Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

He lay there for a moment, his cheek pressing into grit, dazed and shocked, the only stubborn thought in his head that he must be close to something devastating to be receiving this sort of treatment.

The man in sunglasses stood over him, his face silhouetted against the bluish fluorescent light.

“Up.”

The word was hoarse, sudden; Webster felt the need to obey it, but could not. He lay still for a moment, processing the shock, before lifting his head off the floor, feeling the muscles in his neck straining with the work. This time he saw the man move. In one swift motion he drew his foot back and with great precision kicked Webster hard in the side, in the soft flesh between hip and ribs, filling his body with a great, vivid pain that seemed to swirl with color and brought nausea surging into his throat.

Webster rolled onto his side, curling up to protect himself, for the first time feeling real fear inside the pain. This man knew what he was doing. He had the discipline of the professional, the economy of effort, the singular focus. He had done this many times before. Shadow fell across Webster and he knew that the man was standing over him, calculating which piece of him to work on next.

But instead he took a step closer, bent down until his mouth was an inch from Webster’s ear, and when he spoke his voice was a harsh, quiet rasp that Webster had to strain to hear through the ringing and the roar.

“Tell me why you are here.”

Webster tried to speak, but had no words. The taste of acid was on his tongue and his mouth was clamped shut. It wouldn’t open; his body was no longer taking commands.

“Up.” The voice was still quiet, but it had power; Webster felt it occupy him. He made a weak effort to sit.

The man said something in his own language, and at his command his colleague came out from behind the desk, put a hand under Webster’s arm and together they pulled him up, dumping him heavily onto the chair, where he sat slumped, conscious only of the pain and his own dead weight.

Again the voice in his ear, fierce but strangely delicate, and so close he could feel its breath. “Tell me who you are.”

With effort he managed to shake his head. There was a pause, during which he sensed the man moving slowly away from him.

This time he was ready for it, almost, and managed through some instinct to bring his hand up to his head as the blow struck, the same as the first, an open palm aimed at his head. It was enough to send him over, but he grabbed the edge of the desk and righted himself, turning back with a defiant look at his attacker.

“The night will be long if you do not help us,” said the thin man.

But the professional had finished talking. He put his arm around Webster’s neck and pulled sharply, sending the chair crashing backward. Webster felt his skull crack on the floor and looked up, stunned, to see the man pulling him upright again. He said something else to his underling, who took Webster, spun him around and held him tightly across his middle, clamping his arms and causing pain to rage through his side. Webster writhed against the grip but his strength had gone, and all he could do was push the man backward and try to unbalance him. They slammed into a wall, but his hold was still firm and Webster for a moment stopped struggling because the pain was too much, and at that moment he saw the smaller man bring his knee up with great force and precision into the middle of his thigh, once, twice and quickly again.

Everything stopped. Every thought, every sense. There was only the pain, sharp and raging, which began in his gut and spread out through his body until there was nothing else.

Webster reeled with the shock. The tall man let go of him and he retched, felt acid rise into his mouth. He hadn’t been prepared. He hadn’t thought it possible that so much pain could come at once. The tall man pushed him, just enough to send him back a pace, and he fell back onto the chair.

His torturer stood still for a moment, staring at Webster through the dark lenses of his glasses, giving him a simple message: if you persist, so will I, and in the end I will destroy you. After several seconds he clenched and released his fists once more, and stepped forward, stooping until their eyes were level.

“Pressure points. In your leg. I do it again, you pass out.”

The pain was everywhere, but it had settled, become constant.

“After, I start with your eyes.”

Webster felt any courage he had quail inside him, and blinked involuntarily.

“Are you Chiba?” he said, his lips numb, trying his best to look the man in the face.

The man stared at him, his gaze steady and black.

“If my friends don’t hear from me twice a day,” said Webster, hearing the words drop clumsily from his mouth as if someone else was saying them, “everything we know about your business with Qazai goes to the press.”

The man looked up and smiled at his friend before turning back to Webster.

“Who is Qazai?”

“You know who he is.”

At that, he took Webster’s jaw in his hand and gripped it hard with strong fingers, holding it for a moment before he spoke. Webster could feel the flesh of his cheek being crushed against his teeth.

“You know nothing.”

With two fingers of his other hand he closed Webster’s eyelids, and pushed hard into the sockets.

“Nothing,” he said, with a final stab, and left.

WEBSTER PULLED HIMSELF SLOWLYto the wall and sat against it, his legs straight on the floor. Beyond the end of his robe his brown leather shoes stuck out, and he wondered vaguely whether it was they that had earlier betrayed his disguise. Something about their familiarity, their solid sense of the everyday, made him feel truly hopeless for the first time. Two men had died before him, and his mind was empty of any thought that might prevent him from becoming the third.

The relentless light was worse than the darkness that had come before because it left no space for evasion. This was real, it was happening now, and it would not end well.

He felt for his watch under the heavy brown sleeve. Two o’clock. An overwhelming tiredness took hold of him, but he knew that he could not sleep; not here, not while that man was somewhere close beyond that door. Fear, not resolution, kept him awake. Who was this man? Who had taught him? For he was no mere thug. He had learned his craft from others. It was a technique, and he was a technician.

Very probably he was even now preparing for more. What he had just done might only be a prelude to the real work, and for a terrified moment Webster let himself imagine what that might be; saw a bag full of rusting tools, and the torturer in his sunglasses calmly taking his pick. But there was a meager thread of comfort in that thought, because if they wanted information from him, they didn’t yet want to kill him. The only moment of hope in his interrogation had been when he mentioned the name Chiba. That had registered; he knew it had. Why else tell him that he knew nothing?

Webster closed his eyes, fought the pain and tried to think. They were right: he seemed to know less now than before. The question that had brought him to Marrakech was no closer to being answered. He had met them, but he still had no idea who was persecuting Darius Qazai.

Instead, he tried to turn it around. Who did these people think he was, and what did they want from him? At some point they had spotted him in the city, and had followed him. He had been knocked down, and they had brought him here. But it was a stretch to think that they had merely taken advantage of an opportunity: they must have planned the accident. And in that case, he realized, with something like shame at his stupidity, it was entirely likely that they had known he was in Marrakech before he had started following Qazai. They had known he was coming and had made arrangements for him. That was how they knew his name.