Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

“Good morning,” he said, in good spirits. “You look well.”

“No I don’t.”

“Well, perhaps not.” Hammer came and sat by Webster’s desk. “I’ve been doing some investigating.”

“That’s meant to be my job.”

“I thought it might be better for all of us, especially you, if I had a look myself.”

Webster leaned back in his chair and gripped the armrests. “Go on then.”

“The short story, which is very short, is that it’s all garbage. Everything in the Americans’ report.” He looked for Webster’s response but got none. “You remember we thought it might be from U.S. military? Part of their investigation? I made a few calls, and spoke to the Major in charge. Nice man.”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Well, maybe you weren’t doing it right. If you’d come to me, maybe they would.”

Webster thought better of reacting, and Hammer went on.

“It all came from them. The relief, Shokhor, the National Museum. And they thought it was true up until a month ago. Tell me, have you found your Swiss dealer yet?”

“No. That’s going nowhere.”

“I can tell you who he is. His name’s Jacques Bovet, and he sells very expensive things to very expensive people out of Lausanne. Jacques has form. After the first Gulf War there was an amnesty on looted items and because he knew he was about to get caught, he returned something. Next time around he’s stealing again, only this time they do catch him, and they make a deal. By the way, they have the sculpture, all in one piece.”

“That’s good.”

“That is good. You should be pleased. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“I’m pleased. Believe me. It’s the only innocent in the whole affair.”

Hammer sniffed. “So they talk to Jacques: tell us who’s in the chain. Well, he says, an Iraqi gentleman called Shokhor brought it to him and a Brit called Mehr took it off his hands. Mehr bought one or two things off Jacques in the past and Jacques thinks—says he thinks—he’s acting for a wealthy London collector called Darius Qazai. Because Qazai is just the sort of person who would want this piece. Jacques is bargaining on my friends not doing a good job of investigating this…”

“Your friends?”

“They’re my friends now. Never miss an opportunity to make a friend, Ben.” Hammer gave him a look of amused rebuke. “But he’s wrong. They do a great job, and three weeks ago they go to Jacques and tell him he’s talking horseshit. And he can’t squirm out. Turns out he wasn’t telling the truth. Apparently you can’t trust a Swiss antiques dealer like you used to.”

Webster unfastened his watch and wound the pin. None of this was a surprise. “He knew there was nothing in it when he came here. Qazai. He’d seen a copy of the report, no question.”

“Maybe. It makes no difference.”

Neither said anything for a time, Hammer’s unspoken challenge lying between them. Webster carried on winding his watch, looking at the second hand smoothly ticking around. He broke the silence.

“I can’t write that report.”

“You’ll have to. But I’m not done.”

“There’s something else going on.”

“Like what?”

Webster couldn’t say. He couldn’t reveal Oliver’s work, because Ike would stop it. “He’s in trouble. Shiraz has lost a fortune and he needs money.”

“That doesn’t make him a crook.”

“Then why is he screwing me? Tell me that.”

“Ben, he didn’t invent what you did in Italy.”

Webster shook his head and looked away. “I can’t believe this.”

“I said I’m not done.”

But Webster wasn’t ready to respond. Outside, far below, under a blue sky, people were hurrying home with determined walks, catching taxis, wandering away in groups to the bar. It would have been the most wonderful thing in the world to follow them: to write something bland, accept the compromise, hope Qazai did the same and resume his life. Go home.

“I need a week,” he said.

“Would you listen to me?” said Hammer, his patience cracking.

Webster turned to him, his jaw set.

“You think I trust this guy?” said Hammer, irritated now. “I don’t trust any client who badgers me as much as he does. He has his grim little sidekick call me every hour. He’s a bully, at best. Did he set you up? I still don’t know, and neither do you. But did he try to bribe you? I believe you. That’s what his kind do. They buy people. They’d like to buy me.”

Webster made to say something but Hammer raised his hand. “Would you wait? Jesus. OK. So he’s in trouble. You’re in trouble. I don’t like to see you in trouble. It’s bad for everyone. It’s bad for business. I have no desire, believe me, to see your name in all the papers, because do you know what? Mine’ll be there too. Again.” He raised his eyebrows. “Understand? Good. So here’s a guy, tried to pay off one of my people, and I don’t want to give him what he wants. Part of me also thinks, if I’m going to hedge my bets, I should take you seriously about the business in Italy. If Qazai’s not involved, then it’ll make no difference, but if he is… Well, maybe it can help.”

Webster had no idea where this was leading.

“But most of all,” Hammer went on, “I don’t know what he’s going to do with my report. Heaven knows. He may not have lied to me about it but he sure as hell hasn’t told me the whole truth. If we give him a glowing testimonial he can wave it around for the rest of time to whoever he likes, and he doesn’t qualify for that. Do I want you to write a eulogy? No, I don’t. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He took a deep breath and pointed at Webster. “You… you are going to write a report—hear me out—that says yes, the sculpture story was a crock, but ultimately we can’t say whether he’s a good guy. We’re going to put a story in there, about a reliable source—this is you, by the way—who witnessed him offering a bribe.”

“That was Senechal.”

“Same fucking thing.” He shuddered. “He really is one of the weirdest sons of bitches… Anyway, we give Qazai that report, and tell him that if he doesn’t like it, it will be quietly leaked that Ikertu actually had grave reservations about his ethics. That in the end we were pulled off the case before we could dig too deep. They’ve asked for a meeting. We’ll tell them then.”

Webster ran his hands through his hair, clasped them behind his neck and stared up at the ceiling. He shut his eyes against the fluorescent light. If only this would work. Like all Ike’s plans it was simple, a little devious, and apparently sound. But he couldn’t believe that Qazai would simply stand down, just as he knew he couldn’t. They were racing against each other, and Ike was calling time. Neither would hear him. Neither would choose to.

“I don’t think I can write that.” He sat upright and looked Hammer in the eye.

“If you want to be shot of this mess, you will.”

“We shouldn’t write anything. Believe me. With what I know.”

“Like what? Just tell me, for Christ’s sake.”

“Fletcher called yesterday. The investigation into Mehr’s death has been officially closed.”

“So what? I’m amazed it was ever opened.”

“The order to shut it down came from someone inside the Quds force.”

“Which is?”

“It’s part of the Revolutionary Guard. Like the Iranian SS.”

“Jesus. This is why I need to separate you two.”

“And Mehr was laundering money.”

Hammer’s face became set. “How do you know that?”

“Give me a week. You’ll thank me.”

Hammer shook his head.

“Ben, you’ll write it now.” His voice was firm, but there was a softness in his eyes, a sadness. “This is not your company. If you can’t do it, you should think seriously about whether you’d be happier somewhere else. Or on your own, where you can play out these romances of yours without interference.” He gave Webster a last look, which seemed to say that he regretted his firmness but would be tested no further, and left the room, somehow older than he had entered it.