Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

“I am delighted to hear it.” He stood. “Thank you, Mr. Webster. I look forward to the report.” And with that, taking his document, he left, floating across the floor on his light, even steps.

AT LINATE WEBSTER WAITEDin a single, snaking queue to take off his shoes and his belt and have his bag X-rayed, absently watching his fellow travelers with their refined traveling gear: suitcases obediently to heel, laptops held close, shoes ready to be slipped off in an easy motion. Like everyone else he checked his BlackBerry aimlessly, head bowed.

He should have taken the train. Overnight to Paris, the window open all the way, in his own cabin, on his own time; dinner in the dining car and a cigarette leaning out into the night somewhere around Lyon. A sentimental notion, attractive because it allowed him to indulge the fantasy that his life was his own.

As he untied his laces and unbuckled his belt he pondered the morning’s conversation. Would Senechal have made the same suggestion, as subtle as a whisper, to anyone? Or was there something that made him seem a susceptible bribee? Something equivocal, biddable? Would Senechal, for instance, have made it to Hammer? Had he already?

He shook that thought from his mind. No one would try to bribe Ike. You’d have to be dimwitted to mistake that keen edge for greed. No, these were the wrong questions. The only one that mattered was whether to tell Ike what had happened. He would stop the case if he knew, and Webster could then wash his hands at last of these puzzling and unsavory people—and start looking for the next client, who might be better or who might be worse, but who was unlikely to have that noxious mixture of arrogance and threat that was shot through the Qazais.

He cleared security without a beep, collected his clothes and his bag, moved aside to put on his shoes and jacket and made his way to the passport queue. He would like to be rid of them, that was clear, but at the same time he wasn’t ready to let them go. For the sake of Ava, and Timur, and most importantly Parviz, he told himself, he shouldn’t stop until he had worked out what was at the dark center of Qazai.

From his glass booth an immigration officer signaled that he should step forward. Webster handed across his passport, old now and full of stamps, the gold lettering on the cover worn away, and watched the officer open it to the back page, tap at his keyboard, inspect the photograph, glance up at him and then study his computer screen. He always wondered what it said on his file, a universal curiosity perhaps: he had Russian clients who were forever asking him to find out why they were stopped for questioning when they came west, a hopeless task. The officer tapped some more, picked up his phone, leafed through the passport as he said a few words and then hung up.

“What are you doing in Milano?” he asked, still looking down.

“Business,” said Webster. “I came to see a client.”

The officer nodded slowly to himself and typed something into his computer, taking his time. Webster heard footsteps behind him and two men appeared at his shoulder, both in the uniform of the Polizia di Stato. One went to talk to his colleague in the booth, the other stayed back.

After a moment’s grave conversation the first officer came out and nodded to his colleague, who took Webster by the elbow and told him that he would have to follow him and answer some questions.

The two men led Webster past shops and sandwich bars to an unmarked gray door set in a long gray wall. Behind it was a white room, well-lit from two fluorescent strips that hung from the ceiling, its floor tiled with worn carpet, its only furniture a glass table with a metal-framed chair either side of it. He was told that he should sit and that someone would be with him soon. One officer left and the other stayed, standing with his back to the wall by the door. Webster watched him for a moment and decided that his rigid bearing and serious gaze were there to suggest that he wouldn’t answer questions if asked, so taking his phone from his coat he began to type a short message to Ike, letting him know where he was and why he might be late.

“No,” said the officer. “No cell. Please switch off.”

“Am I under arrest? Because otherwise I can make a call.”

“Switch off the cell or I am going to arrest you.”

He looked at his guard, saw that he was serious, cut his message to Ike short (“stopped at linate”) and turned off his phone.

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Someone come,” said the officer, and resumed his inspection of the opposite wall.

“If they don’t come soon I’m going to miss my flight.”

This was Italy. It could be hours. Resigned to being here for some time Webster took yesterday’s newspaper from his bag. Forty minutes passed, and he began to be frustrated with the silence. His guard didn’t move. Eventually the door opened a few inches and someone that Webster couldn’t see beckoned to the officer to leave the room. After a moment or two he was replaced by two men in suits, one old and balding gray, short and tensed, the other younger and less compact, his black jacket scarcely covering his paunch.

They stood in front of the table and the younger man spoke; his partner merely cocked his head and looked at Webster with implacable gray eyes.

“Signore Webster. I am sorry that you are made to wait. Please, come with us.”

Webster shook his head. “No. Either you tell me what is going on or I call my lawyer right now. And my embassy.” He reached for his phone.

“Signore, we need you to answer questions about Giovanni Ruffino.” Webster stopped and looked up. “Please, come with us.”

Ruffino. Webster thought he had heard the last of him long ago.

“YOU HAVEN’T BEEN TO ITALYin a long time, Signore Webster,” said the younger policeman. He had the high, sing-song voice of the Milanese, a little open trill on the end of any word that would take it.

“Not for a while.”

“Not in seven years.” He referred to a file that he had opened on the table in between them. “Is that a choice?”

“No. Just chance.”

A little nod. “So we must not feel hurt.” A quick, perfunctory smile at his joke and then a pause. “Why do you come here now? Chance?”

“No. I came to have a meeting. With a client.”

“An Italian client?”

“A client with a house in Italy.”

“Can you tell me the name?”

“Of the house?”

The detective smiled. He was being indulgent. “Mr. Webster, you will find it easier to be cooperative. We will all find it easier.” He looked sideways to his colleague, who sat with his legs crossed, one elbow over the back of his chair, tending to his nails with what looked like a toothpick. “His name?”

“I might tell you when you tell me why you’re wasting my day.” They were now in a police station in the city, on via Malpensa. Webster didn’t know enough about the complicated organization of the Italian police to know which branch was detaining him or what that might mean. All he knew was that it was eleven now, and the day was slipping into nothingness. He didn’t know whether to feel concerned or simply angry. That Ruffino should come up now was strange: he hadn’t given him a moment’s thought in years and could hardly believe that he was of interest to anybody still. He watched the two detectives and tried to learn something from their carriage, from their body language. The younger officer was resting his arms on the table and his back was curved, his shoulders slumped. It was hot in the room and he had taken off his jacket to reveal dark-blue patches under his arms. But he wasn’t anxious. He looked like a man with right on his side. His colleague continued to pick at his nails, unconcerned.