The Jackal's Share (15 page)

Serious concerns contended with grave ones. A formal letter had arrived from the Italians asking him to appear in Milan for further questioning, and the date they had set was four days after the Websters were due to leave for their summer holiday in Cornwall. He had not yet told Elsa. His Italian lawyer was trying to come to an agreement with the police that Webster would not be arrested if he did attend, but described his chances only as reasonable; and, on the other hand, if Webster refused to answer questions now it would count against him if the matter ever came to trial—a trial he could not avoid. Signore Lucca had no advice about the most difficult aspect of the whole business, which was whether Qazai had the power to stop the process that he had in all likelihood started.

It was on one of these walks that Oliver finally called.

•   •   •

H
IS OFFICE FACED SOUTH
and didn’t run to air conditioning, or even a fan. A grubby cream blind was down over the window and Oliver, unusually, had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He was still wearing his tie.

“You don’t want coffee, I take it?”

Webster shook his head, impatient to get on with it.

“I just had some luck with the banks.”

“Mehr?”

“Mister Mehr. Correct. I’ll be honest with you, Ben, it’s a while since I’ve done a dead man’s bank accounts. Got to think on your feet a bit.”

Webster did his best not to think about what sort of agility was being employed on his behalf.

“So Mehr only had a couple of accounts. One here, one in Jersey. My man in Jersey—good man—found some interesting stuff a few days ago, but I wanted to see where it led before I bothered you. Truss it up nicely if I could.”

Webster nodded.

“So.” Oliver leaned forward against the desk and clasped his hands, pushing the thumbs together. “Mehr does all right for himself. Did all right for himself. Lots of business, most of it what you’d expect. He buys from the Middle East, and most of the money coming in is offshore. Smallest transactions are in the low thousands and they go up to millions. It’s more or less random. And then every so often, you get a little flurry of big payments coming in. Last March, last May, July, October, there were millions in the space of two days. Round amounts, fairly regular. But nothing this year.”

He looked at Webster to make sure he was keeping up, then carried on.

“OK. So that’s not so odd. Maybe he’s buying stuff for the Qazai Foundation or some other big client. But if he is, they’re paying him in advance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the money comes in, then goes out. He gets paid first, then buys whatever he buys.”

“So he’s being financed.”

“Perhaps. But it seems strange that he doesn’t take a cut.”

Webster looked at him, a faint, familiar thrill in his chest.

“The money goes straight through,” said Oliver, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands on top of his head. “If two million comes in, two million goes out.”

“Where does it go?”

Oliver smiled. “Deeper offshore. I’m working on it.”

The sun still beat against the blind, and Webster could feel sweat standing on his skin. He looked at Oliver and shook his head. He had known it. He had always known that there would be something to find.

“Is it Qazai’s money?”

“Give me time.”

Along the frame of the window Webster could see a thin band of low rooftops and brilliant blue sky. He tried to work out what this meant. That money had been deliberately cleaned; if anyone looked, it would appear that Mehr had been going about his business, buying artifacts.

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing good,” said Oliver, bright teeth showing in his grin.

•   •   •

C
ONSTANCE, MEANWHILE, HAD GONE QUIET.
This was unlike him: his usual policy when he had found nothing useful was to proclaim the failure loudly and insistently until it felt like your fault, and his silence was bound to mean something interesting. Webster, who had left him a message on his return from Milan and another before his meeting with Ava, was beginning to think about asking common friends in Dubai whether he’d finally been thrown in jail or out of the country when early one morning came a call.

He stared at the number for a moment before answering, not recognizing it. Senechal had been bothering him every day since Milan and he had let each call go to voicemail. But this wasn’t a French number, or an English one, and he decided to take the risk.

“Hello.”

“Ben. Fletcher. You must have thought I’d died.”

“That was the only thing that hadn’t crossed my mind.” It was impossible to imagine Constance dead: who or what would dare extinguish all that energy?

“I appreciate your confidence,” he chuckled grimly. “Though I don’t share it. My apologies, my friend. I have spent the last week fighting for my life, in Dubai at least.”

Webster wasn’t in the mood for a mystery, but knew he had to ask anyway, and Constance proceeded to explain.

“I had a visit—a visit, no less—at my office, last Monday. Nearly two weeks ago. From the General Directorate of Residency and Foreign Affairs, that august and valiant body of men. They wanted to know what my purpose was in remaining in Dubai. The betterment of my soul, I told them, but they weren’t happy with that. Not plausible. No one would go to Dubai for the good of their soul, and they knew that, to their credit. So I gave them some of the usual guff about journalism and consultancy, etcetera, etcetera, and they asked to see my papers, and they pored over them for longer than it would take any dunce just to read the things, and then they told me that there were inconsistencies, whatever the fuck they might be, and that my visa was under review. Because I had been in Dubai a long time and had affairs that might need clearing up they would very generously not frogmarch me to the airport immediately but would expect to see me at their offices in exactly a week, for a hearing. Which was three days ago.”

“And how did it go?”

“It went. Nothing was decided. I took my lawyer and he tangled them up a bit. I have to go back in two weeks.”

“Who did you offend?”

“Ha! I have no idea. Take your pick. It’s a miracle I lasted as long as I did. What I did not do, thankfully, was kiss anybody in public or bring in the wrong cough medicine. That would have been a whole lot worse. Anyway, I’m having a break from the place. Beirut is beautiful and sane. I was in the mountains yesterday. Maybe I’ll stay. Finish the house. Ditch that harlot.”

It would never happen, unless he was forced. Constance adored Dubai: it kept him alive. Without its absurdities and its intrigues he’d slowly wilt. Webster couldn’t help thinking, obsessed as he was, that it was strange timing for him to be exiled now.

“Can I do anything?”

“That’s sweet of you. Sweet of you. But no, thank you. I’m not sure there’s anything to be done. And in any case I didn’t call to moan at you. I called to tell you things.”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, I have good news and bad news. And an invitation. The bad news is that my friend won’t tell me anything more than he already has. He seems to be regretting his earlier garrulousness. But. But. He is interested in what you know, and might like to get together to share. That’s the invitation.”

“Is this the sort of sharing where I tell him stuff and he thanks me for it?”

Constance grunted in amusement. “Only one way to find out.”

“Can you tell me who he is?”

“Not until you agree to meet.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

“Fine. Set it up.” Webster paused; on the other end of the line he could hear the click of a lighter and a long, extravagant exhaling of smoke. “What was the good news?”

“Ah, that. Your friend Cyrus Mehr. The case is closed. The order has been given to file that file.”

“They have a murderer?”

Constance bellowed in contempt. “Of course not.”

“That’s good news?”

“Not unless you gave the order. But I happen to know who did.”

14.

T
HREE DAYS LATER,
Hammer came to Webster’s office, the first time he had sought him out since events in Milan. He had just arrived from Hampstead and was still in his running things, all bone and sinewy health.

“Good morning,” he said, in good spirits. “You look well.”

“No I don’t.”

“Well, perhaps not.” Hammer came and sat by Webster’s desk. “I’ve been doing some investigating.”

“That’s meant to be my job.”

“I thought it might be better for all of us, especially you, if I had a look myself.”

Webster leaned back in his chair and gripped the armrests. “Go on then.”

“The short story, which is very short, is that it’s all garbage. Everything in the Americans’ report.” He looked for Webster’s response but got none. “You remember we thought it might be from U.S. military? Part of their investigation? I made a few calls, and spoke to the Major in charge. Nice man.”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Well, maybe you weren’t doing it right. If you’d come to me, maybe they would.”

Webster thought better of reacting, and Hammer went on.

“It all came from them. The relief, Shokhor, the National Museum. And they thought it was true up until a month ago. Tell me, have you found your Swiss dealer yet?”

“No. That’s going nowhere.”

“I can tell you who he is. His name’s Jacques Bovet, and he sells very expensive things to very expensive people out of Lausanne. Jacques has form. After the first Gulf War there was an amnesty on looted items and because he knew he was about to get caught, he returned something. Next time around he’s stealing again, only this time they do catch him, and they make a deal. By the way, they have the sculpture, all in one piece.”

“That’s good.”

“That is good. You should be pleased. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“I’m pleased. Believe me. It’s the only innocent in the whole affair.”

Hammer sniffed. “So they talk to Jacques: tell us who’s in the chain. Well, he says, an Iraqi gentleman called Shokhor brought it to him and a Brit called Mehr took it off his hands. Mehr bought one or two things off Jacques in the past and Jacques thinks—says he thinks—he’s acting for a wealthy London collector called Darius Qazai. Because Qazai is just the sort of person who would want this piece. Jacques is bargaining on my friends not doing a good job of investigating this . . .”

“Your friends?”

“They’re my friends now. Never miss an opportunity to make a friend, Ben.” Hammer gave him a look of amused rebuke. “But he’s wrong. They do a great job, and three weeks ago they go to Jacques and tell him he’s talking horseshit. And he can’t squirm out. Turns out he wasn’t telling the truth. Apparently you can’t trust a Swiss antiques dealer like you used to.”

Webster unfastened his watch and wound the pin. None of this was a surprise. “He knew there was nothing in it when he came here. Qazai. He’d seen a copy of the report, no question.”

“Maybe. It makes no difference.”

Neither said anything for a time, Hammer’s unspoken challenge lying between them. Webster carried on winding his watch, looking at the second hand smoothly ticking around. He broke the silence.

“I can’t write that report.”

“You’ll have to. But I’m not done.”

“There’s something else going on.”

“Like what?”

Webster couldn’t say. He couldn’t reveal Oliver’s work, because Ike would stop it. “He’s in trouble. Shiraz has lost a fortune and he needs money.”

“That doesn’t make him a crook.”

“Then why is he screwing me? Tell me that.”

“Ben, he didn’t invent what you did in Italy.”

Webster shook his head and looked away. “I can’t believe this.”

“I said I’m not done.”

But Webster wasn’t ready to respond. Outside, far below, under a blue sky, people were hurrying home with determined walks, catching taxis, wandering away in groups to the bar. It would have been the most wonderful thing in the world to follow them: to write something bland, accept the compromise, hope Qazai did the same and resume his life. Go home.

“I need a week,” he said.

“Would you listen to me?” said Hammer, his patience cracking.

Webster turned to him, his jaw set.

“You think I trust this guy?” said Hammer, irritated now. “I don’t trust any client who badgers me as much as he does. He has his grim little sidekick call me every hour. He’s a bully, at best. Did he set you up? I still don’t know, and neither do you. But did he try to bribe you? I believe you. That’s what his kind do. They buy people. They’d like to buy me.”

Webster made to say something but Hammer raised his hand. “Would you wait? Jesus. OK. So he’s in trouble. You’re in trouble. I don’t like to see you in trouble. It’s bad for everyone. It’s bad for business. I have no desire, believe me, to see your name in all the papers, because do you know what? Mine’ll be there too. Again.” He raised his eyebrows. “Understand? Good. So here’s a guy, tried to pay off one of my people, and I don’t want to give him what he wants. Part of me also thinks, if I’m going to hedge my bets, I should take you seriously about the business in Italy. If Qazai’s not involved, then it’ll make no difference, but if he is . . . Well, maybe it can help.”

Webster had no idea where this was leading.

“But most of all,” Hammer went on, “I don’t know what he’s going to do with my report. Heaven knows. He may not have lied to me about it but he sure as hell hasn’t told me the whole truth. If we give him a glowing testimonial he can wave it around for the rest of time to whoever he likes, and he doesn’t qualify for that. Do I want you to write a eulogy? No, I don’t. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He took a deep breath and pointed at Webster. “You . . . you are going to write a report—hear me out—that says yes, the sculpture story was a crock, but ultimately we can’t say whether he’s a good guy. We’re going to put a story in there, about a reliable source—this is you, by the way—who witnessed him offering a bribe.”

“That was Senechal.”

“Same fucking thing.” He shuddered. “He really is one of the weirdest sons of bitches . . . Anyway, we give Qazai that report, and tell him that if he doesn’t like it, it will be quietly leaked that Ikertu actually had grave reservations about his ethics. That in the end we were pulled off the case before we could dig too deep. They’ve asked for a meeting. We’ll tell them then.”

Webster ran his hands through his hair, clasped them behind his neck and stared up at the ceiling. He shut his eyes against the fluorescent light. If only this would work. Like all Ike’s plans it was simple, a little devious, and apparently sound. But he couldn’t believe that Qazai would simply stand down, just as he knew he couldn’t. They were racing against each other, and Ike was calling time. Neither would hear him. Neither would choose to.

“I don’t think I can write that.” He sat upright and looked Hammer in the eye.

“If you want to be shot of this mess, you will.”

“We shouldn’t write anything. Believe me. With what I know.”

“Like what? Just tell me, for Christ’s sake.”

“Fletcher called yesterday. The investigation into Mehr’s death has been officially closed.”

“So what? I’m amazed it was ever opened.”

“The order to shut it down came from someone inside the Quds force.”

“Which is?”

“It’s part of the Revolutionary Guard. Like the Iranian SS.”

“Jesus. This is why I need to separate you two.”

“And Mehr was laundering money.”

Hammer’s face became set. “How do you know that?”

“Give me a week. You’ll thank me.”

Hammer shook his head.

“Ben, you’ll write it now.” His voice was firm, but there was a softness in his eyes, a sadness. “This is not your company. If you can’t do it, you should think seriously about whether you’d be happier somewhere else. Or on your own, where you can play out these romances of yours without interference.” He gave Webster a last look, which seemed to say that he regretted his firmness but would be tested no further, and left the room, somehow older than he had entered it.

•   •   •

T
WO AFTERNOONS A WEEK
a young German woman called Silke picked up Daniel from nursery and Nancy from school, took them to the park for a while and then brought them home for their tea. Webster liked Silke, and so did the children, but a part of him wished that he could do her work himself.

Today he was later than he would have liked; he had spent the afternoon talking to Oliver, and now tea was finishing. Silke was washing up; Daniel was scraping around the inside of a clearly empty yogurt pot; Nancy had pushed hers aside and was bent over a notebook, writing something with a crayon, her face three inches from the page. When he opened the kitchen door she looked up, scrambled down from her chair and ran to him.

“Daddy!”

He crouched down, wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up in a tight hug, arching his back and kissing her face above his. She would be six in August but she was still so light, so finely built, so distinct from the mass and clamor of the world outside the door that her touch and her laugh pulled him from it instantly.

When Elsa returned home the children were in their pajamas watching television and Webster was cooking, slicing onions into thin half-rounds with a satisfyingly sharp knife. He turned from his work and kissed her.

“How was your day?”

“Fine,” she said. “Good. How’s Nancy?”

“She seems fine. No problems to report.”

“Did you ask her about Phoebe?”

Webster looked over his shoulder at his wife. She was going through that day’s mail; her hair was up and the skin on her neck golden from the sun, and her beauty, as it often did, gave him a shock of elation, or privilege, or something else that he couldn’t wholly recognize. He hated it when there was distance between them, and this only served to heighten it.

“We just talked through her day. She didn’t mention anything.”

Elsa nodded, not looking up. “What are we having?”

“Chicken.” Webster turned back to his cooking and a second later felt Elsa’s hand on the back of his neck.

“How was yours?”

“Good. I had a chat with Ike. Or he had a chat with me.” He slipped his arm around her waist and for a second they stood rather awkwardly together in front of the stove, like partners in a three-legged race, until he had to pull away to slide the onions into the pan.

Elsa let her hand linger on his back and then went to sit down at the table.

“Are you two OK now?” she said.

“So-so. Better.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s come up with a way out of the whole mess.”

“Will it work?”

“It should all be over within a week.”

He glanced at her, his face concertedly frank, expecting her to spot the evasion in his answer.

“What then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you stay?”

Webster stirred the onions, watching them bubble gently and turn translucent in the green oil.

“I’ll see what happens. When this is over I’ll know.”

He glanced up to see Elsa looking at him closely. She knew he wasn’t telling her everything. Whether by training or nature she could always tell.

“I called him.” She paused. “Ike.”

“You called him? When?”

“At the beginning of the week. I was worried about you.”

He shook his head. “You should have talked to me first.”

“You’re not the easiest person to talk to at the moment.”

He turned to her, running a hand through his hair and grasping the back of his neck. Suddenly he felt a great weight of tiredness. “I’m sorry, baby. I am. There isn’t long now.”

Elsa simply watched him for a moment. “What’s his plan?”

“It’s boring.” Her look told him to go on. “It’s very Ike.”

“You’re not going to do it, are you?”

He frowned, indignant. “I’m going to do my best.”

Not strictly a lie; but Elsa knew precisely what it meant. “Jesus, Ben. You know what?” Her voice was steady and clear. “There is more to your life than the absurd”—she searched for the word—“vanity of your work. Do you think it matters to me whether this man is good or bad? Do you think it matters to Nancy, or Daniel? I was sorry about Lock. I still am. But his boss? The Russian who’s quietly suffocated the last six months of our lives. I don’t care. We don’t.”

Webster, his eyes on the ground, didn’t answer.

“This is not a campaign. This is life. It’s not some assault on, on what? What is it you’re trying to destroy? Because I worry, I really fucking worry, that it’s us. That you won’t be happy until it is.”

He shook his head. “I’m not doing this for me.”

“Really? Who then? Mankind?”

He looked up at her, with all the candor—genuine now—that he could find.

“I’m not doing it for me. Not anymore.”

He had never seen Elsa so intense, so adamant. She gave him one last, angry look and pushed out her chair to leave; and as she did so his phone, lying dormant on the side all this time, chimed once, a startling trill. His eyes went to it involuntarily.

“I tell you what,” she said. “You deal with that. Save us all. I’m putting Daniel to bed.”

Webster stood to one side to let her pass and watching her leave let out a deep, long sigh. The onions were beginning to brown at the edges; he stirred them, shook the pan once or twice and turned off the heat. Part of him wanted to throw his phone across the room, but a greater part had to know what it said.

It was Constance. The message was only five words. “Timur Qazai dead. Please advise.”