Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

“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.”

SHOKHOR HAD CALLED BACKwhile 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.”

CONSTANCE DROVE THROUGHthe 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.