Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

Webster had no idea what there was left to talk about, but little as he relished the prospect of wasting an hour talking to Qazai’s daughter about heaven knows what, he realized that he was caught, and could do nothing but agree. Qazai shook his hand warmly, smiled one more of his big, bold smiles, and walked away.

Halfway to the door Senechal put his hand on Qazai’s arm and whispered a few words that Webster couldn’t make out. Qazai stooped to hear him, nodded and turned. “Yves has had a splendid thought. You must come to Como. The week after next. The whole family will be there, and we’ll have time then. Bring your wife. My secretary will be in touch.” And with that he left, Senechal dutifully following.

Elsa with a house full of Qazais by the lake. Webster smiled.

HE KNEW A LITTLEabout Ava Qazai—a paragraph or two from Dieter in one of his many memos, drawn almost wholly from the society pages of the newspapers and the gossip columns of magazines. All he could remember was that she was the younger of the two children, didn’t work in the family business and was of interest to journalists because she had found it difficult, despite much good work in that general direction, to find a husband. There were various accounts, relayed by Dieter in too much detail, of parties attended and engagements broken, and Webster wondered blackly whether he would be required to find some room for them in his final report. The one detail he had taken in, because it had prompted a grim chuckle, was that she was invariably described as “the billionaire’s daughter, socialite and political activist, Ava Qazai.” He could only assume that Qazai wanted him to hear about all the good works that he funded.

Webster had put aside his notebook and was leafing through one of the books on the coffee table when she came in. He was prepared for her to be powerfully dressed, probably in black, and to treat him as women too accustomed to money tended to treat people like him, as staff. But from the start she didn’t conform to type. She wore black jeans, white tennis shoes and a gray silk blouse, and as he rose to shake her hand gave the impression not of superiority, exactly, but impatience.

“Mr. Webster. Ava Qazai. I feel like we’ve been told to play together.”

Webster returned the slightly testy smile. Her eyes, almost level with his, were black, underscored against her olive skin with a thin line of mascara and but for a slight scroll at the side completely round. They were serious, not wholly certain; Webster felt himself being examined, as if she were trying to determine what sort of creature he was.

“Like good children,” he wanted to say, but instead introduced himself, a little stiffly, and suddenly felt rather foolish. This wasn’t the spoiled princess of his imagination, and the realization made him wonder how she must see him and his own strange, trivial mission.

“I see you’ve been looked after,” she said, taking in the plates and cups on the table.

“Repeatedly.”

“My father likes this house to be a little corner of Tehran. My oasis, he calls it.”

“He has some beautiful things.”

“Too many. One can only look at so much.”

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.”