Rocky laughed. “I’ll never understand the fascination you and my father have with falcons. It’s a mystery to me. I prefer fast cars and fast women. Blond women with big lips. And movies. I’m a great fan of American movies. Especially the gangster movies and the Westerns. I love the Westerns. I don’t see why your people don’t make them anymore.”
Nate didn’t care what Rocky liked.
Rocky gestured out the window at the sagebrush plains, the foothills, the slumping shoulders of the Bighorn Mountains. “This looks like a place for a Western movie. I expect to see a cowboy ride up any minute.”
As they passed Shorty walking on the road, Nate looked out the back window. Shorty was chasing the car, his arms outstretched. Thinking that somehow they hadn’t seen him.
Rocky said, “Poor Shorty.”
Nate wondered if his birds were worth this.
The outsized private jet sat brilliant white and gleaming in the morning sun on the concrete apron of the Saddlestring Regional Airport. Two-foot-high Arabic writing was scrawled the length of the fuselage along with green Saudi Arabian flags. Small private planes had been moved to accommodate the craft and were parked under the wings of the 737, looking like small white offspring.
Khalid had a key to the lock on the gate and he drove the Escalade to the base of the aircraft.
“Please,” Rocky said, gesturing to Nate to get out and ascend the stairs into the jet.
Al-Nura Abd al Saud, Rocky’s father, sat in an overstuffed leather armchair in a book-lined private office paneled with dark rich woods and gold fixtures. A monitor and DVD player was mounted into the wall next to stacks of movies. Nate glanced at the titles, noted pornography and dozens of old Westerns: Fort Apache, Red River, Shane, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, The Searchers. Al-Nura was grossly fat and soft. His robes were cream-colored cotton and they shimmered and draped when he stood up. He wore the distinctive red-and-white-checked kaffiyeh head covering held in place with a common agal band, as befit a descendant of the Royal House of Saud. Al-Nura beamed and struggled to his feet when Nate was shown into the room by Rocky.
Al-Nura took both of Nate’s hands in his and shook and caressed them, saying, “It is so good to see you again, Mr. Romanowski. I was afraid something had happened to you. Please, let’s sit and talk. It’s time to catch up.”
Rocky stood to the side, his false grin pasted on. Khalid slipped in through the doorway and closed the door behind him, taking the corner of the room where he could watch Nate and Al-Nura without moving his head.
Nate sat on a plush ottoman across from Al-Nura. The fat man settled back into his chair before the cushions had fully recovered in his absence.
“Would you like a coffee?” Al-Nura asked. “A brandy? A water? We have the whiskey you like.”
“I’m fine.”
Al-Nura shot a glance at Khalid. “Coffee.”
Khalid crossed the room, opened another door, ordered. In a moment, a woman appeared with a silver tray with a samovar and two tiny cups. She was slim, blond, stunningly beautiful, with a full red mouth and a short black dress. She looked made-to-order for Rocky. Nate glanced over, saw the predatory look on Rocky’s face, and guessed she served more than coffee.
“Thank you,” Nate said as she poured him a cup.
“You’re welcome,” she said in a whisper. East European, Nate guessed by her accent.
“That will be all,” Al-Nura said, not looking at her.
She swished out, leaving her scent in the cabin.
“I have five of those on board,” Al-Nura said.
“‘Those’ being women,” Nate said.
Al-Nura raised his eyebrows, assessing Nate. “Yes,” he said, after a beat. “All blondes. Bosnians, Albanians. They have nice women there who need jobs. There is no struggle with them. They know why they’re here.”
Nate shook his head, said, “We can get right to it.”
Al-Nura looked at Rocky and Khalid, said, “See what I told you about him? He is like this.”
“No respect,” Rocky said, nodding. Khalid didn’t respond, but stood there dark and smoldering, his black eyes never leaving Nate.
Al-Nura laughed, a sound from deep in his chest. “All business, no sense of fun. That is Nate Romanowski, the Master Falconer.”
“You have my birds,” Nate said.
“Yes. But only for a while.”
“I want them back.”
“I can see why,” Al-Nura said. “I was admiring them. Especially the peregrine. She is a cold-blooded little bitch, isn’t she? I see why you prize her. If she were a woman, I would take her to my bed.”
Rocky laughed at that.
Nate said, “If she were a woman, she’d turn you into a eunuch.”
Rocky’s laugh ended abruptly and he stepped forward. Only when Al-Nura smiled did Rocky uncoil.
“You are right,” Al-Nura said. “What do you call her?”
“I call her a peregrine falcon.”
“What? You don’t give her a name?”
“No.”
Al-Nura shook his head. “That is interesting. I’ve never known a falconer not to name his birds.”
“I don’t own them,” Nate said. “We have a common interest. So I don’t name them. They name themselves.”
Al-Nura studied Nate, looking for something. His black eyes scoured Nate’s face, his neck, his hands.
“I want a bird like that,” Al-Nura said.
“I know.”
“I sent you sixty thousand dollars for six young wild peregrine falcons, and the money came back without a note.”
Nate nodded.
“That’s not the way we do business.”
“It is now.”
Al-Nura sat back, his brow furrowed. “It was not enough? You’ve raised your prices?”
Nate reached out for the tiny cup of coffee. As he did so, he noted how Khalid tensed up and leaned forward on the balls of his feet, ready to lunge forward if necessary. Nate sipped the bitter coffee.
“Peregrines aren’t rare anymore,” Nate said. “They’re off the endangered list. You can get them through captive breeders. You don’t need to get them through me.”
Al-Nura dismissed that with a quick wave of his hand. “No. I want wild birds. No captives.”
“They’re good birds from those programs,” Nate said. “There’s nothing wrong with them.”
“No!” Al-Nura barked, his face flushing red. “Wild birds only. Like yours. I am a master, I won’t own domestic-raised birds.”
Al-Nura started to stand but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He waved his arms as he spoke. “My people have hunted with falcons for thousands of years, it is the sport of kings. It is our tradition, my birthright. We were falconers before you even had a country. I have hunted with golden eagles from Afghanistan. I’ve killed deer with them. I can no longer get the eagles because of your war there. So I want the deadliest of falcons, the Rocky Mountain peregrine. The king of falcons for the sport of kings. You must help me.”
Nate said nothing.
“I know that you can capture some young ones,” Al-Nura said, his voice lowering from his outburst. “You know of nests here. You know where to find some.”
Nate sipped the coffee.
“Here,” Al-Nura said, reaching into his robes and pulling out a brick of cash. “One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Twice what the birds should cost. I give you half of it now, the other half when you bring me the birds. And you get your falcons back. It’s a good deal. You can have the Bosnian for your pleasure as well.”
“I’ve got a woman,” he said, wishing immediately he hadn’t revealed that.
“I didn’t fly all the way here for nothing.”
Nate said, “I’m afraid you did.”
His words hung there in silence. Al-Nura didn’t erupt, but sat still as if he hadn’t heard them. Khalid’s only reaction was to shift his eyes from Nate to Al-Nura, waiting for a signal. Rocky was stunned.