The Jackal's Share (3 page)

Another nod, and a pause.

“My client, he has a problem with his reputation,” Senechal said at last. “We believe that someone has said things that are unjust about him.”

Webster thought he knew what that meant. Some powerful man who had grown accustomed to his lawyers smoothing out every problem had been refused a visa or a loan and was experiencing an unfamiliar sense of powerlessness. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’d like us to find out who?”

“Later, perhaps. No. That is not it.” Senechal shook his head once, an exact movement. “He would like you to investigate himself. To discover that which can be discovered.”

“And then?”

“And then, if there are lies, you can correct them.”

“If they’re lies.”

“They are lies.” Senechal’s meager lips pressed tight in a line.

Webster thought for a moment. “We don’t often do that sort of work.” He paused, watching his guest. “How bad is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“The damage. To your client.”

“It is an irritant.”

“Because this is expensive work.”

“I know,” said Senechal, with another unexpressive smile.

“Who is your client?”

“I cannot say.”

“I can’t help you until you do.”

Senechal reached down for his briefcase and put it on the table. He took a key from a ticket pocket inside his jacket, unlocked the single clasp and from within drew out two or three pages of paper bound in a Perspex folder. Sliding the briefcase to one side he placed the document neatly in front of him.

“This,” he said, “is an agreement I wish you to sign. It commits you to make a proposal in general terms. You will tell us how you work and how much it will cost. If we are satisfied I will reveal my client’s identity to you and we can decide the specific things. Between times you will not tell anyone of this conversation.”

Webster smiled. “I’m afraid we don’t work like that.”

Senechal shifted forward in his chair and leaned his elbows carefully on the table.

“This matter is sensitive. Very sensitive. If we do not like the way you work, my client must have protection.”

“Everything you say in this room is confidential. As is the fact that you’re here. But I’m afraid I won’t sign anything until I know who you work for.”

Senechal’s eyes registered a moment’s confusion, as if he found something illogical. “This is a lucrative project. For a significant client.”

“I won’t make commitments to a man I don’t know.”

Senechal breathed in sharply, rubbed his chin, made to say something and after some internal calculation thought better of it. Fixing his gaze on Webster and letting him know by it what a foolish decision he had just made, he stood up. “Very well. We can go elsewhere. Thank you for your time.”

Webster nodded and at that moment realized what had been troubling him: Senechal’s eyes did not belong in his face. Somewhere deep inside them, behind the gray irises, there was a fervor, all too alive, that his pallid body struggled to contain.

He saw his peculiar visitor to the elevators, thanked him, and without anxiety filed him among Ikertu’s discarded clients, a motley group of suspicious husbands, miserly bankers and sinister fantasists whose cases were too slippery or too preposterous to take. The client who was too grand to be identified was a rare subclass that would usually have piqued his interest, but some strong instinct told him that he had been right not to compromise—that whatever conflicting forces drove this odd, unpalatable man they were not worth closer acquaintance.

Senechal, though, was too ghostly not to haunt him, and he wasn’t surprised when he returned. Two days later an envelope had arrived at Ikertu’s offices, of the finest cream paper, addressed to Webster in looping black ink. It had been delivered by hand. The lettering was bold, just short of elaborate, and on the flap was embossed a capital Q. Inside was an invitation to Mehr’s memorial service and a note, in the same hand, on a small sheet of paper with another Q at its head:

Dear Mr. Webster,

I would be honored if you and Mr. Hammer would join me at this important service. We will have time to talk afterward. I may need to call upon your assistance.

Yours sincerely,

Darius Qazai

Looking back, Webster thought that this had been a fitting introduction—grand, proper, apparently frank but in the end thoroughly calculated—but at the beginning he was intrigued, as anyone would be. Qazai had never been a target, nor a client, but if the rich lists were to be believed, it was only a matter of time before he became one or the other. And if this was Senechal’s master, he might become both.

3.

A
FTER THE SERVICE SENECHAL’S DRIVER
took them west across town through Knightsbridge and Kensington, the sun now low ahead of them and London, all red brick and cream stucco, lit up with spring light. The trees of Hyde Park were newly in leaf. Hammer talked, as he always did, quizzing Senechal about his business, his acquaintances in Paris, his views on colonial corruption, Camus, football. Senechal’s replies were courteous, brief and unsatisfying. Webster watched the city glide past and listened to Hammer show off his range.

The car eventually stopped outside a restaurant on an otherwise residential street in Olympia.
Lavash
, it was called:
Iranian cuisine, Berian our specialty
. It was early still, and they were the first people in the place. Senechal was clearly known here, and the manager ushered them through the cramped restaurant to a private room that gave onto a courtyard at the back of the building. The simple decoration did its best to conjure Iran. Two of the walls were hung with a gold fabric, a third with a dozen photographs of Iranian landscapes: a fortress in the mountains, a palace on a lake, shepherds’ huts on green foothills. Opposite, through the French doors, a band of light touched the roofs of the houses beyond.

Drinks were brought, with olives and flat bread, and the three men sat, Senechal unhurriedly typing e-mails on his BlackBerry, Hammer—finally out of questions—stirring his Scotch and soda, and Webster wondering silently whether a glass of white wine was likely to do much to encourage Senechal to open up. He eventually broke the silence.

“So it was Qazai.”

Senechal tapped a few last keys and put down his phone. He looked no more human than he had under the bright office lights of Cursitor Street, and his black teeth showed as he talked.

“Yes. It was Qazai.”

“When I looked you up after our meeting I found no mention of him.”

“Good. That is as it should be. I am Mr. Qazai’s personal lawyer. I never engage with his public affairs.”

A moment’s silence, broken by Hammer. “Who else do you represent, Mr. Senechal?”

“That is not relevant here. But most of my time I dedicate to Mr. Qazai and his family.”

Hammer nodded. “The faithful retainer. Could you tell us a little about him? While we’re waiting.”

“You have done some research, I imagine,” said Senechal. Not an objection, just a statement of fact.

“Only so much.”

Senechal paused a moment, looking at Hammer and making a decision.

“I will start with his business, then I will talk about him and finally his family.” He said it with the air of a man who leaves nothing unorganized.

Senechal gave them a well-rehearsed account, beginning with some figures that were clearly intended to impress. Tabriz Asset Management was one of the largest asset management companies in the world. Its headquarters were in London but a large office in Dubai, run by Qazai’s son Timur, looked after its many clients and investments in the Middle East. Altogether it looked after some sixty-three billion dollars of clients’ money, investing it in debt, properties, currencies, public companies, private companies—anywhere it believed it could make money. And it made money. In the previous decade it had made a return, on average, of twelve percent a year: a million dollars invested in 2000 was now worth three. Hammer said that he wished he’d had a million dollars back then, and Senechal ignored the pleasantry as completely as if it made no sense to him at all. Hammer sat back and let their stand-in host continue his eulogy uninterrupted.

Tabriz was not a company, it was an institution. It had been built by the vision and fortitude of one man, and if they took the job they would soon discover how great Darius Qazai truly was. In 1978, still young, he and his family, alongside so many of his countrymen, had been forced to flee to London from Iran; and with his father, a senior banker and confidant of the Shah, he had set up the first Tabriz company. Poor health had seen the father retire not long afterward, but Qazai was unstoppable. He had invested heavily in property in the eighties and emerging markets in the nineties, had made a fortune in both and today could be said to be the most successful Iranian businessman in the world.

His success had been others’ good fortune, too. He was a generous and enlightened philanthropist who funded educational projects throughout the Middle East, favoring those that helped women to raise their families out of poverty. Schools in Palestine, Yemen and Oman bore his name. And he was perhaps the world’s most serious collector of Persian art, his foundation the leading authority on pre-Islamic and Islamic art from the region.

Senechal was certainly a loyal evangelist for his client. Most of this Webster had found out for himself in the last day or two but hearing it delivered coherently—and not without an odd vehemence, even passion—Qazai’s life story was impressive. He was not wholly self-made, since his family had been rich before the revolution and wealthy enough afterward, but his achievements were his and his talents clear. One of the articles that Webster had read had put it simply: “a canny investor and a brilliant salesman, not least in selling himself.” His clients loved him, if Senechal and the newspapers were to be believed, and his commitment to education seemed genuine. For Webster, schooled in the ways of Russia, where it was almost impossible to be a billionaire without stealing something from someone, all this seemed strange, refreshing and unlikely.

Senechal had more, but before he could move on to his master’s family, Qazai himself arrived, immediately supplying all the color that his lawyer seemed to drain from the room. As everyone stood, he made for Hammer, took his hand and shook it vigorously, his other hand on Hammer’s elbow, his face smiling and earnest.

“Mr. Hammer. It is a great honor to meet a leader in his field. A great honor.” For once, though he wouldn’t have disagreed with Qazai’s judgment, Hammer seemed off balance, and despite himself Webster smiled.

“I have read about your exploits with pleasure,” Hammer said. “If I was not doing what I do I should want your job.”

Qazai moved around the table to Webster. “You must be Mr. Webster. A Russian expert, if I am not mistaken. Of some distinction, I understand. I must thank you for seeing Mr. Senechal, and apologize for the clumsy introduction we tried to make. I have got used to guarding my personal affairs more closely than perhaps is necessary.” Webster was wary of the flattery, but had to concede this was elegant. “Gentlemen, many thanks to you both for coming all this way. I appreciate it greatly. Please, sit, sit.”

Qazai sat down at the head of the table with his back to the window, smiled at Hammer and Webster in turn, took an olive and chewed. He seemed as invincible in this small room as he had in church, but what Webster saw for the first time was his health. He glowed. According to the articles Webster had read he was sixty-one, but he moved and talked with the force of a much younger man; his cheeks were taut beneath the beard, his eyes glitteringly clear, and he held himself as an athlete might, as if every muscle was only for the moment in repose.

Webster had the sense, without understanding quite why, that Qazai was not a private man. His life was lived in view, and he liked it there. You had to read his face carefully to detect the faintest signs of what might be within: in the eyes and the lines around them you could see experience—hard-won, guarded—and a watchfulness that suggested he was slow to trust.

“Gentlemen, you will like this place. I have been coming here once a week for the last twenty-five years. It is nothing fancy, but trust me, the fancy places get it wrong. This is real Iranian food.” He took another olive and smiled benignly. Like a king condescending to visit his people, thought Webster, saying nothing.

Qazai, continuing to beam at his guests, shook out his napkin, and the others did the same. Hammer took his and, as he always did, tucked it into his shirt collar, a New York habit that he insisted was merely practical but clearly gave him pleasure; Senechal, for his part, carefully unfolded his and smoothed it out precisely on his lap. Waiters came and poured water.

“That was a beautiful service,” said Hammer.

“Wasn’t it? More so for being so sad. Thank you for indulging me. I had thought that we could come on here together but there were people to talk to. I was moved that so many came.”

Hammer gave a respectful nod in acknowledgment.

“How do you think he died?” said Webster, sensing that Hammer was shooting him a look for his directness.

“Like a hero. Or like a dog. You take your pick.” Qazai held Webster’s eye for a moment. “Mr. Webster, even the simplest things in Iran are difficult. Insanely difficult. They were hard before but now they are impossible. The Arab Spring is not a term I like. My people are not Arabs. But we are all caged together by these, these little men. These vicious little men.” He sighed and shook his head. “You were a journalist, I think?” Webster held his eye and nodded. “In Iran this simple thing—to find something out, to tell people about it—cannot be done. Journalists there are stooges of the state, or scared, or in prison.” He paused to allow the weight of his words to be felt. “So you see how impossible it is to investigate anything. Honestly speaking, to know what happened to Cyrus . . . You understand Russia. Iran has its similarities. You understand that some things will never be known in such places. I fear that this will be one of them.”

“Would you like to know?”

Qazai’s lips pressed together, his eyes lost their shine and for a moment Webster thought his composure was about to slip; but he caught himself, and his smile reappeared. “When we are done with this first piece of work, Mr. Webster, perhaps then I will send you to Isfahan to find out.” The smile stayed on his lips.

Two waiters came in bearing trays of food: small plates of smoked eggplant and spinach in yogurt; three bowls together, one containing walnut halves, one smoked fish, one unshelled broad beans; a basket of the thinnest flatbread; and a huge plate of radishes, spring onions, deep red tomatoes, bushy green bunches of coriander, tarragon and mint. Qazai passed the bread to Hammer and signaled that everyone should help themselves, while Webster watched him, marveling at the deep shine of the man.

“Now, gentlemen. To why I called you here. I will not insult you again by insisting what we say in this room is confidential. It is delicate. It goes to the heart of my affairs.” Qazai took sea salt from a small glass bowl, ground it between his fingertips onto his plate and rolled a radish slowly over it.

“I have been working for some time—quietly, you understand—to sell my business. Or some of my business. I plan to retire from the day-to-day and leave my son in charge. One day his reputation will eclipse mine, but he needs room. He is ready to move past his father. It is time. And I want to take some money out, for this and that.” He turned from Hammer to Webster and back again, diligently dividing his attention, underscoring his words with slow, deliberate gestures. “Now, for my investors to be happy I need a buyer with a name as powerful as my own, and up until two weeks ago I thought I’d found one. A fund manager in the U.S. You would know the name. A perfect fit. Talented people. They wanted emerging markets exposure, we have much the same risk profile—perfect.”

He paused to check that his audience was keeping pace; Hammer nodded for him to go on.

“The sale was agreed, we were due to announce it, and at the eleventh hour they called it off. Wouldn’t tell me why.” He put the radish in his mouth, chewed deliberately, and swallowed, frowning now at the thought of this reversal like a child who had been refused its way. “Yves and I,” he gestured to Senechal, “could not get them to tell us. I called and called. And then finally their legal counsel tells us that—what did he say, Yves?”

“That you did not pass the test.” Senechal let the words slip from his mouth with distaste.

“Ridiculous. That I didn’t pass the test, and that they were sorry. He wouldn’t elaborate. When I asked him was this final, could I do anything, all he said was that I might talk to you.”

“Who was he?” said Hammer.

“Can we come to that in a moment?” Qazai took another radish and dredged it in salt. “Now, what does this suggest to you, Mr. Hammer?”

“That you failed the due diligence.”

“Exactly. I failed the due diligence. They ran the rule over me, and they think they have found something.” Arms wide he appealed to Hammer and Webster in turn. “Preposterous.”

“Have you any idea what that might be?” Webster asked.

“None at all, gentlemen. That’s what I want you to find out.”

“What they think they know?” asked Hammer.

“Whatever nonsense they think they know. Then I want you to tell everybody that it is nonsense.”

Webster asked the next question. “Is this for your pride, or to complete the sale?”

Qazai smiled, a different smile with steel in it, and scratched at the beard along his jawbone. “For my honor, Mr. Webster.” Webster held his eye, something stern in it now, and gave the merest nod.

“Why don’t you just sell to someone else?”

“Because they may find the same thing.”

Hammer interposed. “You know we only do this when we’re fairly sure we won’t find anything?”

As he turned to Hammer Qazai’s brow relaxed. “I am confident you will find nothing to trouble you.”

Hammer sat back in his chair. “We need their report,” he said finally. “Have you asked for it?”

“I have not seen it.” Qazai looked to Senechal.

“We asked for any documents that might help. They gave us nothing.”

“We’ll get a copy,” said Hammer. “If we decide to take you on we’ll need to investigate that problem, whatever it is, and we’ll need to investigate you. I can’t say that this little piece of you is OK until I know that the rest of you is OK.” He stopped to check that Qazai had understood.

“OK.” He went on. “You’ll give us full access—to files, colleagues, yourself. Perhaps even your family. We’ll ask a lot of questions, and we’ll poke around. Then we’ll write a report. What’s in the report is entirely up to us; where it goes is up to you. Tell us to destroy it and we’ll destroy it. The whole thing will cost a lot of money and you’ll have to pay us up front because otherwise no one will believe that we’re telling the truth.”