The Jackal's Share (11 page)

In the last fifteen minutes the wind, squalling now and forceful, had blown them halfway across the estuary so that they were only two hundred yards from the northern shore, and over the headland to the south rainclouds the color of wet rock were massing. The little boat danced erratically on the chop.

“Did you check the forecast?” said Elsa.

“There was nothing about this,” said Webster, sitting in the stern and dropping the engine back into the water. Daniel started to cry and Elsa comforted him as Webster started it up, turning the boat back toward the village, suddenly feeling exposed and more vulnerable than he had thought possible here. Substantial waves crossed the estuary now and Webster took them on the perpendicular, the bow rising up and crashing down, sending thick arcs of spray over the boat. Everyone was quiet, the only sounds the blustering wind and the slap of the bow on the water, and Webster, adjusting their direction and concentrating hard, watched his family huddled together and found himself praying for their safe return.

•   •   •

“
H
E MAY NOT LOOK IT,
but he’s a daunting figure, my father.” Webster had stood to speak, but there was no need. They were twelve in all, squeezed around a makeshift dining table that was really two tables artfully dressed, and in the candlelight each face was bright with expectation. He could have simply raised his glass and bid them all do the same, and they would have been happy—his father, perhaps, would have preferred it—but there were things he had never said before that needed to be said.

“When we were little, Friday night was discussion night. I think it started when I was ten or eleven.” He glanced at his sister. “You must have been all of nine. After we’d eaten, Dad would ask us if there was anything we wanted to talk about that week. There never was. So he’d suggest something. Something from the papers, or something that was on his mind, or something he knew was on ours. The first one I can remember, there was a huge CND march in London, and you wanted to know,” he turned to his father, “whether we thought it was right that these weapons existed. Or what we made of the miners’ strike. Or hostages in Beirut. Or heart transplants. Or Chernobyl.” He took a breath.

“Some of this scared me, to be honest. These were things I half heard on the radio or caught scraps of on the news when we were ushered off to bed, and I wanted to block them out. But you didn’t let us do that. We had to know what the world was like, so that we wouldn’t be scared.

“And it worked, more or less. I used to have the odd nightmare about nuclear winters, but that had more to do with my friend Peter Lennon gleefully showing me films about the likely aftermath. But generally the world was a less frightening place. It was still scary, but we didn’t have to be scared by it.”

Webster paused. “He did this for us. But more importantly he did it for countless others who were much more vulnerable than we ever were. We knew what he did at work, a little, because he’d explain it to us, like everything else. Not the details, of course, and in a sense I still don’t know. But I can see the thousands of people he treated and begin to imagine how they were helped and changed and sometimes cured by his work. In thirty years of practicing, that’s thousands and thousands of lives made better, sometimes in small ways, sometimes beyond all expectation. Thousands of people who because of him were less fearful. Became less scared.”

He looked at his sister again. “It’s quite an inheritance, not being scared of the dark. And Rachel, at least, uses her powers for good.” He smiled. “But I don’t think either of us can look at a thing we don’t understand and not want to understand it. Dad showed us how to explore the world.”

Webster stopped, took a sip of wine from one of the glasses in front of him, and looked down at his father, who was gazing at the tablecloth with a peaceful half-smile on his face. The little room was utterly quiet, and shadows thrown by the candles flickered on the walls.

“I’m going to stop, before this turns into a eulogy. I’m not going to go on about what a wonderful father he’s been, or what a wonderful husband I think he’s been—unless I’ve missed something. Or how he now has a new career as a local campaigner for truth and justice.” His father laughed. “I’m very aware that this is not a funeral and that, like Mr. Jarndyce, the man on my right doesn’t much like being praised. With any luck this little speech will have to last for a long, long time. But sixty-five isn’t a bad time to take stock, and, well, there’s a lot of stock to take. An awful lot. He couldn’t have set a better example. That’s why he’s daunting. Just a little.”

Webster took his champagne glass, specially filled, and raised it.

“To a courageous man.”

Repeating the words everyone drank, and Patrick Webster, still smiling, turned to his son and gave a deep, humble nod.

10.

B
ECAUSE IT WAS SUCH A WARM DAY,
Qazai told Webster as he greeted him, lunch would be served on the loggia overlooking the lake, if that sounded agreeable; quite often, even in late May, the breeze coming off the water could carry something of a chill, but today truly felt like the first day of summer, did it not? Timur and his family had arrived the previous evening and Ava was expected any minute.

Qazai motioned to a servant to take the bags from the taxi driver and putting his hand lightly on Webster’s back ushered him into the house, inquiring after his journey and instructing Francesco, a neat man in his fifties standing by the huge double doors, to show their guest to the principal guest suite. Lunch would be at one.

The principal guest of the Villa Foresi, it turned out, received regal treatment. The room was in a corner of the building on the first floor, with Lake Como on one side and on the other a lawned terrace edged with towering cypresses. The walls, a refined light gray, were hung with fragments of textiles in frames, and a fine green silk rug covered half the tiled floor. These were the only touches of Qazai’s taste; everything else, Webster suspected, had been designed fairly recently by a professional of enormous discretion.

French doors opened onto a balcony, and in the half an hour before he was due downstairs Webster sat outside, watching the boats on the lake and the servants making preparations for lunch and smoking what he was sure wouldn’t be the last cigarette of the day.

He missed Elsa. She would have liked it here. The house occupied a small peninsula, heavily wooded with chestnuts and cypresses and jutting grandly into the lake, and looked in fact like three houses progressing in steps down the hill to the water. It must have been two hundred years old, perhaps three, and even though everything was spotlessly kept—the apricot walls and verdigris shutters freshly painted, the terraced gardens neatly clipped, the rhododendrons and azaleas and camellias freshly in bloom—it had the dignity and reserve of age, as if its current occupiers were fleeting tenants and not a matter of great concern. So yes, she would have liked it, and he would have liked her to be here, but at the same time he was relieved beyond measure that she hadn’t come.

At five to one he made his way downstairs and found the Qazais sitting at a table under an open arcade. Only Ava was not yet there. Timur rose and coming to greet him shook his hand stiffly; Raisa was warmer, and remembered him to Farhad and to Parviz, who smiled shyly.

Webster sat opposite Ava’s empty seat next to Qazai, who took the head. A waiter in a white jacket, white shirt and black tie poured him water, switched bottles deftly and before Webster could consider or object had poured him a glass of white wine.

“Your good health, Mr. Webster,” said Qazai, raising his glass, “we are delighted to see you here.”

Webster raised his and gently clinked the other glasses. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be invited.” It sounded stiff as he said it. “You have a very beautiful house.” Behind Ava’s empty seat the lake seemed to stretch across his entire vision, still and evenly blue, and from it on the far shore rose green forested mountains, the highest in the range beyond still tipped with snow.

“Thank you,” said Qazai, with a little bow of his head. He wore an open-necked white shirt and seemed relaxed; but despite the casual air Webster thought his eyes looked tired, and the skin under them dry and dark. “This is probably where I am happiest. Right here. With my family.” He raised his glass again, and drank a silent toast to them.

“Ava!” Farhad, Parviz’s brother, had slid off his chair and was running across the lawn with his arms spread wide, clutching Ava’s leg as he reached her. She ruffled his hair, squatting down and kissing him, then picked him up to swing him around in a low arc. Smiling and taking off her sunglasses, she crossed the grass to the table and went straight to Parviz, crouching down by him and giving him an enveloping hug. When she finally pulled away she held his face in her hands and looked at him for several seconds, her eyes full of intensity as if she were about to cry.

At last she let go of Parviz, gave him an earnest smile and went to Qazai, hugging him and Raisa and her brother in turn. Webster stood.

“You remember Mr. Webster,” said Qazai.

“I do. Hello, Mr. Webster.” She held out her hand, smiling, her eyes no longer intense but playful. “What do you make of our lakeside retreat? Not to be confused with the seaside retreat, or the mountain retreat, or all the other retreats.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Ava sat, her eyes on Webster, and waited for her wine to be poured.

Now that everyone was here Qazai unfolded his napkin and placed it carefully in his lap. “I was just telling Mr. Webster, darling, that this is my favorite place. There is something about the lake and the mountains . . .”

“That reminds you of Iran. Yes, we know.” Ava was smiling but there was a hint of needle in her voice.

Qazai also smiled, a little stiffly. “My daughter knows me too well,” he said, to no one in particular. “But did you know,” he leaned in to the table, pointing at the gardens, “that the cypress was planted in all the ancient gardens of Iran? They do not look quite like this—more bushy, less straight—but they have been in my country since history began.”

Ava shook her head several times in mock surprise. “No. I honestly didn’t know that.” She turned to Timur. “Did you know that?”

Timur frowned a little, as if he couldn’t quite understand what Ava was doing, and glanced at Raisa. “No, I didn’t.”

“The oldest tree in Asia,” said Qazai, watching Ava closely as she turned back to him, “is an Iranian cypress.”

Ava nodded briskly. “So. Mr. Webster. Have you ever been to Iran?”

“I haven’t, no. I’m not sure that someone in my profession should try.”

Ava raised her eyebrows, as if to ask him why not.

“They might decide I’m a spy.”

“Which of course you’re not.”

Webster smiled.

“How old are you, Mr. Webster?” said Qazai.

“Thirty-eight.”

“Then I hope you get the chance one day.”

“Do you think I might?”

Qazai sat back, took a slow breath, and made a show of thinking. From the end of the table came the sound of Farhad clinking his knife and fork.

“I have high hopes. High hopes. Mixed with real fear.”

Timur quietly took Farhad’s cutlery from him, and they all waited for Qazai to go on, allowing the patriarch his moment. Ava looked down and tapped her fingers lightly on the tablecloth. Her nails were long and unpainted.

“It is not possible,” said Qazai, “for such weak people to stifle a country that old, that . . . valiant for long. They are pariahs. They are desert dogs. Iran will wring their necks. But for now—for this year, for next—they will do what they have learned to do so well these past two decades. They will try to terrify their people.” He was animated now, and he took a drink of wine before continuing. “But we are not as afraid as we were. It may not take much longer. What has happened in Egypt, in Tunisia—people see that it can be done. They sense the trick of power. The illusion.”

Qazai leaned forward and put down his wine glass to signal that for now he was done; Ava sat back and crossed her arms, and Webster thought he heard her give a little sigh as she did so. No one spoke for a moment, and Qazai merely looked at his daughter calmly but pointedly, as if to say that he saw that she objected in some way but was not prepared to pursue it in company. Not meeting his eye she raised her eyebrows a fraction, glanced at Parviz and Raisa in turn, and reached forward for the bread that the waiter had just placed on her side plate with a pair of silver tongs. Timur and Raisa quietly tried to engage Farhad, who was growing restless.

“Do you do much work in Iran, Mr. Webster?” said Qazai at last, turning to him. He was smiling but his brow was tight and he was clearly angered by this small, public act of insubordination. Webster wondered whether he controlled every conversation with his family in the same way, and looked for neutral ground where the others might feel safe to follow.

“A little. It’s not an easy place to do what we do. As you can imagine. Although it’s not the worst.”

Raisa gratefully took the bait. “Where is that, Mr. Webster?”

“Please—Ben.” Raisa smiled and nodded. “It depends what you mean by worst. Poland is impossible to understand. The Germans hate to tell you anything. The Balkans are the most confusing place on earth.”

Raisa smiled. “I should be flattered, I’m sure.”

Webster looked puzzled.

“I’m from Slovenia,” she said. “If that counts.”

“Oh, I think so,” said Webster.

“But the most dangerous?” Ava appeared to have recovered; she was contributing.

Webster thought for a moment. “Well, Iran would be up there. Iraq, certainly. Parts of Africa. Russia.”

“I read about your difficulties there, Mr. Webster,” said Qazai. “That can’t have been an easy time.”

This threw Webster. It was easy enough to find those articles but he was surprised that Qazai had taken the trouble, and more surprised that he should raise it here. “No, it wasn’t an easy time.”

“You have my sympathies,” said Qazai. “To do something valuable it is sometimes necessary to accept misfortune. Everyone here has experience of this, I think.”

Webster managed to nod, controlling an impulse to ask Qazai what on earth he meant, and was only distracted from his irritation by Ava laughing, a short hard laugh.

“Daddy, look around.” She shook her head as if in wonder. “Look at all this. We are some of the most fortunate people who ever lived.”

“Not all misfortune involves money, Ava.”

“I thought everything was about money.” Her eyes were wide in challenge, her head inclined slightly to one side.

For a full five seconds he looked at her, his features set.

“Ava, now is not the time.” His mouth but not his eyes relented into a smile. “And this isn’t like you. Please let us enjoy our lunch on this beautiful day.”

“For Mr. Webster’s sake.”

“For all our sakes.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Webster,” said Ava. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You haven’t.” He and Ava exchanged a look; Webster thought he could see in her eyes a real fury that hadn’t been there when they met in London.

Food came, the moment passed, and the rest of the lunch was spent in stiff but fluent enough conversation about children and education and holidays and other subjects deemed safe by some tacit mutual understanding. Qazai was in charge, distributing the conversation around the table with a diplomat’s equilibrium. The only people he failed to engage were Parviz and Farhad, who sat dutifully enough and mourned the hot, bright day.

Occasionally he would set up a story for Timur or ask him to give his opinion on some matter but for the most part his son was withdrawn. Webster wondered whether he was always like this in his father’s company, whether he didn’t dare be himself, or whether he was merely preoccupied, or tired, or simply bored of some repeating pattern in the relationship between Ava and his father; wondered, too, why Qazai had invited him here to witness all this uneasiness, and concluded that he was as surprised by it as anyone.

As the coffees were cleared Qazai stood, thanked everyone for their company, and asked if they would mind leaving him alone with Mr. Webster and Timur because there were things they needed to discuss. Raisa and Ava did not delay and followed Parviz and Farhad as they ran, thin-legged and laughing, into the house. Webster watched them go with envy, and asked Qazai whether he might smoke a cigarette.

•   •   •

Q
AZAI, IT SEEMED,
wanted Timur to sit in on their interview; it was important, was it not, that he knew exactly what had been found. Webster did his best not to show his irritation; the whole point of being in this secluded place was to get Qazai alone and see how he answered questions without an audience. He made cogent arguments, warned him that he would ask him things that he might not want Timur to hear, but Qazai insisted, and when your client insisted there was little that you could do. Not for the first time he cursed Ike for creating this impossible relationship.

He managed one small victory, however, which was to move inside the house; no one could ask or answer hard questions with the afternoon sun glimmering on the lake and the breeze soothing everything with its warmth. The three of them withdrew to Qazai’s study, a modest room on the northwestern side of the house, cool as a result, lined with leather-bound books on mahogany shelves and looking out through a small grove of pear trees onto a terrace planted with roses and camellias. Qazai sat behind his desk, an elegant insubstantial thing that had never seen much work, and Webster took one of the half-comfortable chairs that faced it. Timur took the other.

Webster placed his recorder on the corner of the desk, set it going and began. His first dozen questions were about the sculpture, and Qazai’s answers were predictable. No, he did not know a Mr. Shokhor; he had never bought anything at all from a Swiss dealer, to his knowledge; Mehr might have done but if he had he had never mentioned it. He was, in short, mystified by the whole business, and would be glad when Webster had finally settled it.

“Do you have anything to tell me?” he said, expectant.

“No. Not yet. We’re making progress.”

“How long, do you think?”

“It depends. Sometimes these things just give. Sometimes they can get tricky. Two or three weeks, I would say.”

Qazai nodded briskly, as if to say that that wasn’t quick enough but would have to do, and waited for the next question.

“Do you think,” said Webster, picking his words carefully, “that there might be a connection between the death of Cyrus Mehr and this story?”

Qazai sat straighter in his chair, and when he spoke he was emphatic. “No. I don’t.”

Timur looked from his father to Webster and back again.

Webster went on. “I was wondering . . . perhaps there’s something going on here we don’t fully understand. Maybe someone thinks he was involved in smuggling for the same reason someone thinks you were.”