Peregrine

by William Bayer

  The falconer’s letters stimulated her and then she went on the air, read them back to him, and that stimulated him even more. There was some kind of vicious circle at work, and maybe that’s why he’d insulted her that afternoon, said nasty things in an attempt to shock her, because he’d sensed that circle and its viciousness and he was worried for her and he wanted to break the circuit so she could get out.

  He recalled the wounded expression on her face, and now he felt sorry for her, terribly sorry that he’d hurt her, and even more sorry because of the hurt he knew must lie ahead. She was part of the puzzle, perhaps even the key, and she might have to be used before the case was finally solved.

  And she would suffer for that, suffer badly. Janek wished she wouldn’t have to, but he knew that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to protect her, she would be hurt very much and it wouldn’t be her fault.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As a reporter, Pamela Barrett had witnessed her share of dramatic arrivals—returning sports heroes, visiting heads of state, rock bands, even the Pope. But the arrival of Yoshiro Nakamura at Kennedy Airport was for her the most dramatic of all. It was some sort of ultimate media event, she thought, a triumph of hype over news, in which she found her own role ambiguous, since she had helped to create the excitement that now seized even her.

  It was midnight. The Japan Air Lines flight had been late departing Tokyo and there’d been other delays en route: a strong headwind and a long stopover in Alaska, which added further to the suspense. Now she stood behind a barricade outside the terminal in a mob of journalists. Colleagues pressed her forward; police pressed her back. Movie cameras whirled and strobe lights flashed while huge searchlights played upon the plane as it taxied to its gate.

  She knew it would be several minutes before the passengers disembarked, and even longer before Nakamura appeared. But her fellow journalists were in a ferment. They’d been waiting too many hours. That afternoon, none of them had known the name Yoshiro Nakamura; she had broadcast news of his coming at six.

  Now this obscure Japanese falconer was arriving in New York in the role of savior, famous even before he stepped off his plane.

  There was some confusion about that, too, because the plane was a 747 with tunnels connected to it, so the passengers walked directly into the terminal; Nakamura would not be seen until he’d cleared immigration inside.

  After that, special arrangements had been made. A Channel 8 truck would be allowed to drive up to the aircraft, where U.S. Fish and Wildlife supervisors even now were standing by.

  Herb and Jay were in the immigration area greeting Nakamura, explaining procedures that had been too complicated to discuss on the trans-Pacific phone. An interpreter was with them; Nakamura didn’t speak a word of English. Now Channel 8, which had made Peregrine so famous, was taking on the burden of ending her reign of terror.

  “Pam! Pam!” It was Penny Abrams shouting to her over the whine of jets. Pam worked her way over to the edge of the press mob. “Herb says come out from there. He’s got you a special pass.”

  Pam nodded, then turned around to be sure no one noticed her slip away. She knew that once her colleagues saw her on the other side of the barricade, their complaints would be merciless and loud.

  “What about the cameras?” she asked as they walked rapidly away from the pack.

  Penny pointed back at the airport roof. “Two crews up there with telephotos. We got two more on the tarmac and one back where you were in case the guy wants to talk.”

  “You mean he might not? God, Penny—those guys have been waiting hours.”

  “Tough,” Penny said. “Nakamura’s on a private visit. He doesn’t have to meet the press. His only obligation is to us.”

  She was glad to be away from the other reporters—she wouldn’t have to deal with their anger now. But even if she did have to deal with it, she knew she shouldn’t care. Her station owned the story. Herb had summed it up for them that afternoon: “What’s the point of staging a media event,” he’d asked rhetorically, “if we don’t control it and maintain exclusive rights?”

  It was fifteen minutes after the plane began to unload that Herb, Jay, Nakamura, and his interpreter appeared, followed by Joel Morris and his soundman, Steaves. At first glance Nakamura was not impressive. He was small, dwarfed by the Americans, a lean, bald, wiry little man with a gaunt and bony face. When Jay introduced him he bowed his head low to Pam, and when he raised it she finally saw his eyes. Then she changed her mind, decided he was impressive. His eyes reminded her of the peregrine’s after she’d seen it attack the skater— piercing, ferocious, gleaming with violence, the pitiless eyes of a predator aroused by the prospect of a kill.

  All the personal baggage had been taken off the plane, and now a crew was in the cargo compartment offloading Nakamura’s crate. They pulled it out with a forklift, then lowered it gently to the ground. Nakamura set to work unscrewing the door; when he was ready to enter the crate he motioned everybody back.

  “He’s got to calm her,” Jay explained. “And unwrap her—she’s literally stitched into a canvas jacket. It’ll probably take him a few minutes before he’s ready to cut her out of there. He doesn’t want her feathers injured, and he doesn’t want her to unfold her wings too fast. She knows him; she’ll recognize his touch. The man’s amazing, Pam. I’ve never met anyone with his kind of rapport with birds of prey. But then, they’re all he thinks about, so don’t be too surprised if he’s not all that great with human beings.”

  Jay seemed pleased with himself— as well, she thought, he should. When he’d told her several days before that he was working on a defense against the peregrine, she had no idea he was talking about bringing another falconer to New York. But when he explained his plan, she marveled at its brilliance: the peregrine would be confronted by a natural enemy; the two birds would duel to the death.

  The Japanese hawk-eagle, one of the most ruthless of all the raptors, was the equivalent of a goshawk in ferocity but much stronger because of its size. A master of cunning and surprise—but considered ignoble and scorned as “psychotic” by falconers, who preferred falcons to hawks—the Japanese hawk-eagle was, according to Jay, the only animal capable of killing the peregrine. And Yoshiro Nakamura, the world’s foremost handler of the hawk-eagle, so despised peregrine falcons that he had trained his birds to attack them on sight. Jay’s idea was to bring Nakamura to New York, where he would issue a public challenge. His hope was that the falconer’s pride in his bird would make the challenge impossible to resist.

  Herb saw the potential of the idea but didn’t tip off his enthusiasm right away. “You’re sure this will work, Jay?” he’d asked skeptically. “I mean it does sound a little farfetched.”

  “Nothing’s certain,” Jay had said. “But one-on-one, I think the hawk-eagle would win. Anyway, Nakamura wants to come. I’ve talked to him, he’s eager—he’d love to be the man who saved the women of New York. The only question is whether the falconer will take the bait. That will be up to Pam—the way she pitches it to him on the air.”

  “Absolutely,” said Herb. “You’d have to really lay it on, Pam, like ‘Okay, you’ve proven you can kill defenseless girls. Now let’s see if you’ve got the balls to fight.’ You have to shame him into it, imply he’s yellow if he stays away. After all, he’s taunted you. It’ll be your turn to taunt him back.”

  “He’ll be furious,” she said.

  “That’s right,” said Herb. “That’s exactly the point. Jay’s got a terrific idea. Hit the guy where he hurts. Is he a sportsman or just a lousy murderer? Is he a modern Don Quixote terrorizing us with medieval falconry, or is he just a chickenshit killer with a thing for girls’ throats?” Now Herb’s enthusiasm was evident. He was the sort who had to talk an idea through, had to sell himself. The more he talked about it and dramatized it, the more he fell in love with it. “You bring that Jap over, Jay, and we’ll handle the rest.”

  And then he had agreed to bankroll the
entire trip.

  “Look! Here he comes!” Nakamura was easing his way backward out of the crate.

  “Can I shoot?” asked Joel.

  “Shoot your ass off,” ordered Herb.

  Nakamura emerged, the enormous bird settled on his wrist. “Spizaetus nipalensis,” Jay whispered to Pam. “That’s her scientific name. Isn’t she magnificent?” He was clearly excited by the sight.

  Indeed, Pam thought, the bird was extraordinary—huge and frightening, nearly three feet tall from tail to head, her claws and beak black, her breast the color of cinnamon, her legs completely feathered, as Jay had told her they would be, since she was partly eagle. And the fact that she was hooded made her all the more ominous—Pam could just imagine the ferocity of her eyes.

  The bird quickly passed inspection by state and federal veterinarians.

  Nakamura produced a certificate of health and was issued a master falconer’s license valid in New York State. Then the bird was placed in the back of a Channel 8 van and a cavalcade proceeded into town: the truck with the bird; a limousine containing Herb, Jay, and Nakamura, with the interpreter and Penny on the jump seats and Pam beside the driver peering around to listen and observe.

  The camera crews traveled in their own vans, and there were police escort vehicles at either end. Cars from other stations followed. Several of them pulled up parallel to the limousine as it sped down the Van Wyck and across the Triborough Bridge. They all wanted pictures of Nakamura, so they pulled up close, turned on their lights, and shot away. It was crazy, Pam thought, as if this little Japanese was a world-class personality—a Kissinger come back from settling an international dispute; a Solzhenitsyn setting foot for the first time in New York.

  The hotel check-in was a carnival.

  Nakamura was being put up at the Plaza at Channel 8’s expense; someone had leaked word to other stations, and several crews were already staked out when the cavalcade arrived. It was two in the morning and the lobby was practically deserted, but when Nakamura entered with the great bird on his wrist; everyone went wild. Photographers brawled; reporters shouted questions; the night manager stood aghast.

  Joel got a great shot of Nakamura standing in the elevator with the bird: his face was blank and patient, the elevator boy was trembling, and the hawk-eagle shuddered slightly as the elevator doors slowly closed.

  Pam, Penny, Herb, and Jay went upstairs to talk to the Japanese in peace. He was installed in a luxurious suite with a bedroom for himself, a bedroom for the hawk-eagle, and a sitting room in between. But still he wasn’t happy. He said the perch Jay had supplied was wrong. “My God! A perch crisis!” Penny whispered to Pam. She got on the telephone, rounded up some Channel 8 stage carpenters.

  The station would build a Japanese style perch to Nakamura’s design.

  Jay had also sent over a crate of newborn chickens for the hawk-eagle to eat, but Nakamura said they weren’t necessary. “He wants her hungry,” the interpreter explained. “He says when she kills the peregrine, she will have the right to eat her prey.”

  They all exchanged glances at that.

  “What’s the bird’s name?” Pam asked.

  “She is Kumataka, the hawk-eagle—literally bear-hawk in Japanese.”

  “Does she have her own name?”

  Nakamura shook his head and grinned. “Just Honorable Kumataka come to fight the peregrine named Peregrine.”

  “Is she tired?”

  “She is never tired. She has come to New York to kill.”

  “Are you at all worried she might lose the duel?”

  Mr. Nakamura laughed. “Honorable Kumataka is the world’s fiercest, strongest, most skilled hunting bird. All her life she has been taught to hate the soaring falcons. She has met many of them in combat and she has killed them all. No—if this peregrine appears, it will be the end of her. Honorable Kumataka will not lose.”

  After the interview, Pam, Herb, and Jay retired to the Oak Bar to discuss what they had wrought. Herb was ecstatic. “The incredible arrogance of that little Nip. We’ll put him on the air tomorrow night, have him issue his challenge and insult the peregrine, too. God, this thing is fantastic, better than I could have dreamed.”

  “What about this business of Honorable Kumataka eating Peregrine?” Pam asked. “Isn’t that a little much?”

  “I don’t know,” said Herb. “To the victor go the spoils. If Honorable Kumataka kills falcon, she deserves to eat falcon. It’s a tough airspace out there, folks. Bird eat bird, I always say.” He yawned, stretched. “Well,” he said. “It’s about time we all went home and got ourselves some sleep.”

  There was another crisis in the morning. Nakamura didn’t like the Plaza and the Plaza wasn’t particularly crazy about him. Crowds had gathered in the lobby. People were clamoring to see the hawk. The maids complained. They were afraid to make up the suite.

  Nakamura didn’t want them in there anyway. He wanted Honorable Kumataka to rest in utter darkness through the day.

  There was a meeting at the station about where Nakamura and the bird should move. Herb said they should be stashed someplace, in a loft or an apartment, or even out-of-town. Penny Abrams pointed out that sooner or later the new location would be leaked, and, besides, a secret move would be impossible: The Plaza was being watched by a hundred reporters; every entrance was staked out; every Channel 8 truck would be scrutinized and followed. They’d gone public with Nakamura, and now they had to live with that.

  “We could sneak them out through the kitchen, couldn’t we?” Penny didn’t think the Plaza would like that very much. “Then to hell with it,” said Herb. “We’re paying a fortune. This is New York, the big time. The Jap’s going to have to adapt.”

  “Don’t forget, Herb, we need this guy,” said Pam. “If he’s unhappy, he might go home, and then where would we be?”

  “Up shit creek, that’s for sure.” Herb shook his head. “Well, what the hell are we supposed to do? Build him a penthouse on the roof?”

  The issue was finally settled.

  Nakamura and the bird would move to the station. The carpenters would fix up a sound-stage, and there’d be extra guards posted at all the doors. Penny pointed out that with trucks coming and going all the time, the competitive media couldn’t possibly keep track of all of them. By keeping Nakamura and Honorable Kumataka at the station, Channel 8 could control events.

  The next problem concerned the challenge: how to set a time and place so they could maintain exclusive coverage and people wouldn’t come as spectators and scare the dueling birds away.

  “We’ll have to leave that up to the falconer,” said Herb. “We’ll issue our challenge tonight. He’ll write or phone us with the time and place. No one else will know.”

  “But how will we know the answer’s authentic?” asked Pam. “Our switchboards will be flooded, and anyone can write a note.”

  “He’ll have to enclose some sign,” said Penny.

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll recognize his handwriting,” said Herb.

  “We showed parts of his letters on the air. Anyone can copy that block lettering of his.”

  There was silence. Then Herb snapped his fingers. “All that personal stuff he wrote to you, Pam, about carrying you up into the air and all that crap. Remember—we never released that. Janek’s idea. Maybe he was right for once. We’ll just tell the falconer that when he answers he should make reference to the unpublicized things he wrote to you before. Then we’ll know he’s for real, and we can go ahead and set the duel up.”

  “He’ll choose a time and place to his advantage,” said Jay.

  “That’s a risk we have to take. You say Honorable Kumataka will win. I’m not counting on that. And, frankly, I don’t give a good goddamn. However it goes, we got ourselves a story. Win, lose, draw—no way this station’s going to lose.”

  Pam glanced at Jay, curious to see his reaction. She wondered if Herb’s crude single-mindedness turned him off. But he didn’t react. In fact, h
e looked more eager than before. And she understood: This was the biggest thing to hit falconry since, maybe, the sixteenth century or so.

  Carl Wendel phoned her that afternoon. “This duel was Hollander’s idea, wasn’t it?” he asked. She acknowledged that it was. “I thought so, and I want you to know that I vigorously protest. I think it’s disgusting, a perfect example of manipulation, a travesty, a cockfight. Next thing people will be laying bets. I’ve heard of this Japanese fellow, too. He’s an excessively cruel falconer. Imagine—he trains Spizaetus nipalensis to attack peregrines. They aren’t natural prey for a hawk-eagle. It’s a hatred he instills.”

  “Jay told me they were natural enemies.”

  “Well, Jay told you wrong. Falcons and hawk-eagles don’t particularly care for one another, but a duel in the wild would be extremely rare. That’s what I object to. The whole thing is so contrived.”

  She tried to soothe him, and when that didn’t work she told him the duel was out of her hands. “I’m a reporter,” she explained. “I have to cover the story. Good or bad I have to cover it as best I can.” Then she distracted him by asking if she could visit his Trust for Raptor Birds. He agreed, reluctantly, on condition that she make the visit by herself. He didn’t want publicity or film shot of any of his birds. “I no longer want to be part of a story,” he told her, “that involves birds dueling each other to the death.”

  Janek called a little later. He didn’t criticize her personally this time, though he referred to the duel as a publicity stunt. Then, when she was silent, he suddenly and unaccountably changed his tone. When he spoke again he sounded almost sad.

  “Look, Pam, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m hoping the peregrine doesn’t show up. The live falcon is my best hope of finding the falconer. If this Japanese eagle, or whatever she is, kills the falcon, then the falconer disappears and there goes my case.”