Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

There was a pause. “You’re sure you want to do that, Ben?”

“I’m sure. Something’s happened. The client’s had enough.”

“Well that’s a shame. It’s getting interesting.”

“The money?”

“That’s a long trail. Both ways. No. Something else.”

Webster paused, knowing he had to hear it.

“We got the bins again on Tuesday. You should see some of the stuff that guy throws away. I could live off it. Anyway, not much of a haul, except two sheets of flight log for his jet. First quarter of this year, but I managed to get the rest. It’s a Bombardier, super long range. Flies it to New York, Hong Kong, Dubai. Always those three places. And Milan. Once to St. Kitts for a week. But there are one or two odd ones in there. Caracas, for a day, back in November. Flies in in the morning, back overnight. Belgrade early last year. He spent the night there. And Tripoli, in January.”

“OK. So what else?”

“Ben, you need to be a little more patient.” Oliver paused, and Webster apologized. “I’ve also done his cell phone. Took a while because it’s in the company name. He uses it a lot. Anyway, I couldn’t see anything in there, but I fed it all into this program I’ve got that spots patterns in data, along with the flights, everything we know about transactions on Mehr’s accounts, the lot.”

“And?”

“And two or three days before each of those trips, he gets a call from the same number. A UK cell phone, pay-as-you-go. I checked with Vodafone. Set up with bogus details—false address, false name. But it only ever calls one number—Qazai’s. That’s it. It was set up two years ago, and in that time it’s made just six calls. One before each of the trips, and three others. But in the last fortnight, it’s made two more calls. Both to that number.”

That was interesting. If Webster had wanted to establish a secure means of talking to a source, this is how he would have done it, and if he had wanted to meet him quietly—somewhere no one was looking, where discretion was assured—those might be the places he would choose. Interesting, but tenuous, and redundant.

“Thanks, Dean. But send me the bill.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

“What happened?”

“Qazai’s son died.”

“You have a very decent client,” said Dean, after a pause.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some people would say this is the time to press on.”

“Some would,” said Webster.

And that had appeared to be that. So convinced was he that the world had changed that when he and Hammer had received a call from Qazai’s secretary asking them both to attend the funeral, Webster had seen it as confirmation, a formal offer of a truce.

WEBSTER’S GRANDFATHER HAD DIEDwhen he was nine. For a year and a day his grandmother, a Catholic, had worn black: entirely at first, and slowly introducing muted colors as time passed. Fascinated by the process, he had asked her why she did it, and she had told him that his grandfather would want to know that she was missing him, and this was her way of showing that she did. He would see the black and know.

The day after the funeral, walking to Mount Street with Hammer at his side, unity restored, Webster thought this was no way to mourn, with meetings and negotiations and business. What it said about Qazai that he should persist in this way he didn’t know. Was it heartlessness or doggedness? Or simple desperation? A week ago that would have been one of the questions that Webster would have liked answered above all, but now he couldn’t bring himself to care. What he had seen yesterday had shown him that his client, proud and tricky and even poisonous as he might be, was still a human being and therefore worthy of some charity. And some humility: who was Webster, after all, to take it upon himself to judge this man?

It had rained overnight, enough to freshen the air a little but not enough to wash away the heat, and even at ten it was uncomfortably warm. Mayfair woke up later than other parts of London and was still quiet. So was Hammer, by his standards. He was letting Webster know that his mood hadn’t softened nor his ultimatum changed just because Timur had died, and Webster felt a certain relief that for once he wasn’t going to have to fight him.

At the Qazai house they were shown by the butler, with greater than usual solemnity, into the sitting room, whose many treasures were showing only dimly through the gloom. The curtains were drawn and the only light came from four large, fabric-shaded lamps stationed around the walls. The air was stale and warm and smelled of must.

Qazai and Senechal rose from their sofa, offered their hands to shake and then gestured that everybody should sit. No words were spoken. Webster kept his eyes on Qazai, who sat back with his hands neatly on his thighs, staring down at a fixed point ahead of him, the skin under his eyes purple and black like a bruise. Next to him, Senechal looked full of life. It was he who began.

“Gentlemen. I do not want to keep Mr. Qazai any longer than is necessary. So I will come straight to the point. You have had two months and hundreds of thousands of pounds. We need our report. Right now.”

For once Webster didn’t feel the urge to respond. He let Hammer reply.

“We understand. I have a proposal to make that I think will suit everybody.” Senechal nodded that he should proceed; Qazai didn’t lift his eyes. “We’re in a position to write the report. I think you’ll be happy with it. It may not be complete but it should serve your purpose.”

“What do you mean, not complete?”

“Philosophically speaking, these things are never complete. We could go on looking forever.”

“You’ve looked long enough.”

“We feel the same way.”

“What if we do not like your report?”

Hammer paused for a moment, his eyes on Senechal’s. “Then I’m afraid you can lump it. We will only be writing one report on this case.”

Senechal’s expression didn’t change but he stiffened. “That is not what we discussed.”

“Mr. Senechal, you haven’t been the easiest of clients. You haven’t given us all the information we asked for. You offered one of my people a bribe. And some of what we’ve found smells off.” He waited for Senechal’s reaction but there was none. Either he had complete mastery of his emotions or he simply didn’t have any. “For those reasons, you don’t get full marks. The sculpture story we know is nonsense, and we’ll say so. That’ll be the focus. But we can’t say you’re saintly. Because you’re not.”

Senechal drew himself up still further but before he could reply Qazai raised a finger and spoke, and though his voice was cracked it had a cold authority that filled the room.

“When I hired you,” his eyes were fixed on Hammer’s, “I didn’t know that the man you would assign to us—to a job of great delicacy—was a crude hack of low morals who thinks nothing of breaking into offices and bugging people’s phones.” Webster started to respond, but Hammer raised his hand and he kept himself in check. “But now I do, through good fortune, if you can call it that. So here is what I propose. You remove this man from the case. Then you yourself or some more reputable colleague writes a report to our specifications. If you do these things, I will not tell the world that Ikertu employs cheap crooks. And I will not encourage the Italian police to pursue their investigation.”

Webster’s vision seemed to cloud with red; he closed his eyes and tried to shake it away. When he opened them Qazai was staring at him in unblinking challenge, his tired eyes wide. Hammer was saying something but Webster was barely conscious of it and talked across him.