Nick Carter - Death of the Falcon

“We wanted to give her a couple of minutes of privacy on the radio with him,” he said. “At least as much privacy as there can be, what with monitoring equipment being what it is today.”

“How did it go?” I asked.

It all had been pretty formal, he said, complete with a polite, “How are you?” and, “Is everything all right?”

I wondered just how formal the whole picture would have looked to him if I hadn’t checked the hall closet on our way out of the CIA’s safe house and found Sherima’s mink coat stashed there. The Secretary had offered to help her off with it when we arrived, but Sherima kept it clutched around her, explaining that she had taken a chill en route there and would keep it on a while, then followed the Secretary into the library as the grandfather clock in his entrance hall struck eight times.

During the period that had passed since then, I had told Hawk what occurred in the house on Military Road. He had been on the phone several times, issuing instructions and following up on reports from the various units he had assigned to special tasks after I completed my story. The Secretary had a scrambler line that connected directly with Hawk’s office, and the Old Man’s instructions had been relayed through our communications network over it.

Hawk went to make another call and I slumped back in the big antique wicker chair again. When he returned, I could tell the news was good, because the slight smile by which he expressed extreme pleasure was there.

“The Sword is going to be all right,” Hawk said. “We’re going to get him back on his feet and then ship him off to Shah Hassan as a token of our mutual friendship.”

“What do we get in return?” I asked, suspicious of such generosity on the part of my boss.

“Well, N3, we’ve decided to suggest that it would be nice if the Shah were just to return some of those little presents the boys in the Pentagon have been slipping him when nobody was looking.”

“Will he go along with it?”

“I think so. From what I’ve just overheard in the library, I think the Shah will be giving up his throne soon. That means his brother will be taking over, and I don’t think Hassan wants anyone else to have his finger on the trigger of those playthings. I gather another divorce may be in the offing, too, and—”

He turned at the sound of the library door opening again. Sherima came out, followed by the Secretary of State, who was saying, “Well, my dear, I guess we can go in to dinner, finally. I’ve had the heat turned up in the dining room, so I’m sure you won’t need your coat now.”

As he reached out to take it, 1 started to laugh. Sherima flashed me a smile and winked, then turned so she could slip out of the mink. Embarrassed, Hawk nudged me and said reprimandingly under his breath, “What are you chuckling at, N3? They’ll hear you.”

“It’s a secret, sir. We’ve all got one.”

As the long coat came off Sherima’s shoulders, it was as though the Silver Falcon had shed her wings. As she walked regally toward the candlelit dining room, my secret was exposed. And so were hers.