The Falconer's Tale

by Gordon Kent

  Mike stopped the car.

  “What do you call it? It looks like our grouse at home.”

  Mike glanced at the bird and said patiently, “We call it a sand grouse, bwana.”

  “But it’s different,” Hackbutt said with a hint of his old whine. “It has a black face. Look at it, Jack. That’s a big bird.”

  Piat, despite his impatience, hadn’t torn his eyes off the elephants. He followed Hackbutt’s eyes and saw nothing. Mike, old in the ways of tourists, pointed accurately at the bird in the dust. “Sure looks like a grouse,” he said, since Hackbutt seemed to expect a reply.

  “That’s a good prey bird,” Hackbutt said, as if satisfied that Africa had something to offer.

  Mike got the vehicle across the river on a gravel shingle. His crossing didn’t wet the hubcaps. “This car—not really tough enough for safari. No clearance. I have to drive carefully, okay?”

  “Sure, Mike,” said Piat. “How far to the lodge?”

  “Not far, now.”

  They drove for another hour over hard-packed gravel and dusty rock with mesas rising in the distance, cone-shaped hills rising from the flat plain. Piat didn’t know whether Mike was lost or taking great care with his driving because of the car, a small Suzuki, and while he was considering the possibility of asking outright, Mike’s shoulders relaxed and they bounced down a steep incline and arrived on a road.

  “Not far now,” Mike said again.

  Ten minutes later, they rounded the spur of a low mesa to see a much greater mound rising from an alien landscape studded with bigger cone-shaped hills, as if the anthills of the open plain had grown to fill the horizon. The man-made shapes of the lodge hotel and the white walls of its compound contrasted with the smooth organic shapes of the biggest mesa and the table-flat plain at its base. Two small lakes filled the near end of the plain, surrounded by lush green grass—and herds of zebra and antelope.

  High above, two vultures circled, but even they were not as high as the top of the mesa that held the lodge. And above them, turning circles, there waited another predator.

  “He’s here!” Hackbutt shouted. He had his head out the window.

  Piat glanced back at Hackbutt and then out his passenger window and up into the sky. “Who’s here, Digger?”

  “The prince!” Hackbutt shouted. “Can’t you see his bird?”

  Irene pulled him back into the car. The shoulder of the great mesa now cut off the view. The car was toiling up the switchbacks to the lodge. “You can’t tell that’s his bird, silly man.”

  Hackbutt shook his head. “I can.”

  Piat asked, “How?”

  Hackbutt shrugged. “Like you can tell someone you know way off on the hillside. Hard to say. Big bird, not a vulture, keeping station over the mountain? That’s his bird. Okay? Want to make a bet? That’s the big red-tail he had in Monaco.”

  Piat wanted to ruffle his hair. “No bet, Digger. I hope you’re right.”

  “I am,” Hackbutt said.

  He was.

  Irene decided to have a bath. Their rooms were festooned with signs recommending caution in water use, and Irene allowed as she would accept a quick shower.

  Piat and Hackbutt hurried to the bar.

  From the bar, they could see the prince and his tall black falconer standing alone at the edge of the escarpment. A few tourists on the bar’s deck were already watching them. Hackbutt and Piat bought drinks and joined them.

  Hackbutt turned to a small man who was watching the falconers through a pair of low-light binoculars—very expensive optics indeed. Hackbutt waited until the man took the glasses from his eyes.

  “What prey is he finding?” Hackbutt asked.

  The man looked at Hackbutt as if he had spoken a foreign language. “Huh?” he said.

  “Has the bird killed?” Hackbutt asked.

  Piat felt as if he were watching a sitcom. He was glad—very glad—that Hackbutt was bold enough to approach a stranger and ask a question, but he could see that Hackbutt, the same old Hackbutt, seemed to think that every onlooker would share his knowledge and passion for falconry. Why not?

  “I should hope not,” said the man with the expensive optics. “This is a game park. It’s not here to allow the slaughter of wild things.”

  That’s what you think, bud, Piat thought. The report had said that the uncle would be hunting here. Hunting what—elephants, perhaps? It had certainly happened before. But even Piat, who was against such shenanigans, couldn’t see that a single red-tailed hawk, regardless of size, could do a lot of damage to a park the size of Wales.

  Hackbutt chuckled. “I can see you aren’t a falconer,” he said. “He’s got the bird off the fist—that means she’s free to hunt. What she makes of all this—the height, the wind, the strange animals—I don’t know. But when she’s hungry enough, she’ll kill, even if it’s only a mouse.”

  “Shouldn’t be allowed,” grumbled the man, whom Piat now had pegged as a birder.

  In fact, Piat was surprised to see the bird hunting so publicly. On the other hand, that’s just what the prince’s falconer had done in Monaco. Piat wondered if this was a character thing—if the prince liked to make these kills in public. A demonstration? A gesture of contempt? Or perhaps he was so much a prince that it never occurred to him to do otherwise?

  The rich are not like you and me. That wasn’t Shakespeare, but somebody had written it, and it stuck in his head all evening as they watched the bird hover and land on her master’s fist, go aloft and land again, all without a kill.

  “She doesn’t really know where she is,” Hackbutt murmured. “She doesn’t like it here. The falconer—the black guy—he gets it. He’s trying to gentle her. And I think he wants to feed her. The prince isn’t having it.”

  Piat sipped his scotch. “What would you do?”

  Hackbutt shrugged. “I’d give her a feed and let her settle for a day. She’s going to spook at this rate. The falconer knows it, too.”

  Eventually the falconer said something. He must have been speaking strongly, because for the first time in an hour the prince looked at him while he spoke. Then the prince nodded, turned on his heel, and walked back up the brick walk to the bar.

  Piat’s heart began to beat faster. He touched Hackbutt’s elbow.

  The prince entered the bar and glanced at the group of people watching his bird, his face expressionless.

  Piat willed Hackbutt to move. The prince—the target—was ten feet away, and his eyes flicked over Piat. Piat stood immobile, like a hare on a hillside, hoping that the predator would not notice him.

  Hackbutt’s attention was still on the bird. Piat had time to think, He’s going to blow it, and then the prince walked through the bar and into the lodge.

  Neither Piat nor Hackbutt saw him again that night.

  “Digger—why the hell didn’t you say something?” Piat paused in his pacing.

  Hackbutt was peering through the drapes of Piat’s room at the watering holes, now deep in shadow.

  “Say what?” Hackbutt muttered. “There are a lot more birds here than I first thought. Look at those vultures! They’re huge!”

  “Digger,” Piat said softly. He couldn’t let himself be angry. “Digger, why are we here?”

  Hackbutt rubbed his jaw with his right hand. He avoided Piat’s eye like a kid caught out by a teacher. “Uhh—to contact the Arab guy. Right?”

  Piat nodded and sat heavily on the bed. “You watched him for an hour. You had all kinds of comments to make about his falconry and his bird. How hard would it have been to approach him? Say something like—hey, your bird’s nervous, isn’t she? Something like that. Right?”

  Hackbutt leaned against the window, the red light spilling across his face and making him look very young. “I’d hate it if somebody said something like that to me,” he said. “I mean—I’d be criticizing him. He probably knows the bird is nervous. Why tell him that? He’s got his own ways. I can see that.”

  Piat was tired,
and the air-conditioning was giving him a chill, and he’d already had too much to drink and maybe too much of Hackbutt. He wanted to put his head in his hands. “Digger—we’re here to contact the guy. You’ve got to find a way to pull the trigger.”

  Hackbutt nodded. “Not a criticism, though. It’s got to come naturally.”

  Piat shook his head. “It’s never natural. It isn’t natural to approach a stranger when you do it from the most innocent of motives. There won’t be a natural moment. This is a powerful man who we’ll hardly ever get to see, much less talk to. We’ll be lucky if we get another shot at him at all. He was alone in the bar. No security, no falconer, just him, standing ten feet away!”

  “Why didn’t you do it?” Hackbutt said. It was real curiosity, not the Hackbutt nerd whine. “You’re so much better than me. I used to watch you in Jakarta—girls, guys—they want to talk to you. Even Irene—” Hackbutt trailed off.

  Piat got a jolt from his adrenal gland at Irene’s name, but he stuck to his subject. “Digger—listen, man. Listen up, as they say on sports teams. You have to do this one. Just you. I shouldn’t even be standing near you. I look like what I am—a spy. I know a little about falcons and a lot about people and I’m smooth. Smooth will not cut it with this guy. You aren’t smooth—but man, you love your birds. So does he. That can’t be faked, Digger. It’s got to be real.”

  Hackbutt nodded. “I guess I could go to his room and ask to help with his bird,” he said.

  Piat shook his head. “Too abrupt. It’s a subtle thing—as natural as you can make it.”

  Hackbutt looked distraught. “I blew it. I could have just asked if she was off her feed. Just like that.” Hackbutt sagged. “I didn’t even think about it. I was worried about the bird. If they keep flying her, she’s going to bolt. And because we’re so high, she’ll be able to go a long way.”

  “What do you mean, bolt?”

  “You know what it’s like to lose a bird. She flies too far from you, and then she can’t see you, and bang—she’s gone. Some guys use radio collars.”

  “I suspect the prince is too traditional for radio collars.” Piat rubbed his forehead. “Okay, tomorrow is another day and all that. I’m wasted.”

  “I need to call Annie. I have to know that Carla is better.” Hackbutt was back to looking out the window.

  “Digger.” Piat caught himself on the edge of doing something stupid, like yelling. “Digger, we’re operational.” Even as he said it, he thought—fuck it, Digger’s not in any cover here. Why can’t he call home? “Okay,” he said. “Call Annie. Do it soon. Then get some rest.”

  Hackbutt said, “Thanks.” He grinned. “Not sure why I need your permission—but there we go.” He let the drape slide shut. “I wonder where they’ll go tomorrow?” he asked. “They’re just too high up here. They need to get down on the plain.”

  “Probably too dangerous. The park might not let that happen.”

  Hackbutt raised an eyebrow, no longer the guilty schoolboy, now the submarine captain. “You say these guys can bribe the park to let them hunt elephants, but they can’t get permission to do a little falconry down on the plain?”

  Piat nodded slowly. “Touché, Digger. That’s good thinking.”

  Hackbutt went to the door. “I’m going to go find Irene.” He paused. “Do you want to eat with us?”

  Piat shook his head. “Better if we don’t spend too much time together in public. Besides, I’m going to go find Mike.”

  Hackbutt reached out and touched Piat’s arm. “Sorry, Jack. I know this means a lot to you.”

  When he was gone, Piat spent a moment considering that last sentence. He’s doing this for me. Despite the money and Irene’s installation and another month with Bella, Hackbutt was doing the whole thing for him. Piat didn’t do guilt most of the time, but just then, with the red sun light bleeding all over his room and too much scotch in his system, Piat glanced in the mirror and didn’t like what he saw.

  It’s a nasty business, boys. Some pompous snot had said that at his graduation from the Ranch.

  Piat went out to find Mike.

  The three shacks had lights on and the front door open. Of course, Piat thought, the drivers don’t get air-conditioning. Piat walked over to the middle hut.

  “Mike?” he called out.

  Mike appeared behind the door. “Bwana?” He looked past Piat. “Is there a problem?”

  Piat shook his head. “Hakuna matata, buddy. No problems. I need a favor.”

  Mike made no move to let him in. “Sure,” he said. His tone was flat. I’m off hours and this better be good.

  A female voice called something from the kerosene-lit darkness behind Mike. And a laugh.

  Piat felt like a fool. “Sorry, bud. I’ll come back later.” He took a step away from the door.

  Mike shook his head. “No—sure, I can help you. You shouldn’t be here. If you need me, you can just call the desk, right?”

  Down on the plain, a hyena howled. The woman’s voice laughed again.

  “This is a special thing.” Piat hoped that sounded right, that Mike got the nature of the call.

  “Sure,” Mike said. “Sure. Give me ten minutes, okay, boss? I’ll meet you at the car.”

  Piat passed the ten minutes reviewing all the bad operational decisions he’d made, first on the one op, then over the course of his career. Mike was a driver—a paid hireling, even if he did come recommended by Partlow. Piat was about to use him operationally, a big no-no. Like kissing one of your agents, or two-timing another agent—hell, it was a pretty long list, and involving Mike didn’t seem the worst of it.

  “Sorry, boss.” Mike materialized by the driver door. His shirt was ironed and it glowed in the late evening light.

  “No, I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean to haul you out of your rack time (and your bedmate). And I don’t like to be called bwana, or boss. Just Jack.”

  Mike stood a good four inches taller than Piat. He smiled, a flash of white teeth. “Sure, bwana,” he said.

  Piat had heard special forces guys in Afghanistan use ranks as an insult (Right away, Captain.) Mike was giving him the gears.

  Whatever. “Mike, I need to know where the prince is going to hunt tomorrow. Can you find that out?”

  Mike glanced at his watch. “Sure, Jack.”

  Piat peered through the sudden darkness at him, looking for hidden meaning. “Sure, as in, sure? Or sure as in, I want to get back to bed?”

  Mike laughed. “Hakuna matata, Jack. Everybody back here knows what everybody does.” He laughed.

  Piat had expected that was the case. And he knew what that implied for his own operational security.

  But what the hell. “I need to—stay close—not too close. Tomorrow.”

  Mike slapped the car for emphasis. “Sure. Sure. No problem. I come to your room—maybe an hour? I’ll know then. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Piat.

  Mike was as good as his word. “I know where they’ll go. It’s close—maybe ten miles. One of the rangers—KWS guys, right?—says they go to hunt with the bird, yes? Where the people in the lodge can’t watch. They’re taking food, flasks of coffee—big day. Out all day. Easy to find. Maybe with some money, easier to find.”

  Piat waved Mike into a chair, poured him a scotch. Mike made a curiously British gesture—on taking the glass, he raised it in the air as if toasting his host.

  “How much money?” Piat had a fair amount, but he’d never tried to bribe a Kenya Wildlife Service ranger before.

  “Fifty dollars,” Mike said.

  Piat paid him fifty and another fifty. “That’s for you and the girl you left behind.”

  Mike slammed back the rest of his scotch. “Sure,” he said. “There is one problem. Okay? We’re supposed to stay on the roads. Everybody is. We lose our park license if we go off the roads. Okay? And—bwana—Jack—it is sometimes no picnic, yes? Off the roads?”

  Piat took a drink. He wished that Mike were an expert falconer�
��he was clearly a man who thought things through. “So what do we do?”

  “Rent one of the lodge trucks, so we can drive where we want. That Suzuki we have from Mombasa is useless out here. Okay? And let me get a ranger to say we can drive around. Cost more money—but they hate the Arab guy. You know?”

  “I don’t know.” Piat leaned forward. “Tell me.”

  “All the rangers—all used to be poachers, right? And when KWS gets them, they train them to protect the animals. Right? Sure. And when rich Arabs come to kill the animals, rangers get to be the guides. Right? Sure.” Mike sounded increasingly vehement. It was obviously a subject about which he felt strongly.

  Piat counted two hundred dollars from his dwindling supply of US twenties. “That enough?”

  Mike made the money vanish. “More than enough,” he said, and downed his second drink. “You don’t want this Arab guy to know we’re out there, right—Jack?”

  “Right.”

  Mike nodded, straightened his neat white safari shirt in the mirror and smiled at his own reflection. “We should leave late. Okay? Ten o’clock. Maybe you want to talk-talk this Arab guy?”

  Piat tossed his operational security over the cliff. “Yeah, maybe. If it happens that way.”

  “Sure,” said Mike. He smiled.

  “You’re in charge,” said Piat. He had just felt the first cool breeze of a wind change. Luck. Operational daring.

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  Al Craik had got the report he had asked for from Mrs Stillman and Sergeant Swaricki. The report on Perpetual Justice task numbers was short: they had found eleven listings under the suspect number, all buttoned up tight with the Perpetual Justice code classification. The system wouldn’t kick out data the other way, however: going in with “Perpetual Justice” produced no hits, so if there were more operations under it—and he was sure there were—they were, in Abe’s words, buried under the flag.

  Mrs Stillman’s report on Muhad al-Hauq, the target of Partlow’s operation, was fuller. It told him a lot he didn’t find useful (al-Hauq had three wives and seven children; he swam in a saltwater pool every morning; he wrote poetry) but several things he did: Muhad al-Hauq was the nephew of the governor of Saudi Arabia’s Eastern Province. His uncle was said to be both lazy and ignorant, and the nephew was effectively the region’s governor. The Eastern Province was the poorest in Saudi Arabia; its people were mostly Shiites (which might explain why they were kept in poverty); but it was the location of most of Saudi Arabia’s oil. It bordered the Persian Gulf, a bit of the Emirates, Kuwait, and Iraq.