by Gordon Kent
Okay, so Carl had easy access to the base but didn’t live in Bahrain, if he could judge from the rental car.
Carl drove too fast along the base’s crowded streets, past Fifth Fleet headquarters and the NCIS office, to where the pavement gave way to a dirt track lined with warehouses, then trailers. He stopped next to a trailer. “Not very upscale,” Carl said with an apologetic bob and a push at his glasses.
They had to cross a plank over a foundation to get to the front step of the trailer, which was a only piece of plywood nailed across two supports. The interior was warm and smelled of bird shit. Bella was sitting on a Navy-issue desk with newspaper, perhaps originally spread under her, scratched and pulled into loose wads around her.
The cage in which she had left Mull was on the floor. It had a crack running from the top of the door all the way across to the back, with a hole the size of a grapefruit punched in the top.
“Sick, bullshit!” he shouted. “What the hell happened?”
“Uh, well, as I understand it, the guy with the forklift—uh, Arab guy—there was some kind of uh accident when they unloaded—”
Piat went straight to Bella. She was underweight—he could see her weight loss from the doorway. And she was dirty. But she was not, so far as he could see, injured.
“Get me some water,” Piat snapped.
Carl snatched a gallon plastic jug and walked down the trailer. “I don’t know a thing about taking care of birds. Is he sick?”
Piat took the whole weight of her on his arm—his ungloved arm and wrist. Bella was quiet. He stroked her head. “Turn up the goddam air-conditioning! And get me some raw chicken. And a heavy glove. Any goddam glove.”
“Yes, sir.” Carl was back with the water—and another man. A very different type—older, a bit of a gut, muscle. Dark-skinned, “African American,” but maybe Latino, as well. “Raw chicken,” Carl said. He looked at the other man, who looked back and shook his head. He didn’t do raw chicken, he meant.
Carl was out the door. Carl was good at obeying.
Piat poured water into the cap of the jug and held it while Bella poked the water with her beak. He repeated the process again and again. Bella developed some energy as she drank, and her wings stirred, and her talons began to lacerate Piat’s wrist.
Piat had heard the car start outside and heard Carl drive away. He walked up and down the trailer, ignoring the lances of pain from his wrist, crooning to Bella, stroking her feathers. He found a heavy web belt in a kitchen and shifted Bella while he wrapped the belt around his left arm and wrist and then put her on it. He gave her more water. He sang “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner” for her.
The whole time, the dark-skinned guy watched him. When Piat walked Bella out of the office and down the trailer, he followed. Then he followed them back. Piat said, “You got a name?”
“Yeah.”
Piat decided not to make anything of it. He had problems enough.
Piat wanted to build her a real perch. He started rifling the trailer, moving carefully with the bird on his arm from countertop to desktop. The nameless man followed him. Piat removed a curtainless rod from a window, and jammed it into a corner, supporting one end on a window ledge and the other on a hole he seemed to have punched in the wallboard. He found an aluminum foil tray from somebody’s takeaway lunch under the packaging and warranties for a couple of international pagers in the wastebasket, washed it out in the kitchen sink and wired it next to the perch with wire he found on spools from another desk. He filled the aluminum tray with water.
Bella watched him work with her head on one side, then hopped up on the rod and began to drink again. Piat salvaged the newspapers from the desk and laid them on the floor under her. Under the newspaper he found the extensive packaging for the two international pagers. He made a food tray from one of the heavy plastic bubbles. He put all the rest of the packaging into the wastebasket on the crap from the pagers. The other man watched him all the time and, when he was finished with the wastebasket, put his foot on top of the contents and pushed them way down. Human trash compacter.
Piat heard the car outside and went back to Bella.
Carl held out a bag as soon as he was through the door. “Don’t know about the gloves. Chicken’s fresh.” He saw Bella and pushed his glasses up. “She going to be okay?”
“I’m not a vet. She could die for all I know. And then you guys are responsible. Understand?” Piat pulled a pair of gardening gloves out of the bag. Better than nothing.
The other guy grinned, and Carl shot him a look and he went blank, so maybe there was some question about who was in charge here. Carl, at any rate, was the one who made the apologies and said it wasn’t their doing, and they were sorry, and he thought the bird looked better already. And so on.
Piat fed her some chicken, concealing most of the chicken breast in the glove as he had seen Hackbutt do. “I can’t feed her too much. It’ll hurt more than it helps. She’ll need to be fed again tonight.” Piat was trying not to think of anything but Bella. He needed to get over this hurdle; then he’d worry about the rest, Mohamed most of all.
He fed her some more and then put her on the perch. Carl took the rest of the chicken off to the kitchen. When he came back, the dark-skinned man went off to the back of the trailer. He had said one word—yeah.
“I can’t use this cage for her,” Piat said. He had been looking at it. Bad enough that it looked like hell—the prince would be put off—but a lot worse that she could catch her neck in the crack if she tried to put her head out the hole. He didn’t want a strangled bird. That would end the operation before they ever got to Mohamed. He looked at his watch, making sure he had time to get to the airport to meet Hackbutt. “You guys owe me a cage.”
“And we’re on it. I’ve got my girl right on it. She’s found one that we think will be okay, but she’s still calling around because we, uh, because we know this is on our nickel and we’re obligated. Really. We’ll deliver her to you in a brand-new cage. I swear it.”
“The bird was to have been delivered to me two hours ago. You bring her to me and I find her underweight and scared and with no water! You know what this bird is worth?”
“Uh, yes, sir, no—I can hazard a guess but I don’t know. She’s a valuable bird. We’re on it—really. We’ll deliver her in a new cage by five local. Honest.” He looked hard at Piat. “Are you born again?”
“Oh, come on—”
“I am. We don’t say ‘Honest to God,’ but when we say something we know we stand in Jesus’ sight. I mean this, sir. Five o’clock.”
Piat was looking down at the desk at an untidy litter of correspondence. He could see three dates from several months before. All three had a letterhead for Force Air. Glancing at it, he had thought it said Forced Air, and he thought how funny it would be if Carl really was an air-conditioning man. But it said Force Air. He said, “You with Force Air, Carl?”
“Yes, sir.”
That made some sense. Maybe one of the Agency’s inhouse airlines. That would be Partlow’s style, he thought.
“Well, I know who to blame, then. Five o’clock. You better be there with the bird and new cage, or you’re up shit creek. Can you get her into the new cage?”
“Uh—well, if I have to—” Carl was looking at the glove, which Piat had tossed on the desk.
“Don’t try to handle her. Don’t try to feed her until then. Then, put a little of the chicken in the new cage. Let her see it and smell it before you put it in.” He was thinking of Hackbutt in Kenya, luring the red-tailed hawk out of the tree. “Maybe she’ll walk right in. If she doesn’t, you call me, same number you did before.” So the one-call phone would become a two-call phone. Bad procedure, bad security. It was a clusterfuck. “Okay?”
Carl pushed his glasses up his nose and said “sir” several times and “yes” several times, and, staying away from Bella, he circled around to Piat and asked if he wanted to stay in the trailer with the bird or did he want to go into Ma
nama?
He checked his watch again. No point in letting Carl know anything about what he was doing. “Take me back to my hotel.” He’d get a cab there to the airport.
Yessir, yessir.
Piat walked into the airport and went straight to a washroom, where he sat on the can and thought about the potential for disaster that faced him. He’d wanted these hours to think about recruiting Mohamed, and instead he had an operation that could fall to pieces because of a bird. On top of that, he’d compromised his own security by going to a military base and was going to do it again by letting Carl call him a second time, and then he’d have to get Bella—if she was alive and well—and transfer her to Hackbutt without letting Carl see Hackbutt or even know about him. What he needed, he thought, was a backup team; in fact, he had needed one to check Carl out before he had even let the little man pick him up.
Too late, too late.
He had about fifteen minutes before Hackbutt was due to land. He drank some water form the tap, splashed some on his forehead and washed the chicken off his hands. He felt used up, and his brain wouldn’t work. He had the terrible feeling that he was too old for what he was doing.
He thought This is the last time I do this.
Hackbutt was one of the last people off his flight, appearing just as Piat had begun to think that he might have missed his plane. He looked more dignified than the other passengers, older, better dressed. And not much like Edgar Hackbutt.
“Digger,” Piat said, taking his hand.
“Jack. Nice of you to meet me.” Hackbutt was wearing a tropical suit and had a leather case over his shoulder. He looked like an ad for senior adventure travel.
“Something’s gone haywire, Digger.” Piat spoke low, steered Hackbutt away from the rush to the exit and into a coffee shop. “Something’s come up.”
Hackbutt went right to his main concern. “Is it Bella? Is she okay?”
“How long can Bella go without food?”
Hackbutt started and got red. “What are you saying? Where is she? What’s the matter?”
Piat put a hand on Hackbutt’s. “She’s fine. I just saw her. She didn’t like the shipping process, that’s all, and she’s pissed. I sang to her and gave her half a chicken. Was that too much?”
“Too much to fly, but fine after a long time without feeding. What d’you mean, she didn’t like the shipping?”
Piat cut him off. “Can she make it until tomorrow on that feed?”
Hackbutt nodded. “A week, if she had to. Jack, what’s happened?”
Piat rubbed his chin. “There was some screwup with the cage. It’s okay, it’s okay! I checked her over; she’s not even bruised—she didn’t react when I touched her, nothing like that. But they cracked the cage.”
“Cracked it! You couldn’t crack it with a sledgehammer!”
“Apparently they used a forklift. Anyway, she’s okay, but we’re getting a new cage.”
Hackbutt didn’t like that at all. “She was just getting used to the one we had.” His face was puckered up like an angry baby’s.
“You can’t give the prince a goddam million-dollar bird in a cage that looks like a cracked egg, Digger! Jesus! We’re getting a new cage. Suck it up.”
“I’m just thinking of Bella, Jack.”
“Well, start thinking about Mohamed. Focus, Digger!” Christ, it’s getting to me! He changed his tone. “I’m sorry, Dig. I got a lot on my mind.”
“It’s my last night with her, Jack.”
“Yeah. Right. I understand. Of course, you’re absolutely right. So, here’s the deal: I’ll get her and the new cage at five o’clock; I’ll bring her—”
“You haven’t got her?”
“Jesus, Christ—! Dig, the transport guys have to buy a new cage. Bella’s in an air-conditioned space; I saw to it that she had water and a perch and she’s okay. Give it a rest, will you?”
Hackbutt pouted. “You seem awfully jumpy, Jack.”
“Yeah, pre-menstrual tension. It’s Mohamed, Dig. That’s where I’ve got to focus.” He met Hackbutt’s eyes. “You, too. Okay?”
Hackbutt looked away. He was hurt. He slumped. “She’s my favorite.”
“And you’ll see her in about an hour.” He tapped on the Formica tabletop. “I get the bird and the new cage and I bring her to your hotel. Now listen up, Dig—unless you hear otherwise from me, I want you at the loading dock of the hotel from five-thirty in the morning on. Got me? With a handcart or something to move the cage with. And maybe somebody to help. Yeah, get a porter with a handcart or a dolly; it doesn’t look good for you to be moving a big object. You’re rich; you pay other people to move your stuff. The hotel’s expecting a bird, okay? They won’t be expecting a fucking eagle. Try to go up in a freight elevator—get a porter who understands you, okay?” Piat was sweating. He thought he was making it up as he went along, although he’d always intended to do it this way, had in fact briefed Hackbutt on it before they’d left. But it was different now because of the cage and the bird’s condition. And because he was spooked.
“I’ll meet you at the loading dock. Then she’s yours for the night. Okay? Just focus on how great she’ll feel when she sees you. She’ll know. It’ll be great for both of you.”
But Hackbutt wasn’t cheered. “The last night.”
Oh, Christ, don’t have second thoughts! Piat touched Hackbutt’s hand. “Five-thirty? Loading dock, porter, hand truck. Act like a king, Digger. Act like you expect people to do things your way, and they will.” He lowered his head so he could look into Hackbutt’s eyes. “Are we together on this?”
Hackbutt stared at him, then broke out of his mood and straightened. “Sure, Jack. It’ll all be fine!”
“Good.” Jesus Christ, they’d switched roles—now it was Hackbutt supporting him. He took out a piece of paper with the number of a cell phone he’d bought in the souk. Another one-time—or two-time or three-time if he couldn’t pull his socks up. “You can reach me any time at this number. Once I’ve turned Bella over to you. Okay? If there’s anything, anything, you call me. Okay? I don’t want any surprises in the morning, Dig. Okay?” Hackbutt was nodding. They had been over and over this stage. Did he get it? “In the morning. We meet at six outside the front door of your hotel. Okay? It’s like a drive-by, only I’ll be on foot. You come out, you see me, you walk to your left—your left, okay?—and I’ll check your back trail. Go four blocks and stop and wait for me. If I don’t show right away, call me on the number I gave you. Okay?”
“This is so you can brief me.”
“Right.”
“Just like we planned.”
“You got it.”
“Where’s Bella all this time?”
“In your room.”
“What if somebody says I can’t keep her in the hotel?”
Piat suppressed a sigh. “Be a king, Dig. Tell them it was all arranged and don’t take no for an answer.”
“But what if they won’t?”
“Then call me.”
He went over it again. And then again. And then he said they’d see each other at the loading dock between five-thirty and six, and he hoped that he was telling the truth.
In the event, it went like a well-tuned car. Carl called him just before five and was at the meeting place Piat had picked out a few minutes early—Piat knew because he was earlier still. He parked where he could watch Carl’s approach and check around them for a bubble. All this, when there was no reason why there should be a bubble or why he should feel the unease that seemed to have gripped him.
He waited another five minutes and then pulled his rented van behind Carl’s car. The transfer took two minutes, the slowest part getting the cage out. Carl was driving a Land Cruiser this time; the rear seats had been taken out, but still getting the cage out was like pulling a worm out of a hole.
“Big cage,” Piat said.
“The best.”
Also a heavy cage. Through wire mesh that would have resisted bolt-cutters, Piat
saw Bella’s angry eye. She looked okay.
Getting her into the van was easier, but the two men were winded when they were done.
“We’re really, really sorry,” Carl said.
“The new cage looks okay.”
“We try to do the right thing. It’s how we do business.”
Carl seemed eager to please. Piat wanted to pat him on the head and tell him he was a good dog, but instead he held his hand out for a pen and began signing his cover name to manifests and insurance forms. He looked up from one and said, “If she isn’t one hundred percent, your company’s ass is grass.”
Yessir, yessir.
He drove a careful countersurveillance route back to Hackbutt’s hotel. He couldn’t leave the car to make real stops, and it limited his observations. Bella kept him pinned to the car.
The countersurveillance route didn’t make him feel better. He wasn’t sure he was clean, nor had he seen anything to prove that he was dirty. The ambiguity of the situation wasn’t the result of nerves. Piat was a careful spy, to whom tradecraft and precaution were a lifestyle. He felt that he was under surveillance, and the feeling was on the edge between intuition and observation.
If Carl had brought somebody to the exchange, then they’d have been all ready to follow him. Ideal surveillance conditions. Piat sat in the parking garage of his hotel, rubbing his face.
So he drove a second route to Hackbutt. It made him late. That was too bad. He still didn’t see anybody and he couldn’t shake the notion that he was being watched, or that the watchers had picked him up when he took the bird.