The Falconer's Tale by Gordon Kent

Jerry?”
    â€œYep.” Piat looked around the room. “Got anything hereto drink? Yeah, Clyde. As long as I get to write the contractand as long as you let me consult on operational issues, I canwork for you. Just this once, old times’ sake, all that jazz.”
    â€œScotch in the bedroom. Laphroaig and a local—try it. Youjust added two hundred thousand to my operational budget.”
    â€œAir travel. Probably six trips—three for training, three forreal. Three contact attempts—he’ll fuck up the first one, soI’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.
    â€œYou still don’t know what the op is. Aren’t you curious?”
    Piat spread his hands. “No. Yes. Listen—first I lay out myterms. Then you accept them and we sign something. Thenyou brief me. Right?” He shrugged and waved his glass. “Oryou reject them and I walk away.”
    Partlow made a moue of distaste. “Not much chance ofthat, is there, Jerry? Which you bloody well know.”
    Piat raised his glass to Partlow and drained it. “I think I’mbeing 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 adrenalinehigh like a hammer. “You know what, Clyde?”
    Partlow looked a little pained.
    â€œI think I want to do it. One more time.”
    Partlow went into the bedroom and poured them bothmore scotch, and then they raised their glasses and drank.
    And then they signed some papers and made a plan tocommunicate. They discussed Piat’s cover and Partlow’s roleand the nature of the target—“no names yet, Jerry, we’re notthere yet”—and Piat, despite three glasses of scotch, had nodifficulty dictating notes on targeting possible meeting venues.
    Partlow handed over ten thousand dollars, mostly inpounds. “All I have. I want hand receipts on that. Deductyour travel here. I’ll meet you in a week and we’ll see wherewe are on cover and money.”
    Piat had a faraway look in his eyes. “Don’t come nearScotland again, Clyde.”
    â€œWhere?” Partlow was in the room’s tiny front hall, readyto 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 notthe other way around.”
    Piat shrugged. “Whatever. Just not Scotland. London,Antwerp, Dublin. Athens would be nice—I could get somestuff from home.”
    Partlow nodded. “Athens it is. I have business there.”
    They shook hands. Partlow’s jawline moved, but whateverhe had to say, the moment passed, and he was out the door.
    Piat lay on the bed and started his shopping list.

5
    Piat woke next morning in Oban with a hangover and a mixof foreboding and guilt. The operation was all very well whendiscussed from the safety of an expensive hotel room, but inthe chilly gray air of a Scottish morning all he could thinkabout was Hackbutt—and Irene. Partlow had been cageyabout what exactly had cued him to fire Dave.
    Hackbutt had changed from the old days in Southeast, butPiat still felt he knew where his mind would go. Betrayal .Personal betrayal of trust by his old friend Jack. FromHackbutt’s perspective, good ol’ Jack had walked off andabandoned him to the tender mercies of Dave.
    Piat considered it from a number of angles while he drankgrapefruit juice in the hotel’s restaurant. He added to the listin his head—props. Envelopes. Tickets.
    On the ferry to Mull he read more about crannogs to keephis mind off his worries.
    This wasn’t going to be pretty .
    The dog greeted him with silent appraisal, its eyes followinghim from the car to the door while Piat’s stomach did back-flips in