The Falconer's Tale (20 page)

Piat realized she was more on edge than Hackbutt.

He gave them a simple comms plan in case something
went wrong, gave them a meeting site in Monaco and a time.
Hackbutt listened; Irene paid no attention.

Piat saw disasters looming around every curve, but his
course was set and it was too late to back out. So he walked
them through the plans one more time and said his good-
byes. Irene didn't kiss him. She was angry—or jealous. Or
high. Distant and angry and working to transmit those signals.

“See you Sunday,” Hackbutt said.

“Play some cards, Digger,” Piat said from the doorway.
Irene was in the kitchen, standing at the sink, doing nothing.

I've fucked this up
, Piat thought. But there was nothing to
be done right here, right now, so he got in his car and drove
for the ferry.

“I like this place, Jerry,” Partlow said as he took Piat's hand.
“This place” was north of Torino, Italy.

“We aim to please,” Piat said.

They were standing in the stone-flagged courtyard of a
Renaissance chateau that was in the process of being converted
to a very expensive hotel. The ornate building and its more
pragmatic defenses occupied the top of a mountain that looked
out over the Piedmont. The Dukes of Savoy had used it as a
hunting lodge, and now the Italian government was rebuilding
it to house the elite of the thousands of tourists who would
descend on northern Italy for the 2006 Winter Olympics.

Most of the work was done. The courtyard was immaculate,
from the bronze sculptures in alcoves along the walls
to the perfect herringbone of the brick and stone underfoot.
Only the strong smells of paint and new masonry indicated
that all might not yet be ready.

Light snow was falling.

They walked up to Partlow's room together, unnoticed
among the bustle of workers and arriving guests. Partlow
had a suite, and the sitting room already had his stamp on
it—the furniture moved into the approved arrangement, the
suitcase standing ready. All nicely by the book. He had a
stone balcony that looked out over a three-hundred-foot
drop. Piat thought Partlow looked tense. Worse than tense.

“Scotch?” Partlow asked.

“Please.”

“Tell me about the falconer,” Partlow said as he sank into
a leather armchair.

Piat toyed with his scotch. “He's in good shape. He can do
the job—if we get a little luck.”

“Something you're not telling me, Jerry.”

“Irene—the woman.”

Partlow nodded. “You always said she'd be a problem. Are
you in control?”

Piat shrugged. “Most days.”

Partlow leaned forward. “How bad is it?”

Piat looked out over the drop. “I really don't know, Clyde,
and that's no bullshit.”

“I can't remember seeing you this tired—this down.”
Partlow put his glass down and clasped his hands over his
knee. “You're worrying me.”

Piat nodded. “I need a rest, and there's no rest in sight. It's
fucking exhausting, Clyde. His issues, her issues, their issues.
It's like herding cats. Training them is like training cats.”

“They sound like agents,” Partlow said with a smile.

Piat was thinking about Hackbutt and Bella. “It's pretty
thankless.”

Partlow poured them another scotch. “You want my
thanks? You have them.”

“Spare me.”

“That's rather what I thought you'd say.” He handed Piat
his glass, refilled to the brim. “Are they ready for Monaco?
Are you?”

Piat nodded. “Yeah. They're ready. Hackbutt's okay—better
than okay. He can do a cold meeting. All he can talk about
is fucking birds, but what the hell. That's what we wanted
him for. And he's smoother than he used to be—more mature.
It's deeper than the haircut.”

“You give him a good role model.” Partlow smiled.

Piat rubbed his jaw. “You know, Clyde, just when I think
you and I must have hit it off all wrong, you say something
so fucked up that I know I was right all along. Role model?
What the fuck, Clyde!”

Partlow didn't back down. “You're a man of action. An
individual. I've read every report you've written on the
falconer, Jerry. I made the time. He wants to
be
you.”

Piat waved his glass dismissively. “Can we cut the pop
psychology?”

Partlow shrugged. “If you insist. I thought we were being
professionals, analyzing the tools of our operation.”

Piat thought about that for a few seconds and reminded
himself of his new role vis-à-vis Partlow. He was in danger
of slipping into the old role.
Role model
. That stung.

He took a deep breath. “Sorry, Clyde. I'm too into it, okay?
Too fucking close for analysis. What I need right now is
money and the target. I'll settle for the target.”

Partlow had a briefcase. He'd had the briefcase outside in
the snow, and it hadn't left his hand. He opened it, and
produced three sheets of paper, a passport, and some credit
cards.

“Your cover. I took the liberty of keeping the name Jack.”

Piat leafed through the passport. It was a superb job—
Macedonian, with cachets for twenty countries. It claimed
to be three years old. “I can't pass for native,” he said.

“Lots of semi-stateless persons have Albanian and
Macedonian passports.”

Piat nodded. “Cover?”

“Two layers. Outward, you're a petty antique dealer. That
way, if anyone knows you, you're covered. Shady character
like you—of course you have two passports. Right?”

Piat nodded.

“Second level, I've put a code out that this passport is held
by an undercover cop. Stolen art—Interpol. You won't ever
have to live that cover, but it's there to backstop you if you
get picked up in an airport.”

Piat smiled. “Interpol thing sounds like a great job.”

Partlow laughed. “Maybe for your next lifetime. Will it
do?”

“I like it. Nice job, Clyde. I have some concerns about
flying into the Middle East, but we'll cross that bridge when
we get to it. Cash on the cards?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Piat smiled. “That'll have to do.”

Partlow raised his glass. “I need you to read the target
information. No notes, no takeaways.”

Piat was already reading.

The three pages were clearly an assembly of paragraphs
cut and pasted from other documents. There were no headers
or footers, no identifying data, but Piat could detect the work
of three or perhaps four authors. What he read stopped his
breath. It almost stopped his heart.

“He's a fucking royal, Clyde.” Piat flipped back to the start
and began memorizing. He didn't intend to have any connections
to these documents, and the vague sense of unease he
had felt since his first contact with the operation now crystallized
into a solid mass sitting in the bottom of his stomach.

“Not precisely a royal, no.” Partlow had his fingers steepled.
“His family have historic connections to the Saudi family.”

“Could the fucking president tell the difference? Clyde,
isn't there a fucking
executive order
from the
President of the
United States
that puts all of these guys out of bounds?” Piat
took a hit of scotch.

“Not precisely. No.” Partlow leaned back and looked out
into the snow. More quietly, he whispered, “Not precisely.”

“This is what we call a ‘gray area?'”

“Exactly.”

“Just how fucking gray is it, exactly?” Piat asked and then
he started rolling his neck and stretching his back.
Calm down
.
Be the good agent. Don't go back to old roles
. He told himself that
while another, older, more paranoid part of his mind screamed
fall guy. Clyde is trying to run an illegal op against a member of
the Saudi royal family and he's going to leave me holding the bag
.

“Somewhat gray,” Partlow conceded. He shrugged. “They
want to penetrate terrorism. At the highest levels, they talk
about it all the time. At my level, there's a pressure—you
know what I mean, Jerry? A relentless pressure to
produce
.
As if we can press a button and make a loyal, dependable
source appear inside al-Qaeda.”

Piat nodded to indicate that he knew what Partlow was
talking about. He did. He also knew that most of the real
loser ideas in intelligence were generated from just that political
pressure.

Partlow continued as if he were addressing a class. “Since
Nine-Eleven, the pressure has become immense. People in
the business know where the money comes from. It comes
from Saudi. I've decided to find a way to follow the money.”

“Sure,” Piat said, meaning the opposite. “Except that this
is outside the box, Clyde. I mean, even for me, this is outside
the box. We're going to try and recruit a member of the
Saudi family.”

“He is not, strictly speaking, a member.” Partlow spoke
primly.

“Right.”

“Are you asking for more money, Jerry?” Partlow said. He
smiled.

Piat had noticed Partlow's stress, but now he read the signs
differently. He had lines around his eyes and around his
mouth, and his left hand, where it rested on the arm of the
hotel chair, was white with tension. He poured himself—
both of them—more scotch. His hand shook a little.

Piat examined Partlow's statement. “If you're offering more
money, I'll be happy to take it,” he said. ‘But—no. Not money.”
He flipped through the three pages on the target. “His uncle
rules the Eastern Province. The oil. And all the angry Shia.”

“That's right. A gold star to you, Jerry.”

“You want me to put my guy next to him. Okay. Can do.”
Partlow nodded. Piat took a swig of scotch and then took a
deep breath. “Then what?”

“Need to know, Jerry.” Partlow waved a finger to indicate
that Piat did not, in fact, need to know.

Piat nodded. “Okay.” He took another breath. “What shall
I tell the inspector general when he comes around?”

“It won't come to that. It's all Nelsonian, Jerry. If we win,
no one will ask how. If we lose, no one will even know we
tried.” Partlow's strain showed even in his voice.

“Fuck, that's reassuring,” Piat said. “I've changed my mind.
I want more money.”

Hours passed. Piat studied the three pages until he had them
memorized. Partlow was patient. He knew what was involved.

In the end, Piat simply nodded. “Want to burn them yourself?”

“Yes,” said Partlow. He took each page and folded it in
half-inch accordion pleats, placed it in the hotel sink, and
set fire to it. Each page burned to ash. Not a scrap was left
and the smoke detector missed the whole event.

Piat watched the first page go and then went and stood
facing the windows to the balcony, his eyes resting on the
snowflakes as he tested his new knowledge. It was all there.
Names, dates, places, a biography, some leads. Falconry. He
was nodding to himself when Partlow emerged from the
bathroom.

“You're ready, then?” Partlow asked. His voice betrayed
his eagerness.

“I'll look at him in Monaco. I'll send you a simple signal—
go or no go, after I look at his arrangements. One or zero.
If it's a go, I think we'll try Mombasa. I take it you didn't
get me anything on his itinerary there?”

“Not much,” Partlow admitted. “His uncle goes to the game
parks and shoots animals. He pays an enormous bribe to do
it, which is why we know. As to the target—nothing.”

“I'll bet he'll fly his birds there, then.” Piat tried to imagine
the mind of the Saudi falconer. A Saudi Hackbutt. What
would Hackbutt do with unlimited power and money? He'd
fly his birds every day in the most interesting environments
he could reach. “Ask about it. There ought to be people in
Kenya who know.”

Partlow made a one-word note in his day book. He handed
Piat an envelope with money in it. They both counted the
money and Piat signed. Then Piat rose to go.

Partlow stayed in his chair. “Good luck in Monaco,” he
said. His words were faintly slurred. They'd finished half the
bottle of scotch.

Piat shrugged. “Luck's what we need,” he said from the
door. And then he drove through the snow to Monaco, with
a box in his trunk from Athens.

Monte Carlo had no snow and was merely chilly. The jagged
rocks of the coast stuck out into the iron sea, and the overcast
sky made the doll's town of pastel buildings look gaudy.

Not cheap, though. Nothing in Monte Carlo was cheap.

Piat left his new rental car with the valet service at the
Hermitage and carried his single bag into the desk. He signed
in with his new passport. The system worked as it should
have, and in ten minutes he was in a room. Eleven hundred
euros a night. Piat's meager belongings couldn't begin to fill
its empty luxury. It depressed him, and rather than drink,
he changed into jeans and a heavy sweater and went out to
walk.

Piat walked around Monte Carlo for three hours. The city
had the same effect on him as the room. The obvious wealth,
the heavy security, and the lack of taste all oppressed him
together.

Worse, it was a dreadful operational venue. Every building
had cameras. The casinos had more security than the headquarters
of the CIA. The restaurants had both automated and
human security. There were no back alleys, few blind avenues,
and most of the walkways, however secretive they appeared,
had cameras
and
human security.

The target was supposed to arrive later that evening at the
Hotel Metropole. Piat walked into the Metropole's lobby via
the shopping center, sat in an alcove, and read the
Herald
Tribune
. He watched the movement of the lobby. He walked
out to the street and back to the bar, taking his time, counting
his paces. Then he went to the concierge and did his job,
asking a handful of questions. He got the concierge to let
him look at a room. His worst suspicions confirmed, he went
to the bar and drank a scotch that cost Partlow thirty-six
dollars. Then he had another.

All the other people in the bar seemed to be on display.
Women, regardless of age, were dressed and made up as if
for a movie set. Most of the men were trying to look too
young. None of them was particularly attractive, despite their
best efforts, and Piat christened them the Pretty People—not
quite good enough to be beautiful.

They had conversations without looking at each other, their
eyes wandering the room to see if they had attracted the regard
of someone new. At a center table, a French couple had an
argument that lasted through both of Piat's scotches. Between
shots of vitriol, the woman looked at Piat. She wasn't the only
one, and after too many seconds spent staring at the bottom
of his tumbler, Piat picked up his jacket and walked out.

Tough operational environment.

He had to use his passport to get into the casino. The attractive
Indian woman at the counter looked at it and at him
for too long before pressing it to a scanner and wishing him
bonne chance
. He found Hackbutt and Irene inside, almost
where they were supposed to be. He watched them and their
environment for ten minutes. They were doing a fair job of
imitating people who were having a good time. Irene chatted
with another woman while she played cards. Hackbutt placed
very small bets.

It was off-season, and they had the place mostly to themselves.
Middle-aged Brits were playing bridge for serious
stakes at a central table, and the wheels were going. A handful
of Pretty People were playing games to show that they could.
Otherwise, the casino was quiet.

He went and stood behind Irene. She was playing chemin
de fer with complete concentration.

He waited until she had finished a hand, casually brushing
her winnings into the chip holder set into the table, and then
he sat down.

“Why, Jack!” she said. “You didn't say you were coming
to
Monaco
!”

It was a nice little performance. The only audience were
the dealer and the younger woman seated to her left, but
the line was delivered very well.

Piat put some chips on the table. “Plans changed. Here I
am.”

Irene introduced him to Michelle, the young woman to
her left, who was going to school in Paris and had come
down to collect some cash from her father. Piat nodded as
often as required, lost two hundred dollars while they chatted,
and left her to find Hackbutt.

Hackbutt was standing at a roulette table now, watching
the spins of the wheel and paying attention to the board
marked by the croupier indicating the last forty spins on the
wheel. He bet very little.

“Digger—you're not trying to play a system?” Piat asked,
putting his hand on Hackbutt's shoulders.

Hackbutt looked around. “Shhh!” he said.

Piat smiled. “Digger, they only care if your system
wins
.”

Hackbutt smiled back. “I'd just like to win a few times.
Irene is—well, she's won quite a bit of money.”

Funny how she hadn't mentioned that at all. “How much
money?”

Hackbutt shrugged. “I don't know, really. Two thousand
euros?”

Piat whistled. “I think we should all go out and have
dinner.”

Irene materialized at his elbow. “I'd like that,” she said.
“My treat.”

Piat hadn't been to Monaco in twenty years, but he remembered
a cluster of decent little restaurants in the streets above
the casino. They were still there, some closed for the winter.
A few were open, featuring prix-fixe menus and at most three
tables for service. The prices were on par with everything else
in the town, but what Piat was looking to buy was privacy.

“I'm bored,” Hackbutt said as soon as they were seated.
“I want to get back to my birds.”

Piat nodded. “I don't like this town, either,” he said. He
meant it, but he also said it to show some empathy for
Hackbutt.

Irene said, “It's like a temple built to money. It makes me
sick—makes me remember each and every reason I turned
my back on this. And these people. Fuck—it's hard to find
my center here. It's like they have a machine to suck souls
built under the Metropole's mall.”

“Okay, we all hate Monaco. Let's do our jobs and get the
hell out of here,” Piat said.

His agents both nodded.

“Our guy arrives tonight.” Piat leaned forward and kept
his voice low. He spoke rapidly. It was the only defense he
could muster against eavesdropping, and it would have to
pass, because he preferred the privacy of the restaurant to
the professional eavesdropping in the hotels. “His name is
Prince Bandar Muhad al-Hauq. His uncle is the governor of
a Saudi Province. He'll be staying at the Metropole and he'll
have most of a floor, exclusive access to an elevator, and his
own security arrangements.”

Hackbutt shrugged. “How do people live like this?”

Irene squeezed his shoulder. “They think they like it,” she
said. “Okay, Jack. What are we doing?” She was playing a
game, and Piat didn't have the energy.

“I want to go back to my birds,” Hackbutt said again.

Irene nodded. “What are we doing?”

Piat leaned forward again. “Okay. Irene and I are going to
go play in the casino for a little while. We'll walk up into
the lobby around eight-thirty, which is my best guess of our
guy's earliest arrival time, and we'll have a drink in the bar—
maybe two, if we have to waste the time. All we're doing is
looking at his entourage—his uncle's entourage, actually.
That may be it. Or I may see something. Digger, you've got
to stick by the phone in your room. You have something to
read?”

Hackbutt shrugged. “I brought Glasier's
Falconry
.” He
crossed his arms. “But I'm not sure I see why you and Irene
are swanning around while I sit in a hotel room.”

“I can't let the target see you, Digger. And without Irene,
I'll stick out like a sore thumb.”

A waitress—probably the owner—appeared and put a wine
list in his hand. He glanced at it and handed it to Irene. “You
choose—I think you said you were buying.” The cheapest
bottle was seventy dollars.

The wine list stopped her and Piat rescued her. “Let me.
Keep the money for your show.” He ordered two bottles of
a decent red—actually a pretty good red, ridiculously overpriced,
paid for by Clyde Partlow. They all ordered simple
variations on the prix fixe. And then they were alone again.

Hackbutt kept his arms crossed. “Fine,” he said. It wasn't
fine. He was on the edge of a tantrum—a tantrum about his
need to be with Bella. And, as far as Piat could see, a tantrum
about how easily Irene could deal with Monaco.

“Digger, do you guys need some alone time? That's cool.
No problem,” Piat said.

“Really?” Hackbutt asked, sitting up and uncrossing his
arms. “I know you need her help—”

“I can handle it,” he said.

Hackbutt smiled. “If you only need her as a cover—well,
unless you've changed from out-East days, you can find one
yourself in five minutes.”

“Find one
what
? How much sexist crap do I have to take
from you two?” She was pulling at the rope of pearls around
her neck, tugging so hard that the pearls at the back of her
neck were leaving marks. She kicked Piat hard under the
table.

Piat turned his head and met her eyes for the first time.
“I think you guys should rest up tonight,” he said to her.
“And stay by the phone. I doubt we can try anything here—
anything at all. But we won't know until I see the lay of the
land.”

Dinner arrived and was eaten quietly.

Piat changed into an antique linen dinner jacket and black
wool trousers. He felt like an extra in a Bogart movie, but
the clothes, product of the high-end used-clothing shop in
London, fit. He watched the man in the mirror—too much
shadow on his cheeks, but he couldn't be bothered to shave
again. That guy got older every day. But not so bad. The
clothes were attractive. In fact, they were too attractive. He
was in danger of standing out. And the bow tie looked daft
no matter how often he put it on. He pocketed a slim digital
camera and forced himself to walk out the door before his
stage fright and the wine in his belly led him to do some
more drinking.

He walked to the casino feeling as out of place as a boy
going to his first high school dance. The presence of other
men on the street in the same rig reassured him, but it was
the floor of the casino itself that finally relaxed him—it held
the biggest crowd he'd seen in Monaco, and he wasn't the
only man alone. The male from the French couple in the
Metropole's bar cruised by, his eye on a pair of women young
enough to be his daughters. His partner was nowhere in
sight. Piat wondered if she had moved on or merely developed
a headache.

He played roulette, lost, played cards, lost. Gambling in all
its forms had always seemed one of the stupidest ways to
waste money he'd encountered, but it did facilitate operational
activity. It allowed him to move freely through the
crowd of people, participating as much as he could tolerate
and never sticking out, except that he was conscious of the
croupiers and the security men and the undercover dicks and
the cameras. Everywhere, the cameras.

At eight thirty-five, Piat got up from the table where he
was breaking even at chemin de fer, excused himself to a
man who was holding forth on big game hunting, and walked
out. He allowed himself a cigar as he walked through light
rain to the Metropole. The palm trees had floodlights on
them, which symbolized something about how Monaco gilded
every possible lily. He stopped and watched one for more
than a minute, noting the camera attached to the trunk and
the play of the lights on the leaves. Then he went and sat
in an outdoor café for ten minutes and drank an espresso
while he finished his cigar.

He was watching the promenade in front of the Metropole.

When the six big cars pulled up, he had plenty of time to
observe the retinue as it extricated itself from the limousines
and began stacking its luggage and bullying the staff. He gave
them five minutes, watching every detail of their numbers,
movement, and security, until it became plain that the whole
party was finally moving inside. He took six photos just the
way he had been taught twenty years before, from the camera
resting on the table, without ever bringing it up to his eyes.
Leaving a euro on his saucer, he got up and ground the butt
of his cigar under his heel, swore to run the next day, and
walked slowly toward the hotel, cursing the rain. He jogged
up the steps to the Metropole's lobby and passed rapidly
through the party of Saudis. None of the women were veiled,
and their shrieks of appreciation and amusement drowned
all other sound. He saw four security professionals, all of
whom saw him. He saw the uncle, and the uncle's immediate
circle of “friends,” and then he finally saw the nephew.

The prince was not a tall man, but he was alder-thin and
very plainly dressed, the only man in the entourage who did
not have a gold watchband. He wore jeans and a blue rain
jacket and he looked, amid the bustle of the arrival of forty
people, as if he were alone. He had a bag in his hand, and
near him stood another man, an African, with a bird on his
wrist that Piat thought was an American red-tailed hawk.

Piat knew that he had missed an opportunity. The reserved
man in the Gore-Tex, the attendant with the bird—easy
targets for a chance encounter. Hackbutt could have had a
minute or more to try and charm the prince—with the bird
as the setpiece.

Earlier in the day, Piat had counted the steps from the
baroque entrance to the bar. He had timed himself on his
movements. He didn't deviate. He didn't stare at the prince
or move his head.

Sometimes, Fortuna smiles on a good operator. Ten feet
from the Baroque archway of the bar's entrance, Piat spotted
the argumentative Frenchwoman from his earlier visit. She
might never have moved from her table.