Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

“Do you do much work in Iran, Mr. Webster?” said Qazai at last, turning to him. He was smiling but his brow was tight and he was clearly angered by this small, public act of insubordination. Webster wondered whether he controlled every conversation with his family in the same way, and looked for neutral ground where the others might feel safe to follow.

“A little. It’s not an easy place to do what we do. As you can imagine. Although it’s not the worst.”

Raisa gratefully took the bait. “Where is that, Mr. Webster?”

“Please—Ben.” Raisa smiled and nodded. “It depends what you mean by worst. Poland is impossible to understand. The Germans hate to tell you anything. The Balkans are the most confusing place on earth.”

Raisa smiled. “I should be flattered, I’m sure.”

Webster looked puzzled.

“I’m from Slovenia,” she said. “If that counts.”

“Oh, I think so,” said Webster.

“But the most dangerous?” Ava appeared to have recovered; she was contributing.

Webster thought for a moment. “Well, Iran would be up there. Iraq, certainly. Parts of Africa. Russia.”

“I read about your difficulties there, Mr. Webster,” said Qazai. “That can’t have been an easy time.”

This threw Webster. It was easy enough to find those articles but he was surprised that Qazai had taken the trouble, and more surprised that he should raise it here. “No, it wasn’t an easy time.”

“You have my sympathies,” said Qazai. “To do something valuable it is sometimes necessary to accept misfortune. Everyone here has experience of this, I think.”

Webster managed to nod, controlling an impulse to ask Qazai what on earth he meant, and was only distracted from his irritation by Ava laughing, a short hard laugh.

“Daddy, look around.” She shook her head as if in wonder. “Look at all this. We are some of the most fortunate people who ever lived.”

“Not all misfortune involves money, Ava.”

“I thought everything was about money.” Her eyes were wide in challenge, her head inclined slightly to one side.

For a full five seconds he looked at her, his features set.

“Ava, now is not the time.” His mouth but not his eyes relented into a smile. “And this isn’t like you. Please let us enjoy our lunch on this beautiful day.”

“For Mr. Webster’s sake.”

“For all our sakes.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Webster,” said Ava. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You haven’t.” He and Ava exchanged a look; Webster thought he could see in her eyes a real fury that hadn’t been there when they met in London.

Food came, the moment passed, and the rest of the lunch was spent in stiff but fluent enough conversation about children and education and holidays and other subjects deemed safe by some tacit mutual understanding. Qazai was in charge, distributing the conversation around the table with a diplomat’s equilibrium. The only people he failed to engage were Parviz and Farhad, who sat dutifully enough and mourned the hot, bright day.

Occasionally he would set up a story for Timur or ask him to give his opinion on some matter but for the most part his son was withdrawn. Webster wondered whether he was always like this in his father’s company, whether he didn’t dare be himself, or whether he was merely preoccupied, or tired, or simply bored of some repeating pattern in the relationship between Ava and his father; wondered, too, why Qazai had invited him here to witness all this uneasiness, and concluded that he was as surprised by it as anyone.

As the coffees were cleared Qazai stood, thanked everyone for their company, and asked if they would mind leaving him alone with Mr. Webster and Timur because there were things they needed to discuss. Raisa and Ava did not delay and followed Parviz and Farhad as they ran, thin-legged and laughing, into the house. Webster watched them go with envy, and asked Qazai whether he might smoke a cigarette.

QAZAI, IT SEEMED,wanted Timur to sit in on their interview; it was important, was it not, that he knew exactly what had been found. Webster did his best not to show his irritation; the whole point of being in this secluded place was to get Qazai alone and see how he answered questions without an audience. He made cogent arguments, warned him that he would ask him things that he might not want Timur to hear, but Qazai insisted, and when your client insisted there was little that you could do. Not for the first time he cursed Ike for creating this impossible relationship.

He managed one small victory, however, which was to move inside the house; no one could ask or answer hard questions with the afternoon sun glimmering on the lake and the breeze soothing everything with its warmth. The three of them withdrew to Qazai’s study, a modest room on the northwestern side of the house, cool as a result, lined with leather-bound books on mahogany shelves and looking out through a small grove of pear trees onto a terrace planted with roses and camellias. Qazai sat behind his desk, an elegant insubstantial thing that had never seen much work, and Webster took one of the half-comfortable chairs that faced it. Timur took the other.

Webster placed his recorder on the corner of the desk, set it going and began. His first dozen questions were about the sculpture, and Qazai’s answers were predictable. No, he did not know a Mr. Shokhor; he had never bought anything at all from a Swiss dealer, to his knowledge; Mehr might have done but if he had he had never mentioned it. He was, in short, mystified by the whole business, and would be glad when Webster had finally settled it.

“Do you have anything to tell me?” he said, expectant.

“No. Not yet. We’re making progress.”

“How long, do you think?”

“It depends. Sometimes these things just give. Sometimes they can get tricky. Two or three weeks, I would say.”

Qazai nodded briskly, as if to say that that wasn’t quick enough but would have to do, and waited for the next question.

“Do you think,” said Webster, picking his words carefully, “that there might be a connection between the death of Cyrus Mehr and this story?”

Qazai sat straighter in his chair, and when he spoke he was emphatic. “No. I don’t.”

Timur looked from his father to Webster and back again.

Webster went on. “I was wondering… perhaps there’s something going on here we don’t fully understand. Maybe someone thinks he was involved in smuggling for the same reason someone thinks you were.”

Qazai shook his head. “No. No. I don’t believe that’s what happened.”

“Of course, it’s also possible that when he died, that somehow contributed to the story. Or triggered it.”

“Mr. Webster, this is not a useful line of inquiry. We should move on.” His jaw had moved forward slightly, as if he were clenching his teeth. Webster watched him, fascinated.

“But if he was smuggling, he’d be smuggling for you. People might make that assumption. Isn’t it possible that’s how the rumor about you started?”

Qazai leaned forward and pointed at Webster across the desk. His voice was level and hard. “All right. Enough. You’re being paid to clear my name. Not to investigate the murder of my friend. Nor, for that matter, to phone up his widow and harass her.”

That shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. As it had been a mistake. But Webster persisted, only briefly thrown and encouraged by Qazai’s vehemence.

“The story of his death doesn’t make sense.”

Qazai’s face became set, stony. “Listen to me, Mr. Webster. You are an investigator. You want to know things. I understand this. But some things we cannot understand, sitting here, rational people, in this most beautiful place. The men who rule Iran are not like us. They deal in fear. And what they fear, they kill. That does not make sense. Not to us.” He gave Webster a moment to absorb the words. “My best friend in Tehran was a doctor. He fled too, to Paris. He was political. A braver man than me. A better man than me.” He paused. “His car blew up outside his apartment. In 1984. His wife and daughter saw it happen as they waved him to work that morning. At his funeral there were men we did not know, taking pictures at a distance.” He left a space, but Webster knew better than to fill it. “Six months later, another friend, who had been there, paying his respects, was shot in Vienna. Twice, through the head.” Another pause, his eyes not leaving Webster’s. “My father’s godson was shot in a restaurant in Hamburg. I knew two people who were killed in Istanbul. There are dozens more I didn’t personally know, and none of them, not one of them, makes sense. These people do not know sense. Only fear.”