Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

It was on one of these walks that Oliver finally called.

HIS OFFICE FACED SOUTHand didn’t run to air conditioning, or even a fan. A grubby cream blind was down over the window and Oliver, unusually, had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He was still wearing his tie.

“You don’t want coffee, I take it?”

Webster shook his head, impatient to get on with it.

“I just had some luck with the banks.”

“Mehr?”

“Mister Mehr. Correct. I’ll be honest with you, Ben, it’s a while since I’ve done a dead man’s bank accounts. Got to think on your feet a bit.”

Webster did his best not to think about what sort of agility was being employed on his behalf.

“So Mehr only had a couple of accounts. One here, one in Jersey. My man in Jersey—good man—found some interesting stuff a few days ago, but I wanted to see where it led before I bothered you. Truss it up nicely if I could.”

Webster nodded.

“So.” Oliver leaned forward against the desk and clasped his hands, pushing the thumbs together. “Mehr does all right for himself. Did all right for himself. Lots of business, most of it what you’d expect. He buys from the Middle East, and most of the money coming in is offshore. Smallest transactions are in the low thousands and they go up to millions. It’s more or less random. And then every so often, you get a little flurry of big payments coming in. Last March, last May, July, October, there were millions in the space of two days. Round amounts, fairly regular. But nothing this year.”

He looked at Webster to make sure he was keeping up, then carried on.

“OK. So that’s not so odd. Maybe he’s buying stuff for the Qazai Foundation or some other big client. But if he is, they’re paying him in advance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the money comes in, then goes out. He gets paid first, then buys whatever he buys.”

“So he’s being financed.”

“Perhaps. But it seems strange that he doesn’t take a cut.”

Webster looked at him, a faint, familiar thrill in his chest.

“The money goes straight through,” said Oliver, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands on top of his head. “If two million comes in, two million goes out.”

“Where does it go?”

Oliver smiled. “Deeper offshore. I’m working on it.”

The sun still beat against the blind, and Webster could feel sweat standing on his skin. He looked at Oliver and shook his head. He had known it. He had always known that there would be something to find.

“Is it Qazai’s money?”

“Give me time.”

Along the frame of the window Webster could see a thin band of low rooftops and brilliant blue sky. He tried to work out what this meant. That money had been deliberately cleaned; if anyone looked, it would appear that Mehr had been going about his business, buying artifacts.

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing good,” said Oliver, bright teeth showing in his grin.

CONSTANCE, MEANWHILE, HAD GONE QUIET.This was unlike him: his usual policy when he had found nothing useful was to proclaim the failure loudly and insistently until it felt like your fault, and his silence was bound to mean something interesting. Webster, who had left him a message on his return from Milan and another before his meeting with Ava, was beginning to think about asking common friends in Dubai whether he’d finally been thrown in jail or out of the country when early one morning came a call.

He stared at the number for a moment before answering, not recognizing it. Senechal had been bothering him every day since Milan and he had let each call go to voicemail. But this wasn’t a French number, or an English one, and he decided to take the risk.

“Hello.”

“Ben. Fletcher. You must have thought I’d died.”

“That was the only thing that hadn’t crossed my mind.” It was impossible to imagine Constance dead: who or what would dare extinguish all that energy?

“I appreciate your confidence,” he chuckled grimly. “Though I don’t share it. My apologies, my friend. I have spent the last week fighting for my life, in Dubai at least.”

Webster wasn’t in the mood for a mystery, but knew he had to ask anyway, and Constance proceeded to explain.

“I had a visit—a visit, no less—at my office, last Monday. Nearly two weeks ago. From the General Directorate of Residency and Foreign Affairs, that august and valiant body of men. They wanted to know what my purpose was in remaining in Dubai. The betterment of my soul, I told them, but they weren’t happy with that. Not plausible. No one would go to Dubai for the good of their soul, and they knew that, to their credit. So I gave them some of the usual guff about journalism and consultancy, etcetera, etcetera, and they asked to see my papers, and they pored over them for longer than it would take any dunce just to read the things, and then they told me that there were inconsistencies, whatever the fuck they might be, and that my visa was under review. Because I had been in Dubai a long time and had affairs that might need clearing up they would very generously not frogmarch me to the airport immediately but would expect to see me at their offices in exactly a week, for a hearing. Which was three days ago.”

“And how did it go?”

“It went. Nothing was decided. I took my lawyer and he tangled them up a bit. I have to go back in two weeks.”

“Who did you offend?”

“Ha! I have no idea. Take your pick. It’s a miracle I lasted as long as I did. What I did not do, thankfully, was kiss anybody in public or bring in the wrong cough medicine. That would have been a whole lot worse. Anyway, I’m having a break from the place. Beirut is beautiful and sane. I was in the mountains yesterday. Maybe I’ll stay. Finish the house. Ditch that harlot.”

It would never happen, unless he was forced. Constance adored Dubai: it kept him alive. Without its absurdities and its intrigues he’d slowly wilt. Webster couldn’t help thinking, obsessed as he was, that it was strange timing for him to be exiled now.

“Can I do anything?”

“That’s sweet of you. Sweet of you. But no, thank you. I’m not sure there’s anything to be done. And in any case I didn’t call to moan at you. I called to tell you things.”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, I have good news and bad news. And an invitation. The bad news is that my friend won’t tell me anything more than he already has. He seems to be regretting his earlier garrulousness. But. But. He is interested in what you know, and might like to get together to share. That’s the invitation.”

“Is this the sort of sharing where I tell him stuff and he thanks me for it?”

Constance grunted in amusement. “Only one way to find out.”

“Can you tell me who he is?”

“Not until you agree to meet.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

“Fine. Set it up.” Webster paused; on the other end of the line he could hear the click of a lighter and a long, extravagant exhaling of smoke. “What was the good news?”

“Ah, that. Your friend Cyrus Mehr. The case is closed. The order has been given to file that file.”

“They have a murderer?”

Constance bellowed in contempt. “Of course not.”

“That’s good news?”

“Not unless you gave the order. But I happen to know who did.”

THREE DAYS LATER,Hammer came to Webster’s office, the first time he had sought him out since events in Milan. He had just arrived from Hampstead and was still in his running things, all bone and sinewy health.