Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

Webster saw a new passion in his words, a rage that seemed to fill him.

“So do not look for sense. Cyrus died because they feared him. Heaven knows why.” He had finished, and looking down he rearranged some papers on the desk. Then he was holding Webster’s eye once more. “If I had wanted you to investigate his death, I would have asked.”

Webster wondered if he should just let it go. Perhaps Hammer was right: perhaps there was nothing very much wrong with Darius Qazai, or at least nothing obvious, and to insist on taking him apart piece by piece until every last bone was found to be present, every vein and artery in place, was an exercise in vanity and not in diligence. It wasn’t what they had been paid to do, and it didn’t make anyone happier, or wiser, or better, least of all Webster himself. But he was too stubborn to stop, and too intrigued by the raw spot he had exposed.

“If there’s a link, that’s part of our job.” He held Qazai’s eye. “There’s a lot going on. I’m wondering whether I should investigate what happened to Parviz last week.”

Qazai looked at Timur, turned back to Webster, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he had collected himself.

“I appreciate, Mr. Webster, that your job requires you to see the world as interconnected. Everything has a cause and an effect and you look for the cause. I understand that. But again, what happened last week is an unpleasant, personal matter and not your business.”

Webster turned to Timur. “You told your father what happened? The whole thing?”

Timur nodded. He had his legs crossed away from them both and looked like he didn’t want to be drawn in. “Of course.”

“You still think the motive was money?”

“Yes,” said Timur. “I do.”

“Of course it was money,” said Qazai. “Kidnappings happen every day in that place. That is what happens when you have billionaires and slaves living side by side. The sooner Timur can move to London, the better. Which is why, Mr. Webster, we need you to finish your work. These are distractions.”

Given another three or four questions along these lines Webster had the impression he might goad Qazai into becoming truly angry, but although this was tempting in its own right he saw that it served no one’s purpose—not Ike’s, not his own. He had learned something, and that was enough.

“All right. But if I were your adviser, and not your investigator, I’d say that you should have a good think about who your enemies might be.”

An unconvinced smile flashed on Qazai’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Webster. I will. We should all do that from time to time.” He sat back, finding his composure. “Good. That was a useful session.”

He stood, and came around from his side of the desk. To complete the reconstruction of his familiar, easy self, he put his hand on Timur’s shoulder and smiled. In that moment of stiff contact Webster thought of his own relationship with Daniel: Had Qazai once been free to play with Timur, to whirl him around, to throw him in the air? Had they always been this reserved, or had they stiffened over the years? Curiously, the effect was to make Timur, eager for approval, desperate not to disappoint, seem more like a child, and despite his fine words about giving his son his chance this was exactly what Qazai wanted. All afternoon he had led, and Timur had merely watched.

BY ELEVEN,dinner had finished, the diners had gone their separate ways and Webster, relieved that the day was over, was walking on the lowest terrace and smoking a cigarette. The lake breeze was fresh, the sky free of cloud, the stars close, and from the newly watered flowerbeds rose the rich, cool smell of damp earth. He found a bench and watched the black stillness of the lake and the clustered lights beyond.

Dinner had been easier than lunch. Senechal had arrived from London just as they were sitting down, and his cold presence had made the situation somehow less intimate, as if Qazai was now protected again and not available for taunting—a corporate rather than a family gathering, throughout which Ava had been polite but spirited, Timur agreeable, Qazai quietly imperious.

Webster gave thanks for his own family’s simplicity. His parents were still married, still seemed happy, had never filed vicious claims and accusations against each other. They had never directed him or been disappointed by the directions he had taken. His inheritance would be modest in financial terms but rich in love, wisdom, a certain clarity in thinking about priorities, the only burden a duty to live up to their example.

Perhaps Qazai had had no choice but to damage his son. Perhaps the anxieties that propelled him had inhibited the confidence that might have set Timur free. The Qazai project could not be seen to end with Qazai; his legacy was as important as his own achievements. That, more than mere riches or power, might explain why great men found it so difficult to pass on happiness to their children: that they could never stop to know it themselves. Webster smiled at the notion that he was unlikely to encounter this problem himself.

Deep in thought, he felt the cigarette grow hot in his fingers and flicked it over the low balustraded wall into the night.

Faint footsteps behind him on the grass made him turn and there was Ava walking toward him, almost silhouetted against the lights from the house. A shawl was pulled closely around her. She stopped in front of the bench and smiled as he made to get up.

“Don’t be silly. Sit. Could you spare a cigarette?”

Webster pulled out his pack and tapped one free.

“May I?” she said, taking it.

“Please.”

She sat beside him at an angle and he struck a match for her. Her face glowed as she bent over it.

For a moment or two they sat and Ava smoked.

“I’m sorry about lunch,” she said at last. She held the cigarette delicately between the last joints of her fingers and turned her head away from him each time she exhaled.

“Don’t be. It was much more interesting than dinner.”

She turned to him and smiled. “God. I don’t know which was worse.”

“Is Senechal often here?”

She shook her head and sighed, looking out at the lake. “Today was the first time in months I’ve seen them apart. It’s not healthy.”

Webster said nothing.

“The hold he has on my father. Since my mother ran off. I think that’s when it started. It’s getting worse. I don’t know how it must make Timur feel.”

Webster watched her profile as she drew on the cigarette.

“What do you mean?”

Ava sat up and back on the bench, crossing her legs. “My father treats Timur like one of his treasures. He’s on display, to be admired. The most important piece in the collection. But he tells him nothing.” She shivered. “But that freak knows the lot. I’m sure of it. Ever since… My mother didn’t behave well. Since then my father has closed up. He was never easy, but no one’s allowed in now. Except that man. Like he’s the only person that can be trusted anymore. Because he’s paid. He’s a professional.” She shook her head and looked past Webster out to the lake. “He’s the one you should be interviewing.”

“What is there to tell?”

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows and plucking a piece of tobacco from her lower lip with her thumb. The intensity he had seen earlier had returned to her eyes. “You tell me, Mr. Webster. You probably know more than me by now.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t bank on it.”

She took a long drag, coughing as the smoke filled her lungs. “God, these are strong.”

“Sorry.”

She dropped the cigarette half-smoked on the grass and trod it out with her toe. Behind them the lights in one of the downstairs rooms went out, casting the terrace into deeper darkness.