Piat thought about Digger with Bella. “He's grown up
quite a bit.”

Irene shrugged, her breasts rising and falling under the
T-shirt. “Sure. I like him. I like him better since you came.
Isn't that funny?” She giggled. “How much is the stupid
bird worth, Jack?”

Piat wondered if the fumes from the pot were getting to
him. “Bird?” he asked dully. “Oh—Bella.” He paused, trying
to sort out which operation he was working. “Half a million
dollars? More?”

She started, and her head snapped around. Her eyes
locked on his. “What?” she asked. “That stupid killing
machine is worth half a
million dollars
?”

Piat got out and walked the dog.

Piat told them fairly abruptly that they were going to Monaco
for the first phase of the operation. He laid out the rules and
the objectives of the Monaco part, every word and every
distinct operational phase another brick in a wall he was
building between himself and Irene.

Hackbutt didn't see the undercurrents. But he asked questions—
good questions. And while the possible pitfalls of a
foreign city made him uneasy, they did not make him childish.

Again, Piat was impressed.

“So I'm not going to approach him directly,” Hackbutt said.
It was Hackbutt's third version of the question.

“No,” said Piat. “I'm going to look at him and his entourage.
Maybe—if something breaks just right—maybe we'll go for
it. I don't know. But I doubt it. I'm going to look at the target
and you guys are going to practice being the people you have
to be.”

Irene pursed her lips. “We won't know anyone.”

Piat missed her point and smiled. “Better that way.”

Irene shook her head, annoyed. “No, honey. I mean, we
won't know
anyone
. People—the kind of people we're
pretending to be—they don't travel that way. They go where
people know them. Strangers stick out like a sore thumb.
And rich people don't like feeling alone. They like to feel
that they're at the center.”

Piat rubbed his jaw, staring off into space. She had a point.
It was not a problem he had anticipated. He hadn't had a
lot of problems mixing with such people—he just aimed at
his target and barged in.

Might be different for Irene. Definitely different for
Hackbutt.

“We need to
do
something,” Irene said.

“You guys play roulette?”

On Wednesday, they went to a restaurant in Tobermory,
dressed in thousands of pounds' worth of “casual” clothing.
Irene appeared in slacks and a tailored jacket over a heavy
cream silk blouse that shouted of taste and extravagance.
She also wore a string of pearls and a ring that Piat instantly
priced as worth more than her clothes and that he hadn't
bought her with Partlow's money. Another care package from
Mama?

“I didn't know you had jewelry,” Piat said.

“You never asked.” She smiled. “Just things somebody gave
me.”

Hackbutt wore a cashmere pullover and light wool slacks.
In the car, he talked about birding on Mull. Over dinner, he
talked about birding in Malaysia—all the references to his
work and life excised, it sounded as if he'd gone to Southeast
Asia for the birds. He talked about New Zealand, a whole
environment where birds had replaced mammals. He talked
about Java. And birds.

He sounded nutty. But he sounded knowledgeable, authoritative—
passionate but eccentric.

He wasn't bad.

After dinner, they drank in the bar with twenty other
couples, all tourists.

Without warning, Piat got up, stepped past Irene, and bent
next to Hackbutt.

“See that guy at the bar? Suit jacket? Overweight?”

“Sure, Jack.”

Piat squeezed Hackbutt's shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

Hackbutt's shoulder froze under Piat's hand. “What?”

Piat spoke softly. “I want his name, his business, and where
he's from. Do it, Digger. We've practiced this a hundred times.
Just do it.”

Hackbutt turned his head slowly, like a raptor scanning
for prey, and looked at Piat. “I don't want to,” he said flatly.

Piat frowned. “Digger—”

Hackbutt looked at his target. “I don't like him. I don't
like the way he looks at Irene and all the other women here.”

Piat hadn't observed the man all that closely. Apparently
Hackbutt had. A good thing all by itself. But— “I didn't say
you should go become his friend. Digger—please. Have a go.
Okay?”

“I assume this is a test?” Hackbutt said a little too loudly.
He put his drink down on the table and got to his feet,
straightening his trousers.

Irene glared at Piat.

Piat watched.

Hackbutt walked up to the other man. To Piat, his hesitation
was obvious, and so was his lack of purpose. Hackbutt
didn't seem to know why he was going to the bar—nor did
he take a direct path. More like a mating flight.

He got there. He said something. Beckoned to the bartender.
And pointed back at Piat.

Piat didn't like that.

The fat man responded. Looked at Piat and at Irene,
shrugged, said a few words and laughed.

Irene whirled on Piat. “This isn't fair. Jack—listen to me,
Jack. Eddie can't do this sort of thing. With the birds—that's
different. Jesus
fuck
, Jack! Listen to me.”

Piat didn't meet her eyes. “Keep your voice down.”

Hackbutt was laughing with the other man, bought them
both a drink when the waiter arrived. Shook hands.

“Jesus—he's doing it. You are a
cunt
, Jack.” Irene was not
used to hard liquor, something Jack noted for Monaco.

“Keep your voice down.” Heads had turned at the word
cunt
.

Hackbutt pushed away from the bar, now at a loss as to
how to escape. The fat man was talking to him, gesturing
with one hand while the other held his glass. He gestured
at Irene, leaned close and said something that caused
Hackbutt's face to change. Hackbutt got red. He reared back
like an angry horse. The big man laughed. Quite clearly over
the din of the bar, he said, “Don't be a touchy bastard. Here,
I'll buy this one.”

But Hackbutt had had enough. He came back toward them,
his back stiff, his face closed.

“Name's Ken. From Manchester. Sells insurance.” Hackbutt
hissed at Piat. In fact, he looked disgusted. He stayed standing.
Ignoring the chair Piat held out for him. “I want to leave,
right now.”

“What'd you say?”

Hackbutt raised an eyebrow. “I told him you'd dared me
to ask him. Made it a bet.” Hackbutt's shoulders sagged. “He
was—not somebody I'd want to talk to. Said something about
you and Irene. I want to go home, now.”

And in the car, “I was having a good time, Jack. Why'd
you have to make me do that? I don't talk to people like
that.”

Piat was driving. “We don't get to pick who we talk to,
Digger. I just wanted to build your confidence, show you
that you could do it.”

Hackbutt said, “I hate that kind of crap, Jack.” He looked
away. “I don't like it, and I don't like the way you made me
do it.”

Piat took a deep breath. He wondered if Irene was smiling
or frowning. To Hackbutt, he said, “Digger, this is what we
do. We talk to people. The guy you're going to meet—he
won't be somebody you'd want to take home for dinner.
This isn't Malaysian oil, Digger. This is terrorism.”

Hackbutt nodded. And he didn't say another word until
he said goodnight at his farmhouse door.

Piat used a set of pagers and an email account to stay in
touch with the two divers working the crannog. Despite the
lure of Dykes's pancakes and the uncomplicated
work
and
camaraderie involved, Piat was too conscious of the security
of both operations to risk spending time with them. And
anyway, they were on night schedules. Piat couldn't imagine
making night dives in the Loch—cold water, total sensory
deprivation. But the two men seemed satisfied that the job
could be done.

Piat left them to it. He checked the pager and his email
Friday morning and assumed that no news was good news.

An email from Athens told him that his first shipment of
faked antiquities was ready to be picked up. He arranged to
have them sent by DHL to a hotel in northern Italy. And
then he packed for Monaco.

At the farm, Irene had their new luggage out on the floor
and was trying to pack what she called “the costumes” into
the space provided.

“Don't mind me, I'm just the fucking maid,” she said. Piat
moved on.

Hackbutt was outside with his birds. “I don't think I have
time to go to Monaco right now. Bella's grown another
centimeter, Jack. She must be close to full growth. I need to
get her in top shape before I—let her go.”

“Let her go?” asked Piat. He ducked Hackbutt's assertion
about Monaco.

“When she's fully grown—she goes back to the wild.
Haven't I told you that?” Hackbutt sounded petulant. “I've
explained the whole breeding program to you—don't you
listen
?”

Perhaps it was her new growth, or the pale golden light
of the Scottish winter, but she looked more magnificent than
ever. She was calm, her head turning back and forth between
Piat and Hackbutt in rapid, perfectly controlled flicks—
Hackbutt, Piat, Hackbutt.

Piat shrugged, watching the bird. “Maybe I didn't listen,
Digger. Tell me again.”

Hackbutt frowned. He walked over to a standing perch
and set Bella on it carefully. “You should have listened.”

Piat nodded. “Okay. Yes, Digger, I should have listened. I
don't always pay as much attention to people as I ought to.
So tell me.”

Hackbutt kept his eyes on Bella. “You know how raptors
are, right? They usually have two chicks?”

“Yes,” said Piat.

“They only keep the better chick, you know what I mean?”
The whining tone left Hackbutt's voice as soon as he started
to warm to his subject.

Piat watched Bella. Her eyes were fixed on Hackbutt, who
was fussing with her jesses. Piat said, “No. I don't know what
you mean, Digger. You were always hotter on this stuff than
me.”

“I need to make her new jesses. Maybe with bells—bells
for Bella! Okay, listen this time. Eagles tend to have two eggs,
but that's not to rear two young—it's like a survival mechanism,
right? And insurance policy? So if something happens
to one, they've got the other. And then, if both hatch and
are healthy—well, it sounds cruel, but they only keep the
bigger one, the more aggressive one. The other gets tossed.”

Hackbutt was boring Piat, but listening to Hackbutt was
part of the game. And he apparently hadn't done his job well
here, either. Listening, being interested, being involved. “That
sounds pretty harsh, Digger.”

“Good for breeding—helps the species grow larger, more
aggressive. But not so good for replacing numbers.”

“Right.”

“So there's this program—I'm in it, they picked me as soon
as I moved here, they actually wanted me to help—where
we watch the nests, and when a pair has two live chicks,
we wait until the female is ready to toss the smaller one and
then we try and save it. We rear the chick—teach it to hunt—
put it back in the wild. See? That's how I have Bella.”

“Jesus, you mean Bella is the
small
one of her family?”

“The runt of the litter, Jack.”

Piat tried to imagine how big the other bird might be. “I'm
pretty sure you didn't tell me this before,” he said. “I think
I'd remember if you'd said Bella was the runt of the litter.”

“Maybe it's just that you act as if you already know everything.”
Hackbutt shook his head. “Anyway—in the spring,
when the birds hatch, I'm up on the hill every day, rain or
shine—if you miss your moment, then all you have for a
year's work is a dead chick. In the spring, I'll watch every
day. If you'd come in the spring, I'd have had to say no—
you see that, right?”

Piat nodded. “But it's not the spring, is it, Digger?”

Hackbutt shook his head.

Piat said, “The guy in Monaco is no different from your
chicks on the hillside, Digger. He's only going to be there
one time. It's now or never.”

Hackbutt scratched Bella's neck. “Why don't you hold her
a little?” Hackbutt asked.

He offered her to Piat, who took her, trying not to flinch
or react to her weight on his arm. She tolerated him. He
reached up cautiously to the feathers on her back and her
head came around, an inhuman posture where she was
looking up and straight back at him.

“She's remarkable,” Piat said, and meant it.

“I don't want to give her up, and that's no lie.” Hackbutt
shook his head, ashamed of himself. “I look at her, and I
think—this is the best thing I've ever done in my life. I found
her ready to die and I helped her become—this.” He flipped
her a piece of chicken neck and she whirled, her head turning
a hundred and eighty degrees to snap the meat out of the
air. He smiled happily. “Falcons never say thank you. It's one
of the first things you learn. You can break your heart loving
one and all they do in return is demand more attention and
more food. You know what I mean?”

Piat nodded.

“But sometimes I think maybe she knows. And anyway—
I saved her, whether she knows or cares. I will have put one
more good bird back in the wild.” Hackbutt tossed her another
glistening red chunk. “Only worthwhile thing I've ever done.”

Piat knew that he had to make some sort of patriotic
gesture. The thought fatigued him. But he marshaled his
forces and said, “You've done a lot of good work for me,
Digger. For our country.”

Hackbutt shrugged. “Sure,” he said, the syllable utterly
without meaning.

Piat gave them their tickets and their reservations. Their travel
was simple—train, train, train all the way to Monaco. First
class, overnight. Time to work into their roles on the train.

Hackbutt lit up. “I love trains,” he said.

Irene was somewhere else. Piat suspected that she'd already
had something to drink, maybe a couple of somethings. She
answered absently, used her hands too freely.