The Falconer's Tale Read Online Free

agents and then handlethem—long hours of manipulation, a shoulder on which tocry, a voice when it is dark. Piat was used to being theshoulder and the voice.
    â€œDave’s” was not the shoulder or the voice that Piat wouldhave chosen. Dave was clearly the man’s cover name—hedidn’t always respond when the name was called. His voicewas rough, assertive, yet with a surprising repertoire of high-pitched giggles and nervous laughter. He had had troubleparking his rental car. He had shown considerable resentmentwhile walking Piat through some shopping in Oban.Piat had been tempted to start coaching him then and there.
    Two hours later, Piat sat next to the man on the cafeteriadeck of MV Isle of Mull and tried not to gnaw on the soreends of how little he wanted to do this. He’d taken themoney, and there wasn’t much he could do about any of it,but it smelled.
    Partlow should have run him himself. They loathed eachother, but Partlow was a competent case officer and wouldhave made sure that things got done on time and underbudget. Dave was so clearly a second stringer that Piat wantedto ask him what other agents he’d run—if any. It was as if,having recruited Piat, Partlow was now distancing himselffrom the operation. That wasn’t like Clyde. He didn’t usuallylet go of anything once he had it in his well-manicured hands.
    Piat was sure that if he wanted to, he could ditch Dave atCraignure, the ferry terminal he’d already noted on the mapof Mull. And then he’d walk. It was a tempting thought.Dave struck Piat as the type who’d order a lot of searchesdone by other people and spend a lot of time in cars. Piatthought it might be fun to walk away. In Piat’s experience,the way to lose Americans was to walk. It worked on Russiansand Chinese, too.
    He’d been paid half the money and he’d discovered thatthe Agency really didn’t have much on him—or had buriedthe evidence to protect themselves. He could probably managea day’s fishing before he flew—
    Pure fantasy. He had one passport—his own—and they’dcome looking for him. Mull was an island cul-de-sac withonly a couple of exits.
    Ten thousand dollars for two days’ work, no matter howdirty, would get him back to Greece. If he was careful, themoney would see him through the winter. By then it waspossible that he would find something in the antiquitiesmarket to sell.
    Because Dave had taken the window seat, Piat got up andpulled a sweater out of his bag. It was a very nice sweater—Burberry, more than a hundred pounds in Oban on the HighStreet. Piat had never been able to resist spending otherpeople’s money. He had purchased a wardrobe that wouldlast him five years—good stuff, if you liked English clothes.Piat liked anything that lasted. He pulled the sweater overhis head and added the clothes to his list of positives. Hecould leave Partlow holding his baggage now—there wasnothing in it worth as much as the clothes he had just encouragedDave to buy for him. Scratch that thought—Piat wantedthe rods back. He sat and admired his wool trousers andsmiled again.
    Dave didn’t even look up. He was reading The Economist with an air of self-importance that Piat longed to puncture.He shrugged internally. Why bother? Piat took out a guideto the early European Bronze Age and browsed it, trying toseparate the useful facts from the clutter of drivel aboutprehistoric alphabets and runic stones. The early EuropeanBronze Age was the hottest market in antiquities. Piat triedfor fifteen minutes, but the book didn’t hold his attention.
    Why does Partlow need me? Piat chewed the question.Hackbutt was a handling nightmare—did Partlow know that?
    He looked at the cover of his book and wondered if anyof the Roman authorities had commented on the world beforeGreece. All too damned speculative. He allowed his eyes toskim past the usual photos; a bronze breastplate,