Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

Webster began by asking about his past, about the history of his companies, and about his investors—for context, he had explained, so that he might understand the significance of his findings, but it was more to put Qazai at his ease, perhaps off his guard. Qazai had nodded and told him to ask whatever he liked. Webster began with questions about his father, the founding of the business, its financing, its first clients. Every answer was pristine, complete and convincing, worked to a shine through repeated telling and so smooth that when Senechal had finally joined them Webster had barely resented the intrusion. Qazai was clearly quite capable of looking after himself.

He had talked about his art—the collection, the foundation, his friendship with Mehr—and about his family, and very particularly about Timur, his son, the imminent heir to this great estate. Webster, sinking back into the great sofa, took notes awkwardly on his knee. Try as he might he couldn’t disrupt Qazai’s rhythm. There were no inconsistencies to explore, no grit of any kind.

Qazai didn’t mind talking about himself like this. It was clear, in fact, that he had talked about himself a great deal, if the seamlessness of his narrative was any clue. As episode moved easily into episode, Senechal, having no reason to interject, simply sat tapping at his BlackBerry, making notes or typing e-mails, unnaturally upright on his sofa, half an ear on his master, whose account of himself was at once self-effacing and egotistical. Behind every story of his father’s canniness or Timur’s brilliance lay Qazai’s influence: without his father or his staff or his son he would have been nothing, but though he never said as much he left the strong impression that they might have been a great deal less without him.

He had a tendency to bring his homeland into everything. Iran never faded from the story. After over thirty years its steep descent into terror was a fresh insult that he was still struggling to accept. He talked about Mehr again, and the horror of his death, about the rigged election, the spring protests and the shame he had felt when he had not been there to take part. Time and again, Webster had to bring him back to the subject of his own life.

In this he was not like other rich men Webster had met. His passions seemed more powerful than his drive to make money and he was almost reluctant to discuss his success. His mission, as he called it, would not be complete until Iran was free again and he could be said to have contributed to its release. But Webster noticed that for all these fine words he said little about what form that contribution might take.

In fact, there were too many fine words altogether. Qazai was not evasive, quite; his answers were full; his whole account of himself seemed to have substance, and was delivered with conviction bordering on intensity; everything he said had a certain grace. But Webster began to sense that this version of Qazai, complete in its way, was only one of several that he would never have the chance to meet. He imagined them lined up in a mirror-lined closet off the sumptuous Qazai bedroom, somewhere above: this one for memorial services, that for charming investors, another for convincing Ikertu that he was a good man. Webster wondered how many there were, and whether Qazai himself could now tell one from another.

He was expansive about his son. Timur was the really talented one, he insisted, and under his guidance the company would become something altogether more exciting. Sometimes he regretted his own triumphs because they would always obscure Timur’s true abilities, no matter how much he achieved. It was for this reason, among others, that he was stepping away. Now was the time, after his apprenticeship in Dubai, to give his son the space to work freely.

“How old are your children, Mr. Webster?” he said, his legs crossed, a glass of orange juice in his hand, wholly comfortable.

“They’re young. Five and three.”

“Ah, how I envy you that. There is no greater delight. Do you have a son?”

“A girl and a boy.”

“Then we are the same. Do you have ambitions for him?”

“No. I have no idea.” Nor for her, Webster thought.

Qazai raised his eyebrows the merest touch, in concern more than surprise. He gave a slight nod, as if to himself. “I wanted Timur to have nothing to do with money. To be a writer, or a politician. A historian. It is difficult to be a rich man sometimes, if you love your children. If you leave them everything, it makes them weak. If you leave them nothing, it makes them resentful. I have tried hard not to spoil them.” There was a plainness about the way he said this that was new.

“Perhaps every father has the same problem,” said Webster. “If it isn’t money it’s something else.”

Qazai thought. “You are right,” he said, “very right. But money makes it worse. A poor man can bequeath his love, pure and simple.”

“And his poverty.”

Qazai looked at Webster for a moment with apparent appreciation and then laughed. “Mr. Webster, you are wasted as an investigator. Tell me, is your father still alive?”

Webster didn’t want to tell this man about his family but he answered nevertheless. “Yes, he is.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s retired. He was a psychiatrist.”

“A good man?”

“A very good man.”

Qazai nodded, as if that was what he had expected to hear. “Does he approve of what you do?”

There seemed a pointedness in the way the question was asked, so slight that he wondered immediately whether he had imagined it. Qazai waited for him to respond.

“He’s not the sort to judge.”

“It can be hard to live up to a good father,” said Qazai.

“Better to have the opportunity.”

“Even when we fail.” Qazai held Webster’s eye for a second longer than was comfortable, his features firmly set. “As we must.”

He drained the last of his orange juice, and his face relaxed into a smile. “I will introduce you to Ava later. She is keen to meet you. I thought you might like to ask her some questions.”

Webster, thrown a little by this odd exchange, muttered that that would be his pleasure, though for the life of him he didn’t know what questions those would be.

“Now,” said Qazai, putting his glass down and clasping his hands together. “What else do you have for me?”

Webster smiled back, without warmth. “Some specifics, I’m afraid. The Sargon relief. Mr. Shokhor. Some questions about Mr. Mehr, if you don’t mind.”

Qazai’s face stiffened a little, but before he could respond a short, muted little cough announced that Senechal was still with them.

“Monsieur,” he said, his tone deferential but firm. “We must be in Canary Wharf by noon.”

Qazai glanced at his watch, a thin gold disc. “Surely not, Yves. We can be late.” He turned to Webster. “Yves does his best to keep me on track, as you see.”

Senechal shifted in his seat. “I must insist, monsieur.”

“Yves, sometimes you can be a little too lawyerly. Never mind.” He smiled a patronizing smile at Senechal, who didn’t return it. “If it can’t be helped.”

“This won’t take long,” said Webster, feeling annoyance and relief at once. One part of him was happy to leave right now; the other wanted very much not to have to come back.

“I’m so sorry. Early next week?”

“I’ll be in Dubai next week.”

“Dubai? You should see Timur.”

“Thank you. I’d like to.”

“I’ll have him make the arrangements. He’ll be delighted.” Qazai held out his hand for Webster to shake. “Thank you, Mr. Webster. I’m sorry to cut this short. Truly.” His smile was frank and full. “I’ll send Ava in. You may talk to her about anything you wish, but not the content of that report. If you wouldn’t mind.”