The Falconer's Tale (7 page)

The left-hand stones looked more accessible. They started
in deeper water but stuck up higher and seemed to have
larger and flatter tops. Piat waded out to the first stone and
stepped up. The surface of the stone was covered in a dark
olive slime and his hiking boots slipped badly. He moved
cautiously to the next stone. The water came to the middle
of his knee. He used his rod as a staff, heedless of the wetting
of his reel, and took a long gliding step to the third stone.
It was less slippery, and he paused to rest, sweat already
pouring down his chest under his sweater.

The fourth stone was clearly visible now, a darker and
larger stone that marked the halfway point. Piat knew the
moment his boot touched the surface under water that this
stone was slippery, and then he was in the water, his waders
full and then his mouth. The water was cold—so cold that
it hit him like an electric shock—and the bottom was ooze,
not rock, so that his feet were sinking and he had no purchase.

Piat had long experience of his own panic reflex and he
beat it down, kept hold of his rod and kept the other hand
in contact with the stepping stone until he had control of
his brain, and then he used the strength of his arms to pull
himself up on the rock, heedless of the temperature of the
water. The wind on his head was like a new shock of ice.
He'd lost his hat, which was scudding across the loch on the
surface of the water. Mud and ooze billowed around his
thrashing feet. He pulled himself up by the strength of his
arms, heaving the weight of his full waders to the rock.

He fell again, just one stone out from the shore, but he
was prepared this time, and his fall merely caused him to sit
down hard on the stone and take a new batch of cold water
over his waders.

Close up, the crannog was composed of small, round rocks
the size of his fist, raised in a low mound. Underneath the
water, the mound of rubble continued, although he could
clearly see a beam or heavy rafter of wood deep in the clear
water of the leeward side.

He stripped. He wrung out each sodden garment and put
the wool socks and the jeans and sweater back on under the
now empty waders, made a bundle of the rest of the clothes
and tied it around his waist. He was warmer already—his
jacket and the waders were windproof, and the wool was
warm even when wet. Just to make a point to himself, he
made some desultory casts into the deep water beyond the
crannog. Something made a sizeable silver flash on his fourth
cast—

Gone. A sea trout, without question. A good fish. He cast
again, and again, trying to relive the moment of the earlier
cast and remember just what he had done, eventually
wondering if he had imagined the whole thing. His head was
cold, and that wasn't good.

Time to go.

The crannog interested him, even while he stood shivering
on it. Between casts and retrieves, he tried to imagine how
it had come here, how much effort it would have taken
people (how many people—a family? Two families?) to
build—and why. For the fishing? And when?

He left his boots off for the return trip. With his socks
worn
over
the waders, he had reasonably sure footing and
made his way without incident. He was losing too much heat
from his head. He drank the rest of his thermos of tea and
ate a sandwich made of the leftovers from his attempt to
find presents for Hackbutt and pulled the plastic bags over
his head, and then his cotton shirt, now wrung out, and then
another bag. Better than nothing.

The walk back out was easier than he had expected.
Perhaps because it was downhill, or the psychological effect
of having his car in sight from the moment he climbed out
of the caldera, but the climb down served only to keep the
worst of the chill away. The Land Rover's heater was a
magnificent, efficient machine and he was warm before he
negotiated the mountain pass on the road back to Salen.
The heater almost made up for the width of the monster,
but as he negotiated lay-bys and oncoming headlights, he
cursed the car again. Darkness was falling. He drove carefully,
passed the Aros estuary with regret, and went straight
to the hotel.

In the morning, he stopped at the bookstore on his way to
his car. Donald was already at work and greeted him enthusiastically.
“Did you get anything?” he called, as soon as Piat
was through the door.

Piat recounted his adventures. He had recorded his catch
on the tickets and produced them.

Donald laughed. “You climbed on the crannog, then?”

“Who built it?” asked Piat.

Donald shrugged. “We have some books—people always
want to know. There are four of them on the island, more
on the mainland of course.” He pulled out a battered
Ordnance Survey map and flipped it fully open. “One here,
on the Glen Lochs—that's quite a walk. Some fishing if
you like wee browns. One here, on Loch Frisa. The one
you climbed, of course, down south. And one just above
the town, here. Quite a story to go with the local one.”

Piat had watched Donald's thick fingers moving over the
map, thinking automatically
no cover, no cover, visible from the
road
. “Hmmm?” he said. “A story?” Piat was a good listener.

“A local man, a farmer, had the notion that he could build
a dam on the loch above the town and regulate the flow of
water—perhaps he intended to build a mill. What he did in
fact was to drain the loch. The crannog was revealed as the
water ran out—and they found a boat, completely intact, all
sorts of other objects.”

Piat made interested noises throughout. “Where are they?”

“Oh, as for that, you'd have to ask Jean or my daughter.
Perhaps in the museum?”

Piat left with two books on crannogs, one an archaeological
report from a dig on the mainland and one more general.
He stopped at the museum, but it was closed.

He made the ferry line with seconds to spare, checked
in at Lufthansa two hours early in Glasgow, and landed
in Athens via London and Munich in time to eat a late
dinner on the Plaka and fall into a hotel bed. He had nine
thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars and some
change, a new wardrobe, a new historical interest, and a
return ticket to Glasgow. It'd been cheaper that way.
What
the hell
, he thought as he lay in bed.
Maybe someday I'll go
back
.

The next day, he splurged and caught the high-speed ferry
to Lesvos, saving twelve hours. He called Mrs Kinnessos
from Piraeus and told her that yes, he would be taking the
house for another six months, even at the summer price,
and he was absurdly pleased when she offered him a discount
for his constancy. By the time the ferry reached Mytilene,
he had made himself the middleman on a deal for some
Roman statuary from the Ukraine headed to the United
States. His cut would be seven hundred euros.

Molyvos seemed ridiculously crowded after Mull. He sat
in the chocolate shop half way up the town with his laptop
open, drinking Helenika and thinking about sea trout and
crannogs.

A week later, Clyde Partlow was sitting at a computer in an
office that was, by CIA standards, big. Not as big as the
director's, but big. No private dining room, but a private john.
Partlow was a somebody, so all the more reason that he read
reports direct from the computer screen. Partlow sneered at
the old fogeys who still insisted on hard copies and who had
to telephone for help if their screen coughed up an error
message. After his fashion, Partlow was with it.

His right hand was on a mouse so that he could scroll
down easily. On the screen was something that called itself
a “draft contact report,” typed into a template so that the
form number was at the top and the headings were boxed.
The ones that interested Partlow were the operation number
and the “task number served.” Together, they interested him
deeply.

He began to read. Almost at once, the slight frown of
concentration that had puckered his smooth, sleek face deepened
to a scowl of concern. Another paragraph, and the scowl
began to take in anger, then anxiety, then despair. He scrolled
down faster, clearly glossing text, whipping to the next page
and then right to the end. He read the final paragraph and
then sat back and pressed his forehead. He breathed deeply
and rubbed his fingers and thumb back and forth across his
forehead as if smoothing the wrinkles that the reading had
created. He breathed out, the air expelled in little puffs, lips
pushing out and in. He shook his head.

Partlow hadn't got where he was by wasting energy on
his feelings. He'd never been known to blow up at anybody
and he'd never been known to weep with gratitude or joy
or even grief. He gave congratulations well and he censured
well, right up to and including firing people. They always
left thinking that there was nothing personal about good old
Clyde. So now, instead of doing what his adrenal gland and
the atavistic, caveman part of his brain wanted to do, he sat
back and read the entire four-page document with care.

When he was done, he called up his address book, picked
a name, tapped it into his telephone and waited. When a
voice at the other end said, “Defense Intelligence Agency,
Petty Officer Clem speaking this-is-not-a-secure-line, sir, to
whom may I direct your call,
sir
!”

“Captain Alan Craik, please.”

Mike Dukas was sitting late in his office because he was the
Special Agent in Charge, Naval Criminal Investigative Service,
Naples, and he and about half of his responsibilities were
behind schedule. Down the hall, his assistant, Dick Triffler,
was spending valuable time filling out paperwork for a three-
year antiterrorism self-study that nobody would ever read;
beyond him, two special agents were together in an office,
trying to hammer out the charges against a sailor who had
got drunk and beaten up a Turkish police cadet.

Dukas heard the ping of his secure telephone; he hit the
button without taking his eyes off what he was reading. He
was always reading now—reading or writing or going to
meetings; the good days of getting out into the field were
over. He sighed, looked up at the screen of the secure telephone,
and read, “From: Defense Intelligence Agency, Captain
Craik.”

He hit the talk button and said, “Al, that you?”

The answer came like static from deep space, Craik's voice
laid over it like an alien signal. “Mike?”

“Yeah. Al?”

“Hey, Mike.”

“Would you like to move to a conversation, or you want
to stay with IDing each other?” He heard Craik laugh, and
then they spent thirty seconds on how-are-you-how-are-thekids-
how's-your-wife. Their spat—if that was what it had
been—in Reykjavik was forgotten. Then Craik said, “I just
got off the phone with Clyde Partlow.”

“Better than getting on the phone with Clyde Partlow.
Now what?”

A barely perceptible pause, but enough to sound a warning.
“He wants Piat back.”

“Oh, shit. What the hell for?”

“Wouldn't I like to know! Of course he didn't say. He just
asked if I knew where I could get hold of Piat again.”

“And you said, ‘Oh, sure, my pal Dukas carries him around
in his back pocket.' Right?”

“I said I'd see.”

“Al—” Dukas had been trying to read a report while they
talked; now, he tossed the stapled papers halfway across his
desk. “I'm not Piat's personal manager.”

“Chill out, okay?”

“Once, as a favor, I found him for you. Twice is too much
like a job.”

“I think he wants him again because something's wrong.”

“Contact didn't work.”

“Or it worked for a while and then it went bad. It's been
more than a week, after all.”

“Piat could be anywhere.”

“Yeah, but I'll bet you know how to reach him.”

Dukas saw his number two, Dick Triffler, appear in his
doorway, and he waved him in and pointed at a chair. “So
maybe I know an address in cyberspace where sometimes
he takes messages. So?” He mouthed “Al Craik” at Triffler,
who raised his eyebrows.

Craik's artificially tinny voice said, “Get a message to him.”

“What—‘Go see Clyde Partlow'? That wouldn't even get
him off a bar stool.”

“Persuade him.”

“Al, I know where you're coming from, but why should
I persuade Jerry Piat to do anything? The man's a loner, a
renegade, a goddam outsider! He doesn't want to go see
anybody! Piat's opted out and he knows the price and he's
willing to pay it.”

“Will you try?”

“Al, I got an NCIS office to run!” He winked at Triffler.
“Sitting right here is Dick Triffler, who would take my place
if I took the time to persuade Jerry Piat. Do you want the
US Navy to have to depend on Dick Triffler?”

“Say hello for me.”

“Al says hello.”

Triffler smiled. “Tell him I said hello.”

“Triffler says hello. We all cozy now? Okay. Listen, I'll do
this much: I'll send Piat a message. If he's willing to listen,
I'll try to talk to him. By phone. But I can't devote my life
to this, Al. Neither can you, for that matter. It isn't as important
as running the Naples office of NCIS. It isn't as important
as being the collections officer for DIA.”

“It's important enough for Partlow to have messaged the
head of NCIS to ask for special cooperation, attention Michael
Dukas, NCIS Naples.”

Dukas flashed Triffler a look of disgust. “This was your
idea?”

“This was Partlow's idea. He asked me to call you before
the message got to you so you wouldn't take it the wrong
way. Mike, I know it's an imposition; I know you're working
your ass off; but so am I. I'm just the messenger here. Don't
take it out on me.”

Dukas sighed. “So Partlow wants me to bring Piat in. Even
if I have to take time away from my job. And NCIS has
already said that's what I should do. Are you in it with me?”

“Not this time. I got no authorization, no orders.”

“You know, I thought I might actually take Saturday off
this week and take my wife to Capri, which I've been promising
to do for two years?”

Craik made sympathetic noises, and they tossed stories
about overwork back and forth, and they parted friends.
Dukas, when he had hung up, looked at Triffler with an
expression of disgust. “I've been drafted,” he said. His hand
was still on the secure telephone.

Triffler, an elegant African American who played Felix to
Dukas's Oscar, merely smiled. “Al got another wild hare
running?”

Dukas grunted and held up a finger, as if to say
Wait until
I check something
. He picked up the phone, and, shaking his
head at Triffler's pantomimed offer to leave, called his boss
in Washington. After a few pleasantries, Dukas said, “I hear
I'm being ordered to run an errand for the CIA.”

A brief silence, then his boss's voice: “Not my doing.”

“Higher up the line? The DIA?”

After another hesitation, “Higher than that.”

When Dukas had put the phone down in its cradle, he
turned to Triffler. “What's the Pentagon's interest in sending
me to do the CIA's work?” He cocked a cynical eye at Triffler.
“You remember Clyde Partlow?” Dukas told him about the
Iceland trip and the new request to find Piat. “Piat isn't exactly
my asshole buddy.”

“So you send him an email, and if he doesn't answer,
you're off the hook.”

“Well—” Dukas hitched himself around toward his pile of
paper. “Apparently I'm getting orders to bring Piat in. I may
have to leave the office.”

“And put me in charge for a day? Lucky me!”

Dukas waved a hand at the pile of paper. “My son, one
day all this will be yours.”

“What's your wife going to say?”

Dukas groaned.

Piat's Ukrainian deal went down without a hitch, and the
seller paid up, just like that. He'd been home for ten days,
and Mull seemed very far away. Now Piat sat on the precarious
balcony of his favorite chocolate shop and drank his
second Helenika of the day, closed his laptop with a snap,
and contemplated the archaeological report he had bought
on Mull about Scottish crannogs. He was bored and he had
nothing better to do than read it. He'd glanced through it
on the plane—very dry, almost no analysis at all—and now
he turned to the color plates of the finds. Most of them
were dull, and worse, unsaleable—who would buy a three-
thousand-year-old bundle of ferns once used as bedding?
But there were valuable items, as well: a single gold bead,
a copper axe head, a remarkable slate pendant shaped with
sides so well smoothed he could almost feel them under
his hands.

Crannogs were late European Bronze Age. And the cold
water preserved things very well indeed. Piat sipped coffee
and ordered a third. He felt rich.

Lesvos was full of tourists. Piat had avoided them for a
year by leaving the island during the height of the season—
one of the reasons he'd headed off for Iceland, and devil take
the consequences. Now Molyvos was crawling with them,
and his chocolate shop perched on the edge of the town with
a hundred-foot drop to the old Turkish gate below was filling
up. Soon enough, Sergio would give him the eye and suggest
that he move along and make room for more customers. Piat
looked into the shop. There was a big, dark guy at the counter
with a very pretty woman with a baby. Piat admired the
woman's backside for a moment, and then—

“Jesus,” Piat said, out loud. The man at the counter was
Mike Dukas. Again.

Dukas led the woman out on to the balcony. The whole
structure moved under their weight—it was sturdy, but it
did protrude well out over the cliff. Dukas looked embarrassed.

“Jerry?” he said. His hand was out.

There wasn't anywhere to run. Piat shook hands. “Mike.”
He gave the woman a smile. She smiled back, and then
looked up at Dukas as if exchanging a joke.

Dukas said, “This's my wife, Leslie.” Leslie Dukas was
twenty years younger than her husband, rather stunningly
pretty next to such an ugly man despite the pack full of baby
that she carried.

Piat indicated his table and waved through the window
for Sergio.

Leslie stood for a moment, shaking hands with Piat. “You
guys can just do the guy thing. We'll go have a feed, won't
we, kiddo?” A tiny pudgy hand reached out of her baby pack
and tweaked one of her nipples. She laughed. “Gotta go,
guys.”

Piat was left with Dukas. Dukas ordered coffee and a big
pastry. He made a joke to Sergio in decent Greek.

“Your wife's lovely,” Piat said.

“Yeah,” said Dukas. And again, “Yeah.”

“That's the small talk, then. What are you doing here?”

Dukas still looked embarrassed.
He doesn't want to be here,
Piat thought.

“Partlow wants you back,” Dukas said. He shrugged.

“Dave's already fucked it away?” asked Piat.

Dukas shrugged again, looking as Greek as a local, his arms
spread wide on the bench back, his weight slumped a little.
“Did you expect it?”

“Phff.” Piat's noise was contemptuous. He had realized
himself that he was still smarting under the speed with which
he'd been tossed aside. “I don't know what Clyde was
thinking. The guy couldn't handle a hooker.”

Dukas snorted. His eyes were on Piat's book, but they
flicked up and met Piat's quickly. Piat was off thinking about
Dave and Partlow. “So where do I meet Clyde? Is he hiding
in a hotel in Mytilene?”

Dukas passed Piat a slip of paper. Piat disappeared it into
his pack with a minimum of fuss. Dukas said, “Not as far as
I know.”

“Still in Scotland?”

It was the look on Dukas's face that finally warned Piat—
a little look of interest, almost triumph, at “Scotland.” Dukas
had been looking at the book—Dukas hadn't said anything—

“You
don't
know, do you?” Piat said.

Dukas hesitated and then shook his head. “Nope,” he said.
And then he smiled and said, “But I bet it's in Scotland.”

Piat leaned closer to Dukas. “I thought you were in on
this.” He shoved the crannog book into his pack and glanced
at the slip of paper—just a DC telephone number.

“Partlow doesn't know where to find you.” Dukas rubbed
his nose and his eyes met Piat's. “I thought you might prefer
it to stay that way.”

It wasn't said as a threat, or at least it didn't sound like a
threat to Piat, and he had been threatened by experts. But
it did speak volumes. Dukas was saying
I could have fucked
you and I didn't, so you owe me
.