by Gordon Kent
“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.
12
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 do
n’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 t
o 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.
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.
