Christopher Jones: The Jackal's Share

“Mr. Hammer? Yves Senechal. Mr. Qazai’s personal representative.” His accent was softly French, his voice scratchy, insubstantial.

“Delighted, Mr. Senechal. Ben’s told me a lot about you.”

“Gentlemen,” said Senechal, “the car is around the corner. Mr. Qazai sends his apologies—he cannot break away. He will join us shortly.”

And with that Senechal turned and headed north, toward Charing Cross Road, at no great speed and with a curious, weightless walk.

Hammer leaned in to Webster and whispered, mischief on his face: “So this is your spooky friend.”

AS A BOY WEBSTERhad been a chorister, until his voice had broken, and he still felt the pull of the church’s rituals even if its teachings had long ago lost their hold. Some of the stories had stayed with him, the narratives shaky but the mood—the sunlit, rock-like clarity of both Testaments—still clear, and with little effort he could recall how they had once made him feel: pained, guilty, compassionate, at one with sinners everywhere. When he was twelve he had been asked to serve on Good Friday, a great honor, and following the priest in his procession from one Station of the Cross to the next he had had to pinch the soft flesh on his upper arm to hold back the tears.

There were twenty-five years now between him and that devout, perhaps better incarnation. A full ten years, even, since he had left Russia, all traces of his faith trodden out, and in that time he had built, with his wife Elsa, a happy, blessed life that he gave thanks for every day. The thanks were undirected now, but he gave them nonetheless, and until this year had rarely stopped to wonder where he meant them to go. But ever since Lock’s funeral, scenes from distant childhood had been breaking in on his thoughts and causing him to wonder whether they were a message or an indulgence; whether they were trying to tell him something or merely offer some obscure comfort to his subconscious.

Lock had died just before Christmas; the funeral, which Webster had attended discreetly, had been held on Christmas Eve; and for the rest of winter and all of the spring his death had occupied Webster without let-up. The Germans had wanted him back for further questioning, and then to give evidence to the inquest—whose predictable verdict, finally, was that Lock had been murdered in Berlin by sinister forces ( finsteren Mächte in German) who had meant to assassinate his client, Konstantin Malin. The report hadn’t said so, of course, but Webster knew that one of the few clear conclusions to be made from the whole episode was that without his meddling Lock would be alive.

So perhaps it wasn’t surprising if his mind was searching around for solace. Let it; he couldn’t control it. But for himself, he didn’t want to be soothed. All he wanted was to work, concentrate, be a good father—and let time and fate decide whether he was doing the right thing.

Three days before Mehr’s memorial service, then, on a dark, wet afternoon in early May that was more like winter than the end of spring, Webster had found himself in a boardroom by St. Paul’s delivering findings to a firm of private equity investors. Through the glass that covered one side of the building he could see a few tourists scattered over the cathedral steps, the freshly cleaned stone of the facade shining in the rain, the great dome above, and across the river, the dull brown of Bankside tower cutting across the gray line of the Sydenham Hills ten miles beyond. It was a grand view, even in the half-light, and a grand backdrop for two young men in suits, one of them taking notes, the other playing with a hand press (which, he had explained, was part of the therapy for a boxing injury). They seemed as keen to be there as he was.

Four weeks earlier they had given him a routine piece of work: to find out whether there was anything about a man called Richard Clifford that might embarrass them when they came to sell his fashion business on the Stock Exchange. It was due to list the following month, and because the market was quiet, and the company prominent, the world, Webster had been told, would be watching.

Clifford’s reputation was good, his visible profile, in the accepted phrase, spotless: no scandal, no litigation, no bankruptcies. But a particularly voluble former client had mentioned “that business in the newspapers”—lightheartedly almost, joking that such things would be viewed rather more seriously now—and when pressed had tightened up, saying it had been a long time ago and that was all he was prepared to say. After a day in the library, Webster’s researcher had found two articles, both from the late 1980s, that set out with typical clarity how the News of the World had caught Clifford in a sting operation handing over money in exchange for sex with an underage prostitute. A picture showed him bearded and young, all of thirty-one, shielding his face from the photographer he had found on his doorstep one morning.

“You’re kidding,” said the man with the injured hand, leaning forward on the table between them, his shoulders massive under a shirt that seemed too small for him. He had a taut, blockish face framed with thinning fair hair and set in the constant frown of the important man. His colleague, making notes, merely shook his head and exhaled slowly.

“I’m not,” said Webster.

“How could he have kept that quiet?”

“He was charged with procuring but it never went to court.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I suspect his lawyer claimed it was entrapment and the CPS got nervous.”

“Bullshit.”

Webster raised an eyebrow.

“He can’t have known she was underage.”

“He knew.” From the wallet of documents in front of him Webster picked a large, folded piece of paper and slid it across the table. “They printed the advertisement they used.”

The boxer opened the article, studied it for perhaps ten seconds, and as he passed it to his friend stared at Webster for a long moment as if that might force him to stop this nonsense and finally tell the truth. There was sweat on his brow and the frown had turned from grave to incredulous. Webster knew what he was thinking: there goes my fucking deal.

“Is that your only source? The News of the World ?”

Webster nodded.

“Well it’s not surprising it never went to court, is it?”

“The News of the World didn’t make things up. Not like that. Not then.”

“Of course not.”

“They had more lawyers than any other newspaper in London. I talked to the journalist. There were two, one died. It was part of a series of stings. They advertised in a Dutch contact magazine and reeled them in. Clifford’s was the first letter they received.”

“For fuck’s sake. Are you making this up?” He shook his head, took his phone from his pocket and left the room.

For a moment Webster and the boxer’s colleague looked at each other.

“How bad is this?” said the colleague, finally.

“What he did or what it means?” Webster was losing patience.

“You know.”

“It means your man used to be repugnant. He may still be. And if I know, others know.”

The client nodded once and sighed. “Christ.” He wrote something in his notebook. “Who else?”

“The journalist. She’s retired. Her editor, if he remembers. And then you tell me. Circulation was about three million at the time.”

The boxer came back into the room, finishing his call, and stood at one end of the conference table.

“No… no. I’ll tell him… Fuck, I don’t know.” He hung up and looked at Webster. “Have you written this down?”

His colleague stopped writing. Webster sighed. “This,” he took a thin document from the plastic wallet in front of him, “is a draft report. Of all the things I made up.”