Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

The gates swung slowly open, and Timur came out from the porch to greet them, looking haggard and momentarily confused.

“Mr. Webster?” His eyes moved from one to the other.

“I’m Webster.”

Timur offered his hand, looking at Constance. He had his father’s eyes, almost, a clear blue but somehow dimmed, and the same proud brow, but his lips were fuller and his expression softer, less majestic. Thick black hair made him seem younger than he actually was, but he looked tired: the skin under his eyes was a livid gray and his hand was tacky with sweat.

“This is a friend of mine. Peter Fletcher. We were talking when you called.” Constance beamed and held out a hand.

Timur shook it distractedly, looking at Webster. “I only want you.”

“He might be able to help. And he won’t say anything to anyone.”

Timur considered it, and Constance did his best to appear respectable.

“Come,” he said, and led the way into the cool interior of the house.

“This is Raisa, my wife. Raisa, this is Mr. Webster, and his friend.”

Raisa took Webster’s hand. Webster tried to place her; she was dark, but not Arabic, slight and pretty, her brown eyes quick and scared. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“This way, please,” said Timur, and they followed him into the kitchen, where they sat down around the table. He looked at Raisa briefly, with a mixture of reassurance and fear, and began. “We had a call from our driver forty minutes ago.” He closed his eyes, collected himself and went on. “He takes our son Parviz to swimming every Wednesday. They were coming home when the car got a flat tire. A car pulled up, a man got out. With a gun. He took Parviz.” There was a catch in his voice as he said it.

“Have you called the police?” said Webster.

“Straight away. They should be here.” His hand tensed on the table.

“Where did it happen?”

“By the racecourse.”

Webster looked at Constance, who understood. “About fifteen minutes away.”

“How well do you know your driver?” said Webster.

“All his life. His father drove for mine.”

“Did he get the number plate?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Looking.”

“Tell him to come back. The police will want to speak to him.”

As Timur typed a text into his phone Webster pressed on.

“Do they always take the same route?”

“Probably. I’m not sure.”

“Who might have done it?”

“I have no idea.”

Webster looked at him steadily.

“Really,” said Timur. He glanced at his wife and shook his head. “None.”

“We’re rich,” said Raisa, biting at the side of her thumb. “It happens.”

“What sort of car was it?” said Webster.

“A BMW. A black BMW.”

“New?”

Timur looked puzzled. “I think so. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Constance spoke, his deep voice full of authority. “It doesn’t happen often. And they don’t drive fancy cars when it does.”

Timur shook his head, leaned forward in frustration. “Look. My son is out there. They might be at the airport by now. In half an hour they could be in Oman. You have to do something.” His phone beeped and he looked at it distractedly.

“The police have the resources,” said Webster. “All we can do is try to work out what’s happening in the hope that will help.”

“That’s not a priority. It’s not useful now.”

Webster kept his expression neutral. “What did the police say?”

“That they’d put out an alert, and someone would be here soon.”

“Do you think they will?”

“God. I don’t know.” He looked at Raisa in frustration. “Yes. They should. They know who we are.”

The intercom chimed and Timur went to answer it.

“It’s them.”

He went outside, and Raisa followed. Webster and Constance looked at each other over the table.

Constance grunted. “What are you thinking?”

“That it’s not about money. More of a feeling.”

Timur returned with two men, both in khaki uniform, both wearing gray peaked caps, and introduced Webster to them as his lawyer. Constance he didn’t mention. One of the officers, older, bearded, with a row of ribbon medals on his chest, offered his hand to Webster.

“Captain Faraj.”

He shook Constance’s hand and sat at the table, waiting for everyone to join him.

“Every police car in Dubai knows the number plate and model of the car. This is good. We are treating this as a top priority.”

Timur thanked him, and the captain gave a bow of his head.

“Without a passport for your son they will not be able to leave the country. I will need a photograph of him that we can circulate.” Timur nodded at Raisa, who got up and left. “Where is your driver?”

“On his way.”

“I will need a full account. You trust him?”

“Completely.”

“Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

“Nothing.”

The captain gestured at his subordinate, who took a pad and a pen from the top pocket of his shirt.

“The basic details first. How old is your son?”

“Nine.”

“Is he your only child?”

“No. We have another son. Farhad. He’s five.”

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs with his nanny.”

“He doesn’t swim?”

“Only here.”

Timur’s phone rang, the shrill tone like a shock. He looked at it, then at the captain, and shook his head, once, to indicate that he didn’t know the number. Raisa came back into the room, a photograph in her hand, her face anxious. On the second ring he answered, glancing nervously between her and Webster.

“Yes… Yes… Yes I am.” He turned from the table slightly, putting a hand to his free ear, as if he couldn’t hear what was being said. “What, there? Oh, thank God. Thank God.” He reached his hand up to Raisa and held hers tightly. “Where? I’m coming now. Right now. Let me speak to him… Parviz? Sweetheart? Everything’s OK. I’m coming to get you. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

PARVIZ WAS A SKINNY,leggy boy, clearly bright, who held his mother’s hand and answered the captain’s questions with great composure. He was in shock, and his face looked drained, but he was a perfect witness, and by the time Raisa told the men that she was going to make him something to eat and that they should go and sit out of the way by the pool, he had described every last detail of his short abduction. The driver, Khalil, was if anything the more distraught, but what he said was consistent and plausible, if strange.

Khalil had taken Parviz to the pool as he always did. They had arrived a little before three, and at ten past four Parviz had come out with all the other boys. After half a mile one of the tires on the car, one of the Tabriz fleet, had run flat, and Khalil had been forced to pull over at the entrance to a construction site, telling Parviz to get out and stand a few meters back from the road while he changed the wheel. As he was fetching the spare from the boot, a black BMW with Dubai plates had driven up, and a man had got out of the passenger seat. He was in his thirties or forties, possibly Arabic, possibly Iranian or Iraqi, of compact build, and he wore sunglasses. Smiling, he had told Khalil that he was a friend of Timur’s, that he’d recognized their car, and that he’d be happy to drive Parviz home rather than making him stand here at the side of the road. By this time he was standing by Parviz, ruffling his hair. Khalil had thanked him but declined, and at this the man had reached for his waistband and the silver pistol that lay concealed there. He had then taken Parviz’s hand and led him to the BMW. Parviz had appealed to Khalil and tried to break free, but the man had merely dragged him to the waiting car, opened the rear door and shoved him in, sliding in after him as the car had driven off. Khalil, stalled at gunpoint, simply hadn’t known how to react.