Read Online The Falconer's Tale by Gordon Kent - Free Book Online

Iceland.”
    Partlow sighed. “I had intended to add fifteen hundreddollars as a success bonus, Jerry. Is that sufficient? You canpurchase your own ticket.”
    Piat watched the town of Tobermory spreading out belowthem as they drove around the traffic circle. “Throw in thecar for the rest of the day,” he said. “Let me have the car.I’ll go fishing.”
    Partlow sighed again. “Jerry, sometimes I think you aren’tquite sane. It’s raining. It’s cold.”
    â€œSo you won’t leave the hotel. It’s a spate, Clyde. Give methe money and my rods and I’ll get an afternoon’s fishinghere. And no hard feelings.” Curious how easily manipulatedPartlow was on this. It had never occurred to Piat beforethat Partlow wanted his approval. But he did. Interesting .
    Partlow turned and looked at him, as if assessing him.Almost certainly was assessing him. Then he smiled. “Whatthe hell. Just don’t run off with the car, Jerry, okay? It’s arental, and I signed for it.”
    Piat smiled. “Clyde, why would I run off with the car?”
    Piat spent thirty minutes with Partlow signing forms. Itamused him that Clyde was so punctilious on his forms—another sign that the man hadn’t spent enough time runningreal agents. Perhaps that was the root of his insecurity. Piatcomplied cheerfully, however, especially when he discoveredthat he could sign all the forms in a cover name. He acquiredsixty-five hundred dollars in large bills and retrieved hisfishing gear and his battered backpack.
    In his own room at the Mishnish he called Irene. Hackbuttwould still be at the restaurant; Piat’s responsibility to theoperation was over; what better time to get her to join him?Except that nobody answered at the farm. He called airlinesat Glasgow and discovered that, as he had suspected, hecouldn’t get back to Greece for twenty-four hours. Irene wasvanishing over his horizon—Hackbutt would get back to thefarm soon; complications would set in. He shrugged. In anhour, he was in the car, which he loathed as too big and tooflashy—and too damned short to carry his rod already set up.
    He had ideas about where to go to fish—he’d virtuallymemorized the green tourist brochure in his room. He satin the car, watching the rain over the sea, and tried toremember how fishing worked in Scotland. You had to buytickets—there was virtually no public fishing. At least, that’swhat he’d read in the brochure. A glance at his watch toldhim that it was two p.m. He shut off the car and went backinto the hotel.
    The windows of the bookstore were full of children’s booksand travel guides to catch the tourist’s eyes, but as soon ashe was through the door and out of the rain he saw the caseof flies and the corner dedicated to fishing. The floor was oldwood, the ceiling low—it was an eighteenth-century shopfront, or perhaps two joined together.
    A pretty young woman stood behind the counter, perhapssixteen years old—a little young for Piat, but a pleasure tosee. “I wonder if you could tell me about the fishing,” Piatasked. “I have the afternoon.”
    â€œWould you be wanting the trout, then?” she asked.
    â€œSalmon?” Piat asked, a little wistfully. “Or is there seatrout fishing here?”
    â€œSome, aye. My da would know better.” She spoke quiteseriously—fishing was a serious subject here. “He’s in theback. Shall I get him, then?”
    She made Piat feel quite old. “Yes, please,” he said, like aboy on his best behavior.
    She vanished into an office in the back. Piat began tobrowse. The front of the store was full of books for tourists,with maps and walking guides and a whole series of bookson the genealogy and history of the island. All locally printed.He flipped through one, a walking guide with historical notes.The antiquarian in him automatically counted the hill