The Jackal's Share

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  IN THE EAST THERE was a burst of sun over the city, but the heath was under clouds that were dark and laden with rain, and a strong northerly wind was ruffling the trees that hung heavily down to the edges of the pond. The air was sharp and for the first time in weeks, as he stepped out in his trunks, Webster felt cold. There were only three swimmers, each in their own world, swimming lengths. He watched them for a moment and then, instead of diving from the platform as he usually did, lowered himself slowly into the water from the ladder, the chill pinching its way up his body, and launched himself with great delicacy into a slow, stately breaststroke. This was how his parents swam, he thought, with dry hair.

  Gently he dived under the surface, letting the cold find its way into his head and his thoughts, opening his eyes and seeing nothing but the murky dark green. All the pain washed away, and emptying his mind he hung in the water for as long as he could, floating toward the surface like a corpse.

  As he came up the rain started, fat drops warmer than the pond water, and he turned onto his back to watch the sea-gray sky. It was like Cornwall here. Green and gray and wet, the earth and the sea and the sky at one. If he came through this he would never go to the desert again.

  • • •

  BY TEN HE WAS outside the Mount Street house and had made a number of resolutions. His head was clear, and he was no longer fearful. This might not end well, but at least he could make provisions.

  A man he had never seen before answered the door. He was big, dark, his hair cropped short.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Qazai.”

  “Your name?”

  “Webster.”

  The man moved aside, scanning the street before shutting the door.

  “I’ll let Mr. Qazai know you’re here.”

  Webster took off his raincoat and as he looked around for somewhere to hang it Ava came out of the sitting room. She was wearing a black sweater and black jeans, and she gave him a long, searching, uncomfortable look before she said anything.

  “Come to plot, have you?”

  “I’ve come to help,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair.

  She held his eye for a moment and seemed about to leave when something changed her mind. She turned back to him, biting her lower lip, her hands on her hips.

  “I want you to explain what’s going on. He won’t tell me anything. I have no idea.”

  Webster took a deep breath and looked down. “I can’t. He has to tell you himself.”

  She shook her head. “No. No. That won’t do.” Her voice was tight. “Everything’s a fucking mystery. On Saturday he calls me and says that I have to leave London for a week. Out of nowhere. He asks me where Raisa and the children are, and can I find a number for them in Croatia. Then he sent someone to bring me here, but won’t say a word. Except that I’m in danger.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not a bystander. I’m involved. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes were pained and bloodshot, and as she waited for his response Webster could see her biting the inside of her lip, trying to keep control. Hammer was right. She should know; not because she could be useful, although God knows he would rather deal with Qazai through her, but because she was right. She was as much a part of this as he was.

  Behind her came the brief rap of footsteps on stone. Ava turned, and there was Qazai. He stood for a moment, taking in the scene, imagining what had just been said.

  “Ava. This is between me and Mr. Webster. Leave us, please.”

  Ava looked at Webster meaningfully, as if she understood what he had been thinking, silently appealing to him to air it. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t throw Qazai off his fragile course.

  “He needs to tell you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Staring at him, she gave a small, contemptuous shake of her head, turned, and walked away without so much as a glance at her father. Webster watched her climb the stairs and felt painfully mute.

  “Let’s go to my study,” said Qazai.

  • • •

  BOOKS LINED THE SMALL ROOM on three of its walls from floor to ceiling; the fourth was all screens, all switched off. It was gloomy: a thin light came from a single sash window that looked out onto a brick wall six feet away, and a lamp on Qazai’s desk was unlit. Webster could smell the sweet smell of whisky in the air.

  Qazai gestured for him to sit, and moved around behind the desk. Physically, his change was complete. There was no spring about him now, and his movements were ponderous. He was an old man.

  “Have you heard anything?”

  Webster frowned. “From whom?”

  “From . . . from the Iranians.”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “No reason.” In the half darkness Qazai’s eyes were staring. He shook his head. “You never know. I just wanted to check.”

  Not for the first time Webster sensed that Qazai was veering off course.

  “You’re going to go through with this. You know you have no choice.”

  Qazai looked at him, raised his eyebrows in resignation, and nodded, just once.

  “I have good news for you.”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  “It’s not remotely funny. Yves called me.”

  Webster scratched the back of his head, harder than was necessary. He felt the strain in his neck relax a notch. “What . . . When did he call?”

  “Last night.”

  “What did he want?”

  Looking down at his hands, Qazai thrummed his fingers on the top of the desk for several seconds. Eventually he spoke.

  “Money.”

  “True to form.”

  “He wants fifty million dollars. A bonus at the end of the scheme, as he put it.”

  “Or he tells all.”

  Qazai let out a long, heavy breath. “You should have killed him.”

  “Perhaps you should. I’m glad I didn’t.”

  Neither man said anything for a moment.

  “Can you find him?” said Qazai.

  “I have better things to do. I could try to speak to him.”

  “This is more than an irritant. He wants the money before the deal goes through.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “Barely.”

  “You’d better find it.”

  “I want you to stop him.”

  “I’ll do my best. But I want something in return.”

  Qazai leaned forward against the desk. “What?”

  “For all my help. Two things. You tell the Italians to stop whatever it is you started.”

  Qazai raised an eyebrow a fraction. “I don’t have anything to do with your problems in Italy.”

  “Bullshit. You make that stop or so help me I will do everything I can to make it easy for Rad to find you and fuck you up.” Qazai, with an effort, held his eye. “I mean it.”

  Qazai ran his tongue around his teeth. “Yves looked after that. I don’t know what he did.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Not exactly. I don’t know who he spoke to.”

  Webster laughed. “You know, I’m not sure I can rely on Yves. I’m not sure he likes me anymore. So you’re going to have to make some calls. Call your Italian lawyer, or your politician friend, or whoever you need to call, and sort it out.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

  Qazai understood.

  “The other thing will be easy for you. Provision for my family. If I don’t come through this, whenever that happens, I want money to be paid to Ikertu.”

  “How much?”

  “A million dollars. From your estate. Ike will add the interest to my life insurance payments as they go out. I don’t want my wife to know.”

  “It’s not much.”

  “It’s enough. Any more and she might think it was from you
.”

  Qazai nodded, thoughtful. “If you deal with Yves, yes.”

  “No. Regardless. In writing.”

  Qazai narrowed his eyes.

  “It’s a million,” said Webster. “Even for a broken billionaire that’s nothing.”

  • • •

  THE REST OF THAT DAY Webster spent with Oliver, who was tired and becoming tetchy. The American Express card belonging to Rad’s alter ego, Mohamed Ganem, was registered in Egypt, and after a morning of frustrating calls to Cairo and easier ones to head office in New York—conducted in a highly plausible East Coast accent—Oliver had eventually established that in the last forty-eight hours it had paid Royal Air Maroc some three thousand dollars for flights, and withdrawn cash from a machine at Heathrow. So Rad was in London, and while that was no surprise it made Webster realize that the threats made to him and Qazai were not empty—not that he had ever been in any doubt—and that while the Iranians were making their plans he was failing utterly to find one of his own.

  Senechal’s phone, meanwhile, remained switched off, and Oliver was able to see that no calls had been made on it since his call to Qazai the previous night. The last payment on his credit card had been for a hotel in Marrakech on Saturday night and a flight to Paris the next day. His office merely said that he was in meetings. It was impossible to know where he was.

  In the evening Webster ate half a pizza, drank whisky and felt like a stranger in his empty house. The thought struck him, while he was listlessly watching television, that he might never see it full again. He considered calling Elsa, but decided against it; spoke to George Black, and heard that nothing of any interest was happening around his parents’ house; tried Ava and got her voicemail. Then he phoned Qazai, and told him that he should send Senechal an e-mail letting him know that the money would be paid, and that they should meet at St. Pancras Station the following afternoon to agree how it would be exchanged. Qazai bristled, and Webster explained to him with greater patience than he deserved that this may be the only way to get Senechal to break cover.

  That was all he could usefully do. In the end he called his parents’ phone, deciding that if Elsa answered fate had meant them to talk. His father picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Ben. Hello. How are you?” His father’s voice was gentle and rich. It was like Oliver’s in one respect: it made you want to confess.

  “I’m fine. Fine, thank you. I was just calling to see how you all were.”

  “We’re all well. The children are having stories.”

  “Everyone happy?”

  “Everyone’s happy.” A pause. “When do you think you might be able to join us?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. Saturday, maybe. Let’s see.”

  “And everything’s OK?”

  “It’s all fine.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Webster closed his eyes and shook his head. He longed to talk about it but it wouldn’t do any good.

  “Not now. Soon, maybe.”

  “I understand.”

  Both were silent for a moment.

  “Always remember,” said his father, “that you’re not wholly responsible for everything. Others play their part. You have a tendency to forget that.”

  “Some of us are more to blame than others.”

  “Perhaps. But only because you bear all the weight you can. That’s a good thing. Not everyone does.”

  Webster nodded. He couldn’t speak.

  “It will fall together again. You’ll see.”

  Webster didn’t respond.

  “Hope to see you at the weekend.”

  “OK. Thanks, Dad.”

  He put the phone down, his head full of an unsettling sense of being young and old, his father’s son and his children’s father, fatigued and childish at once.

  • • •

  WEBSTER TOOK NO PAINKILLERS that night and when Constance called hadn’t slept for longer than an hour.

  “Ben. Fletcher. You sound unwell.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine thirty here. A little earlier where you are.”

  “Jesus, Fletcher.”

  “I thought you’d want news when I got it.”

  “I do. I do.” Reaching over to his bedside table, he fumbled in the half-light for his glass, drank water awkwardly through the side of his mouth and slumped back. “You in Beirut?”

  “No. I’m back in paradise. They gave up when they saw what a pain in the ass I was about to be.”

  Webster grunted.

  “I know a thing or two about your new friend,” said Constance.

  “About Rad?”

  “About Mr. Zahak Rad.” He paused. “Now you’re awake.”

  “Go on.”

  Constance gave a low whistle. “You picked one evil bastard to fuck with, my friend.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well. Up until a couple of years ago he was a big cheese in VEVAK, an intelligence guy all his life. Joined when he was a teenager, as far as anyone can tell, right at the beginning. There’s a story that he was in prison when the revolution happened, a political. Been trying to blow up the Shah or some shit. Anyway, seems he blossomed. Spent the eighties and nineties in Europe assassinating dissidents. Or helping to. He crops up in the file of some poor fucker who got shot eating his breakfast in Paris. He’s the go-to-guy for foreign ops, basically. Doesn’t spend much time in Tehran, he’s in such demand, until the last five years, when it looks like he’s recalled to center and given some new, nasty job doing intelligence for the Revolutionary Guards. Keeping an eye on dissidents. Suppressing uprisings. Seems he’s mainly in Dubai.”

  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.

  TUESDAY PASSED; WEDNESDAY 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 he
lp 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.