The Jackal's Share (27 page)

Webster was sitting up in bed, his head clear.

“Do we know what he’s like?”

Constance laughed. “He’s a regular charmer, Ben. Family man, head of the local Rotarians, gives to charity. What the fuck do you think he’s like?”

“Come on.”

“Sorry. You have to understand, there’s not much on him. Most of it comes from one source. And it’s patchy. But he’s good. Obviously. He’s been doing what he does for a very long time and that Paris job is the only time his fingerprints are on anything. And he’s old school. He’s an Ayatollah guy rather than an Ahmadinejad guy, apparently. The new regime isn’t sure about his spending all that time abroad, prey to the thousand seductions of the West. Man might lose his revolutionary fervor. I get the impression they shouldn’t worry.”

“That it?”

“That’s your lot, my friend. And it comes at a price.”

“Go on.”

“My friends would like to talk to you about Darius Qazai’s pot of gold.”

“With pleasure. But they’d better be quick. I may not be around.”

Constance scoffed. “There’s no percentage in killing you. They just want you scared.”

“It’s working.”

Zahak Rad. Webster could see him clearly, a knot of energy and malice, making his murderous, unstoppable progress across thirty years.

25.

T
UESDAY PASSED;
W
EDNESDAY CAME.
The Americans were due to land early, and in something of a posse: a chief executive, a chief financial officer, a chief legal counsel and a large pack of lawyers just behind all the chiefs. Qazai would meet with his own lawyers at ten, with his conquerors, as he undoubtedly saw them, at midday, and at eight with Webster, who had insisted that they go to Tabriz together for no other reason than he didn’t trust Qazai to go through with it all.

At Mount Street Webster pulled the bell and chimes sounded somewhere in the center of the house. The door opened immediately, and there was Qazai’s new security guard; Webster made to go in, but the guard narrowed the gap and stood in it, filling the space with his bulk.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Webster paused a moment before answering, looking up an inch or two into the guard’s steadfast eyes. “I’m here to see Qazai. He’s expecting me.”

“Mr. Qazai is not at home at present, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back when he is.”

Webster shut his eyes and gave the slightest shake of his head.

“I have a meeting with him at eight. It’s eight now. He’ll be back any minute.” A pause. “Now let me in. Please.”

“I’m not authorized to admit anyone unless Mr. Qazai is on the premises, sir. That is my brief.”

“When did he go out?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Did he take the car? Is his driver here?”

No response. Webster stared a little longer at the man’s block of a face and did his best to control his irritation.

“I want to speak to Ava. Miss Qazai.” The guard didn’t react. “Can you call her for me, please?”

“I’m not authorized to admit people without an appointment, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Then call her,” Webster said, slowly, as if to a child, “and she can come downstairs, and we can make an appointment, and then you can let me in. How’s that?”

The guard looked at him squarely before answering. “Miss Qazai is not here. Sir. It looks like you’re on your own.” He closed the door, with irritating composure.

Webster swore under his breath, took the phone from his pocket and rang Qazai’s number. After a second the voice of Qazai’s secretary was in his ear, telling him that this was the voicemail of Darius Qazai and asking him to leave a message.

It was possible, of course, that the old bastard had gone for a walk. Or to his office, to prepare. But somehow it seemed more likely that he was doing something that would throw their delicate plan into confusion: he was seeing the Americans on his own to talk up the price or tell them the whole deal was off; he had finally given in to the despair that Webster had seen growing in him and was now poised on a high bridge or wading slowly into the sea, inviting his doom. He had to be found.

Webster looked at his phone, searched for Ava’s number, and called it. The line rang twice and then went dead; she had canceled the call. He redialed, and found himself talking to her voicemail.

Running a hand through his hair he looked up and down the street, and did his best to think. Qazai’s phone sounded as if it was off. Even if he had the means it would take far too long to trace. No, that route was closed. But Ava might know where her father was, and if she didn’t, the answer might lie in the house, which only she could open for him. Regretting even more keenly that he hadn’t treated her better, he wrote her a text message.

If your father isn’t at his office by noon he will be dead by the end of the week. Help me find him and I’ll explain everything. I know I should have done so before. Ben.

He hit send, watched the message go, and sat down on the bottom step of the Qazai house to wait. It was warm again, the sun just showing through thick morning haze, and the air already felt slow with unreleased heat. Webster took off his jacket and draped it across his knees. He could find out where Ava lived, if he needed to, though what good that would do he wasn’t sure.

His phone bleeped, and a message flashed onto his screen.

No need to explain. Find him yourself.

Webster stared at the words and did his best to take them in. No need to explain. She knew. Did she know? He shook his head and took in a deep, worried breath before replying.

You may be dead too. And others more dear to you. If you know anything, you should know that. Call me.

A butcher’s van passed, and on the opposite side of the street an old man, incongruously unkempt, wheeled his bicycle along the pavement, muttering to himself and occasionally ringing the bell, tinny and clear against the low hum of traffic from surrounding streets. Webster watched him make his progress. Surely she would call.

But she didn’t. Not straight away. After a full two minutes, just as he was making plans to find her house and somehow force her from it, his phone rang in his hand.

“Where are you?”

“Mount Street.”

Ava hung up as the old man rounded the corner out of sight.

In three minutes a small, understated Mercedes, black, with black windows, drew up in front of the house, and after a nervous moment, just long enough for Webster to begin to worry that she had changed her mind and was about to drive away again, Ava got out. She walked briskly toward him, with such purpose that for a moment Webster thought she was going to hit him; and he wished, when she stopped in front of him and started speaking, that she had.

“You don’t need to explain. I found out.” She was wearing no makeup and her face was drawn, the skin around her eyes thin and bruised, the eyes themselves bloodshot and black and raging, as if all the life in her was concentrated there.

Webster didn’t know where to start. “I’m sorry.” He meant it, but it sounded redundant. “Did he tell you?” It began to dawn on him that perhaps Qazai had disappeared to escape the fury of his daughter.

She shook her head, her arms tightly crossed. “No. I found out. I went to Paris.” Each word was hard and distinct. Webster looked blank. “To see my friend. He told me what he couldn’t bring himself to tell me before. What you thought you should keep to yourself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Because my father’s a traitor? Or because you lied to me?” There were tears in her eyes.

“I never lied to you.”

“You never told me the truth.”

He nodded. He could tell her that it had been necessary, and that would have been true, but she was still right.

“Does he know?”

Ava drew the back of her hand across her eyes, sniffed, collected herself. “When I think of all the good people his money has had killed. All the guns his money has bought. He disgusts me.” She looked up at Webster. “He knows. He was still up when I got back. I told him . . . I told him I was leaving. I told him he wasn’t my father. That he never had a daughter.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t care where he is. I won’t ever care where he is. He tried to get me to stay. Told me if I did anything stupid, that Raisa, and . . .” She trailed off.

“That’s all true,” said Webster.

She shook her head. “It’s bullshit. He’s lying, all the time, to everyone. He’s sick with it.”

“Not now. If he doesn’t pay them back, in four days, you and your family are at risk. Mine, too.”

Ava looked away down the street, watched a car drive too fast toward and past them.

“They’re dangerous,” he said. “I think they killed Mehr.”

“So did they . . .” The words caught in her throat. She turned and looked at him, her eyes courageous and fearful at once. “What happened in Dubai?”

He hesitated. He knew what had happened in Dubai. “I don’t know. Really.”

“Did they kill Timur?”

With effort, he held her eye. “We don’t know.”

“Oh God,” she said, clutching herself, shaking her head, her hands scratching at her upper arms. “Oh God. Tell me that wasn’t because of my father. Tell me. I couldn’t . . .”

Webster moved toward her and put his hand on her shoulder, felt her body gently rocking.

“We might never know. Ava. Look at me. Look at me. This is real. If your father doesn’t pay back what he owes something bad will happen. They will make it happen. It’s their job. It doesn’t matter where we go, how many guards we have, they’ll keep coming. Ava, look at me. I know that you don’t want to save him. I don’t either. But if we don’t . . .” He couldn’t finish the thought. “I have to find out where he is.”

Her eyes, endlessly sad now, held his for a moment, and so intense was the pain there that he felt sure he had lost her, that all she could hear was her grief. But then she spoke, sniffing and wiping her eyes.

“Your family?”

“Yes, my family. And yours.”

She nodded, as if considering something for the first time.

“Your children?”

“My children, yes. A girl and a boy.”

“Where are they?”

“Somewhere safe. Fairly safe.”

She turned away from him and for perhaps a full minute stood staring down the street, her head gently shaking.

“What do you need?” she said at last.

“I need to get into the house. And I may need you to go a meeting.”

Blankly, she nodded, and he guided her up the steps.

•   •   •

“
L
EAVE US,”
Ava said to the guard once they were inside. He hesitated for a moment, clearly wondering whether Webster posed a threat. “It’s all right,” she said. And then with irritation as he continued to stand there, conspicuously upright and in protective mode, “Go. Please. I’ll call you if I need you.” Webster watched him leave without satisfaction.

“He’s good,” he said, once he had disappeared down the corridor that led out of the hall at the back of the house.

“No doubt. I just don’t want him in my world.” She looked at Webster meaningfully.

“I won’t be around for long.”

“You’re here now. Do what you need to do.”

“I need to ask you some things.”

A pause. “When do I get to ask you something?” He held her eye, and she sighed. “Go on.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Everything. Not enough.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s not important what he said.”

“It’s all important. What did he say?”

“I don’t know . . . Excuses? Justifications? I couldn’t stand to look at him.”

“He didn’t mention any plans? Any meetings?”

“Nothing. Just that he had to pay the money back and was selling everything. I think he wanted my sympathy for that.” She sounded more astonished than disgusted.

Webster nodded and walked across the hall toward Qazai’s study, turning as he reached it at the sound of Ava’s voice.

“He keeps it locked.”

Webster tried the handle.

“Who has a key?”

“He does.”

“What about the housekeeper?”

“Not to this room. He keeps it with him. We were never allowed in here. He used to tell us when we were children that everything in his study was electrified.”

Webster stood back a pace, set himself and kicked at the door just below the handle, startling the muted house with a shock of noise. He balanced himself, and kicked again, harder, finding satisfaction in the sudden burst of energy. At the third kick, the wood around the lock began to splinter and shear; at the fourth it gave way, and the door swung powerlessly open. Ava, her face empty, didn’t say a word throughout. As they went in, the security guard came bounding into the hall with heavy steps, his face professionally alert.

“I’m still fine,” said Ava, “please go,” and left him looking thrown.

There were papers on the desk, neatly arranged in piles: sale documents, hard copies of Tabriz e-mails, general correspondence. Nothing of interest. A cordless phone stood on its own small table to the right of Qazai’s chair: Webster picked it up and made a note of the last numbers dialed, all of them UK, the most recent a cell phone. He called Oliver.

“I’ve got a number for you. It’s urgent.”

“Morning, Ben. How are you?”

“I mean it, Dean. This is important.”

“Ben, where do I put it? Is it more important than all the other important things you’d like me to do?”

“Dean. I’m sorry. But I need it right now. Who it belongs to. That’s all. Take you five minutes.”

“Ten.” Dean’s voice was resigned.

“Thank you. Call me.”

“Does anyone like you at the moment?” said Ava.

Webster looked up and managed a grim smile. “My father,” he said, and immediately regretted his lack of tact. “Sorry.” Ava just looked away.

The desk was delicate and had two shallow drawers. He tried one, then the other, found both locked, and after inspecting the keyhole for a moment reached for a brass letter opener that lay beside some unopened letters and slid it into the thin gap at the top of the drawer, near the lock.

Ava was frowning at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to see how strong this lock is,” said Webster, standing up and levering the drawer away from the desk, at first with constant force and then jerking it as hard as he could, crouching down and gripping the letter opener in his fist.

“Don’t they teach you how to do this sort of thing?” said Ava, as the wood holding the bolt of the lock gave way with a snap. Inside were two cardboard folders, each full of Tabriz correspondence that meant nothing. Webster tried the next and it gave way more easily. Lying on top of a neat jumble of pens and stationery was a large envelope of coarse brown paper.

There was no address, no stamp—only the name “D. Qazai” printed in thick black marker pen on the front. He lifted the flap, which had been sealed and already opened, and from inside drew two photographs the size of holiday snaps. At first they appeared to be in black and white, but there was some color in the stark chiaroscuro of the flash-lit scene, some dusky red about the temple, matted in the hair, running down the cheek; a flick of brighter red on the plain bright white of the shirt. It was Senechal, lying curled up on his side like a child, clearly dead.

Webster closed his eyes. A burst of fear ran through him. The image matched so perfectly his memory of that same body prone in the desert that he could only believe that he had killed the man after all, and that soon afterward someone had photographed the evidence. He forced himself to look again. The blood was scarlet, fresh, still liquid, and at its source so red it was nearly black; the body was lying on tarmac, not sand, and in the top right-hand corner of the picture there was something like a car tire. He took the next photograph. Senechal stared at the camera in close-up, one eye open, the other a dark hole in his face where he had been shot.