Читать книгу The Falconer’s Tale - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 8

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.

Partlow nodded as if Piat had said something important. He clasped his hands over his knees.

Finally, Piat decided that they might sit that way all day. He 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 sounding better by the second, isn’t she? Come on, Clyde.”

“How much for her?” Partlow asked. The word “soul” lingered invisibly in the air at the end of his sentence.

“Hundred thou?” Piat guessed.

“Christ Jesus!” muttered Partlow, in Anglican agony.

“Let me promise Hackbutt a new bird.”

Partlow hesitated, his hand on his chin. Piat drove over his caution.

“You want this guy? Promise him a bird. It’ll help, both as a control tool and as a bargaining counter. And it can stand in lieu of payment, I’ll bet. Promise him a bird at the end and he’ll be happy. Besides, we’ll need a McGuffin for the Arab.”

“I’ve never said the potential target was an Arab.”

“You never said your wife was the daughter of an Anglican minister, either.”

“Sometimes I find you just a little scary, Jerry.”

He saw the challenges and the roadblocks ahead and he had to swallow a laugh.

“You can work for me, Jerry?”

“Yep.” Piat looked around the room. “Got anything here to drink? Yeah, Clyde. As long as I get to write the contract and as long as you let me consult on operational issues, I can work for you. Just this once, old times’ sake, all that jazz.”

“Scotch in the bedroom. Laphroaig and a local—try it. You just added two hundred thousand to my operational budget.”

“Air travel. Probably six trips—three for training, three for real. Three contact attempts—he’ll fuck up the first one, so I’ll plan it for him to fuck up—third one just to have a fallback.” Piat was feeling a little high. The scotch settled him.

“You still don’t know what the op is. Aren’t you curious?”

Piat spread his hands. “No. Yes. Listen—first I lay out my terms. Then you accept them and we sign something. Then you brief me. Right?” He shrugged and waved his glass. “Or you reject them and I walk away.”

Partlow made a moue of distaste. “Not much chance of that, is there, Jerry? Which you bloody well know.”

Piat raised his glass to Partlow and drained it. “I think I’m being damned good about the whole thing, old boy.”

Partlow leaned forward. “That’s what worries me.”

Piat laughed. One scotch had hit him and his adrenaline high like a hammer. “You know what, Clyde?”

Partlow looked a little pained.

“I think I want to do it. One more time.”

Partlow went into the bedroom and poured them both more scotch, and then they raised their glasses and drank.

And then they signed some papers and made a plan to communicate. They discussed Piat’s cover and Partlow’s role and the nature of the target—“no names yet, Jerry, we’re not there yet”—and Piat, despite three glasses of scotch, had no difficulty dictating notes on targeting possible meeting venues.

Partlow handed over ten thousand dollars, mostly in pounds. “All I have. I want hand receipts on that. Deduct your travel here. I’ll meet you in a week and we’ll see where we are on cover and money.”

Piat had a faraway look in his eyes. “Don’t come near Scotland again, Clyde.”

“Where?” Partlow was in the room’s tiny front hall, ready to walk out the door, dapper in light tweeds, and somehow, obviously American. “Jerry—I’ll decide the meeting location, okay? Try and remember that I’m your case officer, and not the other way around.”

Piat shrugged. “Whatever. Just not Scotland. London, Antwerp, Dublin. Athens would be nice—I could get some stuff from home.”

Partlow nodded. “Athens it is. I have business there.”

They shook hands. Partlow’s jawline moved, but whatever he had to say, the moment passed, and he was out the door.

Piat lay on the bed and started his shopping list.