Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

“So what’s the going rate?” he said. “For an Italian policeman? More than you were going to give me? Or does he work it out for you? So that you don’t have to think about it.” He pointed at Senechal but kept his eyes on Qazai. “Tell me. How much was Timur worth? How much did you pay him to live in the desert sitting on your lies? I hope it was a lot. Because it strikes me he gave you his life twice over.”

“Ben, that’s enough.” Hammer brought his arm up to restrain Webster, who was getting out of his seat.

But Qazai hadn’t moved. He sat perfectly still, looking at Webster, his own rage contained. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that in one way or another, he died because of you.”

Qazai pulled himself to the edge of the chair and pointed a finger at Webster, his words slow and filled with the certainty of the inspired.

“Mr. Webster, I have provided for my family for over thirty years. I am a constant man. But you, you have some resentment I do not understand. Perhaps you measure yourself against other men and find yourself wanting. So you do reckless things. You flirt with criminals, with prison. You are vain and weak. You even flirt with my daughter.” The words hit Webster with the force of some shameful but indistinct recognition, like a drunken impropriety remembered the next day. He shook his head and started to speak. “No,” said Qazai, “you will listen to me. Go back to your wife. Go back to your family. And when you have committed yourself to them, when you are a whole man, then we can talk about me. And my son.”

Qazai stood up and looked at Hammer. “In the meantime, I want my report. Tomorrow.”

Webster was standing too now, reaching for something to say or do that would settle this for good, but he was thrown, and nothing came. All he could do was listen impotently to Hammer.

“You’ll have it in a week.”

“Tomorrow. Or I go to the papers.”

“In one week. Or on the front of tomorrow’s FT will be a big fat story about how no one wants to buy your company because you might be an art thief. And whatever you’ve started in Italy needs to stop or I’ll leak that too.”

“I haven’t started anything, Mr. Hammer.”

“Well you can stop it anyway.”

Qazai straightened himself. He was almost a head taller than Hammer and he did his best to look down on him from the greatest possible height.

“I’m beginning to understand the ethics of your industry, Mr. Hammer.”

Hammer returned his gaze, a trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “And I yours.”

OUTSIDE,Mount Street was reassuringly sane. The sun shone, taxis rolled past, people strolled about. Webster felt like he had been in some infernal show, a diabolical entertainment, and even though he had been released into the light his thoughts still whirled in confusion.

“Unbelievable,” said Hammer, looking up the street. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“I told you. He’s a piece of work.”

“Not him, you. We have it all neatly wrapped, ready to go, and you can’t see it through. Can’t just fucking take it.”

He started walking toward Berkeley Square, one arm raised behind him telling Webster to stay where he was, not to talk to him. Then he turned, fury in his face.

“I don’t know who’s worse. You’re a pair of babies. Do me a favor. Stop fucking squabbling, and finish this awful fucking case.”

THE REPORT WAS HARDER WORK,not because Webster didn’t know what to write but because each sentence was a provocation. Every phrase had to be forced from his fingers. The calm he had felt after Timur’s funeral had gone, and above the words struggling onto the screen he could still hear Qazai’s stinging condemnation of him, potent with both lies and truth.

His anger growing, his concentration lost, he let his mind wander over the facts of the case in the hope that he might finally find the design behind them, but it was still deeply buried, and try as he might he couldn’t reach it. Mehr had been murdered, not by bandits but by someone who knew what he was really doing for Qazai. That was a fair assumption. His death had been organized, or at least condoned by someone within the Iranian government—the intelligence services, or the Revolutionary Guard. That was another. An unwelcome thought struck Webster. Perhaps the money that Mehr had been channeling had been destined to fund opposition groups in Iran. Perhaps Qazai’s secret was a noble one, and the death of Timur the terrible price of some quiet heroism.

No. That might fit together, but it didn’t explain why Qazai was so desperate to raise money that he had scarcely paused to mourn his son, or why he was summoned to clandestine meetings every six months, or why he had thought it necessary to threaten Webster’s freedom.

What should have taken a day, then, was dragging into a second and evermore uncertainly into a third when, as Webster was trying to find some agile language for the summary, Oliver called. He looked at the number, let it ring four times, saw it go to voicemail and continued to watch the screen until an alert told him he had a new message.

“Ben, it’s Dean. You never call anymore. Guess what I’ve found? Call me back.”

Webster put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He should let it go. He couldn’t let it go.

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” said Oliver.

“I told you to stop.”

“I had some inquiries outstanding. About Mehr’s money. They came back.” He paused. “Do you want the long version?”

“Just the highlights.”

“I can do that. Last May, about seven million U.S. goes through Mehr’s accounts, then on a tour of the world’s most discreet little islands, before ending up with a company that finally spent some of it—on chartering a ship from Odessa to Dubai. With an interesting cargo. Customs got a tip-off, and when they had a look they found twelve containers full of machine guns and old Russian rockets.”

Webster sat back in his chair. “You’re serious.”

“They denied all knowledge, of course, but no, it happened. I found two articles about it. Then nothing.”

Christ. If only Oliver had found this a week earlier, or not at all.

“You’re saying the money that went through Mehr was used to buy weapons?”

“Looks that way.”

“Jesus. Where were they going? After Dubai?”

“Syria.”

“Syria?”

“Correct. With an onward ticket to Lebanon, I dare say.”

“Sorry. Qazai’s money is buying rockets for Hizbollah?”

“We don’t know for sure it’s his money. I’ve found out where it ends up but not where it comes from.” Oliver sniffed. “Are we on again?”

Webster considered it, and through his scrambling thoughts all he could see was Qazai’s righteous face, full of pride and fury, taunting him with his weaknesses.

“What about the rest of it? Where does that go?”

“I don’t know yet. Give me a chance. In all, I’ve found five groups of payments into Mehr’s company. Forty-three million in total. This is the only batch I’ve traced to the end. But on the way they all go through the same place.”

“Where?”

“Cyprus. A company called Kurus. Shareholders are obscure but one of them is a guy called Chiba. God knows what it does.”

“Who is he?”

“Low-key. Very. According to the filings he’s Lebanese, but there’s nothing else on him anywhere. At all. He could be anything.”

Webster thought for a minute, trying to make out the logic. Whatever was happening, it was serious, and sustained, and Qazai was involved. “Find out if the money really is his. Qazai’s. I’ll look at the shipment, see where it came from. Where it went.”