The Jackal's Share (6 page)

Webster simply smiled, resisting the temptation to agree.

“Please,” she said, gesturing for him to sit down and putting her phone and her purse on the table. She had inherited her father’s poise but not his self-consciousness about it, and when she sat as he had on the sofa opposite, dropping back elegantly and crossing her legs, she projected none of that air of carefully constructed ease. In other ways she was both like him and not like him—her nose was strong and straight, but finer, her skin the same healthy gold, her face rounder, her eyes somehow more honest.

She looked at her watch. “You wanted to ask me some questions?”

“Your father suggested we should talk.”

“I don’t have long.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure what he wanted us to talk about.”

Ava watched him closely for a moment, then shook her head and laughed drily.

“He likes to show me off. Does he realize you’re married?” She nodded in the direction of the ring on Webster’s hand.

Webster smiled. “I’m not sure he’d want the likes of me in the family.”

Ava leaned forward and took a piece of nougat from one of the plates on the table. “I don’t really understand what you are.”

“I’m an investigator. I find things out.”

“And what are you finding out for him?”

“Why his reputation is suffering.”

“My God.” She took a moment to chew. “We can’t have that. Someone’s been saying nasty things about him?”

“Is that rare?”

“He’s a paragon. Hadn’t you noticed?” She watched for Webster’s reaction but he kept his expression clear. “So, what, you find out and then tell everyone it’s all nonsense?”

“That’s about it, yes.” Webster wasn’t expecting to have to defend himself. His conversation with Qazai had been odd and fruitless, and this was becoming as rewarding. It was time to leave the Qazai house.

“Then you’re not an investigator. You’re a PR man.”

“Today, yes.” He shifted toward the edge of the sofa. “I should go. If it’s not convenient. Perhaps we could talk later.”

Ava smiled, and for the first time it seemed sincere. “I’m sorry, Mr. Webster. I’m a bit wary of people in your profession.” She paused. “Iranians don’t trust spies. Tell me. Why do you think he wants us to meet?”

“I have no idea.”

“I do. He wants you to know that he’s a great man. You know he’s a rich man already, and a clever one. But not great, not yet. That’s what I’m for.”

She went on. “How much do you know about what I do?”

“Not much, in truth.”

“That’s all right. We don’t shout about it. He’d like me to, but it’s not helpful. I run a small trust—a charity that helps other charities.”

“In Iran?”

“From here, but yes, in Iran. It isn’t like we see on the news. We see brave people dying in street battles and being sentenced to death for nothing. There are protests, and then there are crackdowns, and they arrest everybody. But all the time good things are happening. There are so many brave people there. And the bravest are the women. Protecting their children, challenging the government, educating each other. There are countless organizations in Iran—tiny, some of them, very local—run by women. The trust helps them. We give them money and advice. Here.” She leaned forward and reached in her purse. “This is my card.”

Webster thanked her. With the change of subject her shell had briefly fallen away.

“Do you go?” he said.

“I used to. But now they won’t give me a visa.”

“Because of what you’re doing?”

“Because of my father. And the work. Others go.”

There was a pause while Webster weighed an opportunity.

“Did you know Cyrus Mehr?” he said.

“Of course.”

“Was he one of them?”

Ava frowned and her tone was cool when she spoke. “Is that what you’re doing? Finding out how he died?”

Webster shook his head. “No.”

“Wait. Is this job you’re doing about him? Fuck.” She looked away, working something out, then looked back. “Is he not telling me something? Has this got to do with the trust?”

“No,” said Webster, raising his hand an inch and doing his best to sound reassuring. “Nothing at all.” He paused to let her see that he was being honest. “If it was, I wouldn’t have tried to get out of here earlier, would I?”

She thought about it. “Not unless you’re exceptionally cunning.”

“I’m not.”

“And it’s not about Mehr?”

“No.”

“So why ask?”

“Public relations aren’t my strong suit. I prefer investigating things.”

Her eyes were still on his, still wary. “It needs investigating.”

“You don’t believe the official version?”

“I don’t believe anything that comes out of there.”

“So what happened?”

She thought for a moment, reaching up and slowly rubbing her ear.

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t think we ever will.”

“Did people talk about it? In Iran?”

“Not in Iran, no. Not that I know of.”

“Outside Iran?”

She gave him a searching look, deciding something.

“I don’t think anyone talked about it enough.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go. I’m sorry. It’s been nice talking to you.”

She stood, holding out her hand. Her eyes, which never left his, seemed to say that she was genuinely sorry: she had said too much, but he should not rule out the possibility that she would talk again. Webster watched her walk across the room and out of the door, graceful and composed, and before showing himself out took a last look at Qazai’s cabinet. A piece he had not noticed before took his eye: a dull silver jug embossed with grapes and leaves curled around nightingales and a solitary, lurking jackal, its single eye picked out with a tiny bright green stone.

6.

C
YRUS
M
EHR WAS BURIED IN
R
ICHMOND,
where he had lived with his wife and his sons in a house that looked out onto the green. Their number, Webster was almost sorry to discover, was in the telephone directory.

The articles published after his death had reported only that Mehr had been killed in Isfahan while on a buying trip. They hadn’t mentioned how. His body had been found in his hotel room and local police were acting on the assumption that robbery had been the motive: the original reports, distributed by the Iranian state news agency, had mentioned that a number of receipts had been found in his possession, and that the most likely culprit was a “collaborator” in Mehr’s “smuggling conspiracy.” They had not identified the objects assumed to be missing, but speculated that they were “national treasures” stolen from museums and archeological digs. There had been a struggle, but neither Mehr’s wallet nor his passport had been taken.

This account had been picked up by the international agencies and then by most British newspapers, who had added little more than some basic biographical information about the man himself. Mehr had had dual citizenship; he had left Iran as a teenager, moved to London, set up his business at the beginning of the 1980s, and married his wife, Jessica, in 1990. He was the head of the Qazai Foundation, and “a much-loved figure” in London’s art world. The story had run for a day or two, padded out with the odd opinion piece about murder rates in Iran and the like, and within a week had faded to nothing.

Webster had read all the articles several times and wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t sure, to begin with, whether Mehr would have stored his treasures, if that’s what they were, in his hotel room, or that any smuggler would have insisted on receipts with every piece of contraband. Nor did it seem likely that someone who had come for a Safavid prayer rug would have taken the trouble to remove the passport from Mehr’s jacket or the watch from his wrist. But most of all there was something in the tone of the Iranian articles that wasn’t right—a sense that the matter had been instantly understood, concluded and dismissed. It reminded him of similar statements he had heard too often in Russia, about the sudden death of awkward people.

So Mehr’s murder occupied Webster’s mind, partly because it was a mystery, partly because he couldn’t quite believe that Qazai being accused of smuggling and Mehr dying for it were not somehow connected. But a mystery it looked set to remain. He had spoken to the foreign journalists who had covered the story, and they had been unable to add anything to what had already been published. He had found sources at two Iranian opposition groups, one in London, one in Paris, and neither knew any more than he did. He had even tried the Foreign Office, who had brushed him off with a coldly polite referral to their previous statements on the affair.

In short his inquiry found nothing, not so much as a hint, until the only people left to call were the Mehrs themselves. His conscience baulked at the thought, but he found a justification: it was possible, after all, that Mrs. Mehr would welcome some interest in her husband’s death—even possible that she would welcome some assistance. Her interests and Webster’s were aligned, he should remember, because they both wanted to know why he had been killed, and by whom.

So he steeled himself, and feeling more or less ashamed despite all his rationalizing, made the call. At least only mild deception was necessary; the number was in the phone book, and he could be himself. The phone rang five times and he was close to hanging up when a woman answered.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Mehr?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Ben Webster. I work for a company called Ikertu. Darius Qazai is my client.”

He waited for her to say something in acknowledgment but there was only silence on the line.

“He’s asked me to write a report about him. About his reputation. It’s for his investors. I was wondering if I could ask you one or two questions about your husband’s relationship with him. With Mr. Qazai.”

There was a pause of a second or two before she spoke.

“He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“No. I’ve asked him not to call people. It prejudices the result. If you like I can show you a letter of introduction that he’s signed.”

Another pause. “I don’t really understand, and I can’t think what you’d ask me. Or why you’d think it was appropriate.”

Then she hung up.

Webster took a deep breath, closed his eyes tight and sat for a moment, letting the shame wash through his body.

It was half past two, and the sun was shining. He should be leaving for an appointment at his daughter’s school. He glanced at his watch and dialed one more number.

“Cantor Sassoon. Good afternoon. How may I direct your call?”

“David Brooks, please.”

“Hold the line.”

Sober music played in Webster’s ear.

“David Brooks.”

It was rare for a lawyer to take a call direct, and Webster realized that he hadn’t expected to be put through at all. He began by giving Brooks the same account of himself he had given Mrs. Mehr, and the words sounded empty as they came out of his mouth.

“Your name was in some of the reporting. I wondered if I might ask you some questions.”

“Ikertu, you say?”

“Yes.”

Brooks gave a grunt, its meaning not clear; it could have been approval or contempt. “I’m not going to tell you anything without an instruction from my client.” His voice was flat and all on one note, and he left the “g”s off the end of words. “Have you spoken to my client?”

“I have. She didn’t want to talk.”

“Then neither do I.”

“Of course. Although it’s not really about Mr. Mehr’s affairs. I wondered if you knew anything about the investigation in Iran. Whether anything had been decided.”

Brooks sniffed. “What has that got to do with Darius Qazai?”

I wish I knew, thought Webster. “Mehr was his employee, in a sense. There are rumors that Mehr was in Iran on Qazai’s business.”

For a second or two Brooks said nothing. “You have a very strange job.”

“On occasion.”

“Hm.” Another sniff. “You’re investigating Qazai.”

“Yes and no. I’m . . . Look, this is more than I should say, but Qazai is doing a deal. He’s hit a bump, and thinks someone somewhere is saying things about him that aren’t true. I want to make sure that those things aren’t connected to what happened to your client.”

Brooks thought for a moment, grunted again. Webster could hear him tapping keys in the background.

“I’m not going to tell you anything. Obviously. But I will say—and I don’t think this qualifies as privileged or surprising information—that the investigation in Iran, such as it is, is not being conducted to the standard expected by Her Majesty’s justice system.”

“Was he really robbed?”

Brooks seemed unable to answer without a substantial pause. Webster waited. “Mr. Webster,” he said at last, “it is possible, one might suppose, on the balance of probabilities, that every now and then in Iran a normal antiques smuggling ring, during the normal course of its business, is called upon to murder an English art dealer. My own personal belief is that all this was far from normal. Thank you for your interest. Goodbye.”

And before Webster could squeeze in another question, he too had gone.

•   •   •

T
HE
B
AKERLOO
L
INE WAS
deadly slow and by the time he reached the school, five minutes late, Elsa and Miss Turnbull had already begun their meeting. Elsa gave him a severe look as he took a seat next to her on one of the tiny children’s chairs.

It wasn’t at all unusual, Miss Turnbull told them when they had explained the problem, for children of this age—especially girls—to have quite intense relationships with their friends. She had noticed that Phoebe and Nancy seemed to be spending a lot of time in each other’s company, but hadn’t realized that Nancy was feeling put-upon, still less upset, and if she was worrying about it at home and dreading school as a result then something would have to be done. What had worked in similar situations was to talk to all the boys and girls about the importance of having lots of different friends and playing together as a class, and to make sure that at playtime Phoebe wasn’t allowed to keep Nancy to herself. Elsa, Webster could tell, wasn’t wholly satisfied.

“Happy?” he said as they walked across the empty playground.

“We’ll see.”

“She seems to have the measure of it.”

“I was hoping she might have a word with Phoebe’s parents.”

“If they’re anything like their daughter they probably won’t listen.”

Elsa shrugged.

The school was half a mile from their house, and for a while they walked in silence, Elsa half a pace in front of Webster, her head down and full of thoughts.

“Why were you late?” she said at last.

“I’m sorry. The Tube was buggered. We were stopped at Paddington for five minutes.”

“Then you should have left five minutes earlier.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should have left enough time. I know you. You take it to the last minute and then you rush out and expect the world to fall into place for you.”

There was a park opposite their house: a square of grass, a sandpit, a climbing frame and a seesaw, and this afternoon it was full of small children bouncing around each other like atoms in a jar. Webster saw Nancy first, hanging off the climbing frame by her legs, while Daniel carefully shoveled cupfuls of sand onto a growing pile on the grass.

As they reached the gate he touched Elsa’s arm and she turned to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really.”

“It’s OK.”

“Do you fancy a couple of nights in Italy? The week after next. After Cornwall. I’ve been invited by my dodgy billionaire.”

“To his house?”

“To his big house. On Lake Como. It has its own Wikipedia page.”

She smiled. “Who would look after the kids?”

“The nanny? Your mom?”

“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. We’ve never been away in the week. I think I should stay here, for Nancy.”

“I was hoping you could tell me what in heaven’s name drives these people. I’m out of my depth.”

“You’ll be fine. They don’t want a therapist.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Elsa collected the children from the friend who had picked them up after school, and together they walked back home. As they turned in to the short path leading to their house Webster reached up to hoist Daniel down from his shoulders and started feeling in his pockets for his key.

“Have you got yours?” he asked Elsa.

“You’re hopeless. Yes.”

As she reached for the lock, something caught his eye.

“When does the recycling go?”

“Wednesdays. Tomorrow.”

“Did we put any out?”

“There was loads.”

Webster looked at the empty box and wondered who had done the work, and on whose behalf.

•   •   •

T
WO DAYS AFTER HIS
calls to Mehr’s widow and David Brooks, Webster received a package. It had come by mail—stamped, not franked—in an A4 manila envelope addressed with a printed label that bore no clue to its sender. Inside was a report, of sorts, printed on a single sheet of plain paper in plain, black type.

There was no title, and no introduction, but the moment Webster saw it he knew what it was. It was a private report into the death of Cyrus Mehr, and a very direct and unexpected document it was. Whoever had written it appeared to have seen the police file, and as he read Webster found himself wondering which of his competitors, if they were responsible, had such excellent sources in Iran.

Mehr, it said, had been invited by the Cultural Heritage Association of Iran to spend three weeks helping to catalog the treasures of the Golestan Palace in Tehran, a place so vast and run so inefficiently (some said corruptly) that the true extent of its largely chaotic collection was unknown. It was not unusual for foreigners to be asked to collaborate in this way, and Mehr, an expert above all else in carpets from the Safavid dynasty, whose kings had built the palace, was an entirely plausible candidate.

He had left London on the 15th of February, a Thursday, arrived in Tehran the next day and spent his first week working, staying at a hotel in the north of the city and calling his family at least once a day (the report didn’t make clear whether the Iranians or the Mehrs had provided this piece of information). On the following Saturday he had flown to Isfahan, telling his colleagues that he was going to meet a dealer he knew who had called to offer him a particularly rare, fine prayer rug from the sixteenth century. At around noon he had checked into his hotel and then taken a taxi immediately to Joubareh in the north of the city, a journey of fifteen minutes.

He and the dealer had arranged to meet in an Internet cafe. It wasn’t clear whether the dealer had ever turned up, but at a little after five o’clock, at some point between getting out of his taxi and reaching the door of the cafe, four men in balaclavas had grabbed Mehr and forced him, struggling, into a white van that had driven up at that moment, clearly after waiting a little distance away. The street was not busy, but there were a few passersby who would have seen the van leaving at great speed in the direction of the airport. Neither it nor the five men—assuming there was a driver as well—had been seen since.

This sparse little document, all of four paragraphs, contained two details that caused Webster to imagine Mehr’s last hours more vividly than he would have wished. The first was that his body had not in fact been found in his hotel room. Shortly after daybreak the following day two women had discovered it by the side of the Zarrin Kamar canal, which ran through the middle of Isfahan. The canal wasn’t lit, so it was entirely likely that the body had been there all night and that no one had passed. Mehr was dressed in the suit he had been wearing the day before, and everything on him had been taken, except for his passport (which, contrary to the version released to the press, had been found in his jacket pocket). When the police searched his room they discovered—or said they had—the receipts and other documents that were later reported extensively in the Iranian press.