Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

Their drinks arrived. Webster took a sip of his, waiting for her to continue, wondering what she meant by “collapse.”

“Come on,” she said, getting down from her stool. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Somewhere no one can hear us.” And before he could object she was walking out of the bar, throwing the end of her wrap over her shoulder as she went. Webster fished his wallet out of his back pocket, put down some notes on the counter and left at a brisk walk. Out of the bar he turned right, expecting her to be heading for the hotel’s main entrance, but there was no sign of her in the lobby or on the stairs that ran down to Knightsbridge. To his left was the restaurant and a private room with grand, tall French doors, one of which was open. He looked inside. The room was laid for a dinner, and beyond the long table running down its center more French doors gave out onto a wide terrace above the park. Ava was there, leaning against the balustrade, struggling to get a cigarette lit, her back hunched against the wind.

“Can I help?” Webster said as he approached.

“This fucking lighter is useless,” she said without looking up. He moved around in front of her, took the lighter and cupping it closely in his spare hand struck the flint wheel as she leaned in. It was a cheap, plastic lighter, he noted with mild surprise. “Thank you,” she said. “Do you want one?”

“No, thank you. I only smoke abroad.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She inhaled deeply and smiled as she blew out the smoke, her poise restored.

He waited for her to speak again but for half a minute she simply smoked, looking out at the park and the runners and cyclists coursing around the sand track.

“I’ve thought a lot about this,” she said at last, dropping her cigarette to the ground and twisting it out with her shoe. “When I saw you in Como… when we had that lunch, I felt sure that something would change, but it hasn’t. I think he’s made his choice.”

Webster did his best to look understanding, but what she said made little sense. After a pause she went on.

“You love your family, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“How would you expect to be dealt with if you put them in danger?”

The words caused a brief flush in Webster’s chest. “Harshly.”

Ava said nothing but nodded twice, finally settling something.

“I don’t know where to start.” She paused, searching for the beginning. “OK. OK. I went to Paris, what, two months ago? To see a friend. I can’t give you his name. Since I haven’t been able to go to Iran he’s become important to me. He’s an exile, a politician.” She felt in her handbag for her cigarettes, took one from the pack and passed the lighter to Webster, who lit it as before. “Thank you.” She took a deep draw. “So I see this man every so often and ask him about what’s going on in Iran. He has excellent sources. God, it’s not warm, is it?” She shivered, drawing the shawl more closely around her. “This last time he called the meeting, which he’s never done before, and when I got there he was odd. Cagey. He had something to say but it took him a long time to get there.”

I could say the same about this evening, Webster thought, hoping that whatever she had to say would be good.

“Eventually he asks me if my father has been behaving strangely. How? I ask him. Since his friend died, he says, in Iran. Then he tells me that he knows, from a good source, that my father is in a lot of trouble. With some very nasty people.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He just told me that it had to do with money, that I should be careful, and I should talk to my father. Then he went.”

“Did you believe him?”

“He’s never lied to me. And he was agitated. Like someone who’s said too much.”

Ava blew cigarette smoke out into the wind.

“Have you talked to your father?”

“Not for a while. I figured his problems are his own. We talk less than we did. But after what happened to Parviz I had to. In Como, after you’d left.”

“What did he say?”

“He was furious. He told me he had enough people prying into his affairs and he didn’t need another.” Her cigarette was only half smoked but she stubbed it out. “I told him that if he couldn’t protect his family he wasn’t the great man he thought he was.” She smiled, but Webster could see that she was scared. “Do you think I’m right?”

FOR SEVERAL DAYS AFTERWARDWebster wandered from place to place like an outcast, waiting, comfortable nowhere. Elsa was cool, quiet, and unconvinced by his assurances, which felt both more plausible and more hollow each time he repeated them. His home, he realized, didn’t tolerate dishonesty; it reflected it back at him, like some fairy-tale paradise that blessed the pure in heart and tormented the wicked. Had he been able, he would have taken himself off on his quest and returned, humbled, only when he had made everything right.

At least the contract was more practical at work. Hammer was being bright and businesslike, making it clear that while he hadn’t enjoyed their last exchange he hadn’t been offended by it, and that no harm would be done if the Qazai case could now progress efficiently to its conclusion. This was straightforward and reasonable. Concentrate on Shokhor, and finish the case. But Webster knew, somehow, that there was nothing there. He was sure that before Qazai had even thought of Ikertu, he had seen a copy of the allegations against him, and was confident they were nonsense; sure that he never expected some lowly detective to exceed his brief, not when he was being paid to do as he was told; equally sure that he was doing everything in his power to bend that lowly detective to his will.

In any case, Oliver had been through Shokhor’s phone bills and found nothing of interest—or at least nothing of interest to this case. The police in several countries would no doubt have found them enthralling, but there were no calls to Qazai, Senechal, Mehr, or any Swiss art dealers, and even though the records only went back two years and didn’t cover the period in question, Webster chose to see in them further support for what he knew already. Shokhor was not the story. The story lay somewhere else, and if he didn’t find it soon Qazai would ensure that it was never told.

So when he had tired of sitting at his desk, trying and failing to start a report that he never wanted to see written, and long before it was time for him to return home, Webster would leave the office and walk, with no destination in mind, and try to resist the urge to ask Dean or Fletcher whether they had discovered anything more since his last call. Even in that short period he developed a routine: an early swim, breakfast with the children, Ikertu until a little after lunch, and then what was in effect a long walk home, in a broad arc around the top of the city or following the river before heading north. Every day, London was hot and close.

Serious concerns contended with grave ones. A formal letter had arrived from the Italians asking him to appear in Milan for further questioning, and the date they had set was four days after the Websters were due to leave for their summer holiday in Cornwall. He had not yet told Elsa. His Italian lawyer was trying to come to an agreement with the police that Webster would not be arrested if he did attend, but described his chances only as reasonable; and, on the other hand, if Webster refused to answer questions now it would count against him if the matter ever came to trial—a trial he could not avoid. Signore Lucca had no advice about the most difficult aspect of the whole business, which was whether Qazai had the power to stop the process that he had in all likelihood started.