The Jackal's Share (9 page)

Webster swallowed, waiting for Constance to finish.

“Grizzly, huh? They’re organized, of course. You need structures to keep the killing efficient. So the Revolutionary Guard is the army. More powerful. More money. VEVAK is intelligence. They’re both big on killing dissidents, sometimes with a noose around their neck, sometimes with a discreet little bullet in the head.” He gestured with two fingers against his temple. “So you think your guy was political?”

“Not that I know.”

“Everything’s political in Iran.” Constance grinned, took a shank of lamb and with theatrical delight took a hungry, wolfish bite. “Maybe he got sacrificed.”

8.

I
F
Z
IA
S
HOKHOR HAD
thought to check up on the man who had called him up the next morning he would have found enough, Webster hoped, to accept a meeting. William Taylor was the managing director of Northwest Associates Limited, a London company that according to its nicely designed but rudimentary Web site sought “to maximize opportunities arising from disparities in finance and trade between developed and emerging economies.” Whatever that meant, Northwest had a respectable address on Savile Row, its own domain name, and a telephone number that went through to a well-spoken receptionist who would offer to connect your call. Its accounts had been up to date since its incorporation in 1991 and its filings at Companies House in order. Taylor had become a director in 2004.

And if Shokhor was the diligent sort he would have found, among the hundreds of thousands of other William Taylors, a handful of hits for this one—enough to demonstrate that he existed, but not so many to alarm anyone who liked their business associates discreet. Taylor had spoken at a conference on Central Asian investment in 2007, and had published a handful of articles in more or less obscure trade magazines. To each was attached his biography: University of Bristol, a career in banking and trade, the specifics artfully elided.

Thorough investigation would find the cracks in the fiction, but for nearly twenty years, ever since Hammer had persuaded a friend of his to sign the documents in return for a small annual fee, it had held up. Taylor, Webster’s double, had made several outings over the years, and had never been found out. For Shokhor he would do, Webster told himself. Just to get a meeting.

He had made the call on a cell phone he kept for these occasions and had had to concentrate hard on sounding more businesslike than he felt. Constance had finally stopped talking at two that morning, or thereabouts, a little while after the opening of a second bottle of whisky. Sitting on his roof, leaning back into a pile of oversized cushions, a half-spent, half-lit cigar in his teeth, he had been telling a long, snaking story about a German businessman who had been relieved of a large amount of money by a conman masquerading as a sheikh. The ending hadn’t seemed like much of an ending, but Webster had grunted his appreciation and tilted his head back to look at the stars, his own cigar short and glowing warmly between his fingers, until he realized, opaquely, that the story hadn’t finished and that Constance was in fact asleep. Laughing to himself, he had staggered up and gone to bed, vainly trying to rouse his host and settling in the end for removing the dead cigar from his mouth and covering him with a rug.

After that it had not been a good night. He hadn’t been able to sleep: with air conditioning it was airless and too cold, and without, instantly sweaty. Constance’s kitchen had run to coffee but not to food, and as he sat on the roof in the early heat waiting for his host to wake and Shokhor to return his call, he felt like all the moisture had been drained from his system and replaced with sand. With luck Shokhor would set their meeting for tomorrow, if ever.

Webster had called the office number on Calyx’s Web site, asked for Mr. Shokhor and told him that he had been given his name by a big collector of art in London, which was true, in a sense; that he was looking for someone to help with moving some large and delicate cargoes from Syria and Iran to Cyprus; and that he would like to meet, if possible, while he was in town for a few days. Shokhor had seemed wary but curious, and promised to call back once he had consulted his diary. That had been an hour ago.

Slow footsteps coming up the stairs to the terrace made Webster turn. Constance was up. Wearing a plain white robe, his hair wiry and crazed, he looked more than ever like some wild prophet, but for the cup of coffee he was guarding carefully with both hands.

“You son of a bitch,” he said, sitting down opposite Webster. Around them low roofs lay stepped like boxes, covered in white satellite dishes that shone blindingly in the sun. “What did you do to me last night?”

Webster squinted back at him. “Nothing untoward. You made it to bed then?”

“I woke up at six with the sun broiling my face.”

Webster laughed. “I’m sorry. I tried to wake you.”

Constance uttered something between a grunt and a groan and looked around him over the rooftops. “Another beautiful day. God, how they run together.” He took a watchful sip of his coffee. “What’s the plan?”

“Dinner with Timur Qazai. Until then, waiting for Shokhor to call me back.”

“You called him? Before breakfast?”

“It’s ten o’clock.”

“Jesus, you’re a machine.” He stood up. “Come on. It’s too hot out here. Let’s go and eat.”

•   •   •

S
HOKHOR HAD CALLED BACK
while Webster and Constance were eating eggs at an ersatz diner in Deira. He had suggested that they meet at the Hyatt Regency, explaining that it might prove more convenient for everyone since his office was so far away, and at ten to four, after a day of little more than sitting and eating, Constance had dropped Webster two blocks away. He had insisted on waiting nearby until the meeting was finished.

“I’m yours today. I’m certainly not myself. And you never know what this fucker’s got in store.”

Webster had told Shokhor that he would be wearing a light-gray suit and a plain dark-blue tie, but as he scanned the hotel lobby he could see that he was the first to arrive; everyone else was already in conversation. He found a pair of sofas by a window, sat down and ordered tea.

This was not the Burj. It could have been any hotel anywhere in the world: the marble floor, the low leather furniture, the absence of color, the bland courtesy of the uniformed staff; it was all of a piece. Outside, the pool had a lone swimmer in it, and the loungers surrounding it were empty.

“Mr. Taylor.”

Webster looked around, experiencing that brief sense of disconnection that follows when someone calls you by the wrong name, quickly caught himself and stood up. Two men were standing by his table. One was small and plump, under his white kandura, with a thick black mustache; the other, standing a foot or so further back, with his hands clasped in front of him, was almost twice his height.

“Terribly sorry. I was miles away. Mr. Shokhor?” They were expecting an Englishman, and Webster would oblige. He held out his hand. “A great pleasure. Thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice.”

“Please, have a card.” Shokhor took a card from his breast pocket and passed it to Webster, who took the time to look at it for a moment, appreciatively.

“You are alone?” said Shokhor. The folds of his chin creased as he looked down at his watch.

“Quite alone. I’ve ordered tea. Will you join me?”

Shokhor nodded, sat down on the sofa opposite Webster, looked around comprehensively and nodded again, this time at his bodyguard, who started a slow patrol of the room. A waiter came, and left with an order for another pot of tea.

Shokhor was waiting for Webster to speak. His face was comfortable, well-fed, but his eyes were nervous; they flickered about.

“I know you don’t have long, Mr. Shokhor, so I’ll come straight to the point. Occasionally my company trades in goods that need to be transported with great care. They can get damaged when they cross borders, for instance. Sometimes when we take possession of them they are in places where . . . where discretion is required in dealing with the legal authorities.”

Shokhor kept his face free of expression, and Webster, leaning forward, projecting an air of confidentiality, went on.

“Much of our work is in the former Soviet Union. Central Asia, mostly. We have good relationships there. But we have some interesting opportunities now in this part of the world. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I wanted to talk.”

Shokhor smoothed his mustache with his forefinger and thumb.

“How did you find my name?”

“I do business with a collector in London. He gets most of his pieces from this part of the world.”

“What is his name?”

“He didn’t want me to say.”

Shokhor shook his head, made a frown with his lips. “That seems strange to me.”

“I would imagine that he doesn’t want you to know that I work with him. Perhaps I don’t either.”

“What does he collect?”

Webster smiled. “Well. If I tell you, you may know who he is. But at least I won’t have given you his name.” He pretended to hesitate. “He’s a generalist. Islamic art. Pre-Islamic. He has a huge collection. But he has a special interest in Iran.”

Shokhor frowned again, shaking his head. He shifted in his seat, so that he was no longer looking at Webster but out toward the pool. “Mr. Taylor. If we are to do business it has to be on an introduction. I am not saying we cannot, but you must first have someone vouch for you.” He stood, and looked down at Webster. “You understand. This is business.”

Webster rose, and they shook hands. “I understand completely. If you hear from me again you will hear from our mutual friend first.”

Shokhor gave him one last look, inclined his head a quarter of an inch by way of a bow, and left, followed at a close but respectful distance by his man.

Webster watched them leave and called Constance.

“Jesus. You’re done already? Did he blow you off?”

“Yes and no.”

“Does he know Qazai?”

“I’d say he genuinely had no idea who I was talking about. But I have what I wanted. Come and get me.” He hung up, and retrieving Shokhor’s card from his pocket inspected it again. On it were two telephone numbers, one local, one Cyprus, either of which might be enough.

As he waited for Constance in the heat outside his phone rang.

“Mr. Webster?”

“Speaking.”

“Timur Qazai. I need you to come now. Can you come now?”

Webster wondered whether he was about to have his plans changed again to accommodate a Qazai conference call. He gestured to Constance, arriving in the Cadillac, to wait for a moment.

“I need my papers.”

“Forget the papers. Come right now. Find a cab.” Timur sounded tense, with none of his father’s smoothness. “To my house. My home address.”

Webster suppressed a sigh. “Mr. Qazai, I’m here to interview you. I need my questions.”

“Fuck the questions. I need your help.” He paused, and Webster waited. “My son’s been kidnapped.”

•   •   •

C
ONSTANCE DROVE THROUGH
the afternoon traffic like a man who had finally found a purpose in life, with one hand on the horn and the other gesturing at the mainly stationary cars to get out of his way, swearing robustly as he went. The Cadillac surged and stuttered and made slow progress until they left the main road.

The Qazais lived in the east of the city, in an area that like so many things in Dubai seemed to have been built just the day before. One aloof enclosure led to another on a lazily winding road whose tarmac was so fresh that it felt like a trespass to drive on it, but Constance seemed not to care as he swung the heavy car around corner after corner, past the security cameras perched on every wall. Webster caught glimpses of the villas through the wrought-iron gates: bricked driveways, black cars in the shade, arched verandas, young palm trees waiting to grow.

Timur’s was no different. Not the largest, by any means, nor ostentatious for someone as wealthy as he must be, but new, and well built, and slightly bland. As the car pulled up on the verge Webster saw signs of life that had been missing from the others. Two children’s bikes leaned against the porch; at the far end of the garden there was a small goal with a soccer ball in it; brightly colored towels lay scattered around the pool.

“Thanks, Fletcher. I’ll make my own way back.”

“Bullshit. I’m coming in.”

“You want them to know we work together?”

Constance thought for a moment, pulling at the beard on his chin.

“Don’t give them my name. Let’s go.” He had opened his door and was walking toward the intercom on the gatepost before Webster could respond.

The gates swung slowly open, and Timur came out from the porch to greet them, looking haggard and momentarily confused.

“Mr. Webster?” His eyes moved from one to the other.

“I’m Webster.”

Timur offered his hand, looking at Constance. He had his father’s eyes, almost, a clear blue but somehow dimmed, and the same proud brow, but his lips were fuller and his expression softer, less majestic. Thick black hair made him seem younger than he actually was, but he looked tired: the skin under his eyes was a livid gray and his hand was tacky with sweat.

“This is a friend of mine. Peter Fletcher. We were talking when you called.” Constance beamed and held out a hand.

Timur shook it distractedly, looking at Webster. “I only want you.”

“He might be able to help. And he won’t say anything to anyone.”

Timur considered it, and Constance did his best to appear respectable.

“Come,” he said, and led the way into the cool interior of the house.

“This is Raisa, my wife. Raisa, this is Mr. Webster, and his friend.”

Raisa took Webster’s hand. Webster tried to place her; she was dark, but not Arabic, slight and pretty, her brown eyes quick and scared. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“This way, please,” said Timur, and they followed him into the kitchen, where they sat down around the table. He looked at Raisa briefly, with a mixture of reassurance and fear, and began. “We had a call from our driver forty minutes ago.” He closed his eyes, collected himself and went on. “He takes our son Parviz to swimming every Wednesday. They were coming home when the car got a flat tire. A car pulled up, a man got out. With a gun. He took Parviz.” There was a catch in his voice as he said it.

“Have you called the police?” said Webster.

“Straight away. They should be here.” His hand tensed on the table.

“Where did it happen?”

“By the racecourse.”

Webster looked at Constance, who understood. “About fifteen minutes away.”

“How well do you know your driver?” said Webster.