Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

Qazai set his jaw. “I’m afraid only one of us is fucked.” The word sounded odd on his lips.

Webster laughed, a dry cracked laugh.

“You’re serious? No, I see. They can’t break Darius Qazai. You’re too big. You’re a great man. Is that it?” Webster paused and the two looked at each other, Qazai’s eyes dull and uncertain. Webster leaned forward. “Listen. You can’t hold it together anymore. Killing Timur—they did kill Timur, didn’t they?—that wasn’t a threat, it was just the beginning. How much do you owe?”

Qazai said nothing.

“So it is money. And when you sell the company and you pay them off, you think they’ll walk away? Given how much you know?”

“You don’t know them.”

“You’re a dead man whatever happens.”

Qazai scratched his jaw, his mind working. “You’re not giving me much incentive to save you.”

“You can do that? You’re still in charge?” He laughed. The room was now hazy with smoke. “What’s funny about this is that I’m the only hope you’ve got.”

Qazai swallowed. “Go on.”

“Get us back to England, and I’m in the same boat as you. A pair of loose ends. Your friends don’t seem like the sort to forget.” A pause. “I know how to neutralize them.”

“Tell me.”

“When we’re in England.”

Qazai held Webster’s eye for a moment until an understanding had passed between them, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a lacquered black pen, an incongruously perfect thing, and a business card. “I’ll tell my friends, as you call them, about the report.” He uncapped the pen and wrote as he talked, bending over the desk. “They may choose to believe you. They may not.”

He handed the card to Webster. Darius Qazai , it said, Chairman and Chief Executive, Tabriz Asset Management . On its reverse, in black capitals, were four words: “YOU HAVE A DEAL.”

Webster looked at it for a moment, before slipping it into his back pocket. And with that Qazai walked to the door, knocked, and was let out.

TEN MINUTES PASSED.When the door opened again, the tall man was there, and he had a gun in his hand. By his side was the man who had brought him from the cell earlier. Webster twisted around to look at them.

“Stand,” the tall man said.

Webster stayed where he was.

“Stand.” The man gestured with his gun. “You go home. Now.”

Either this was true, or they were preparing to take him somewhere more final. In any event, his options were few.

With one hand on the desk he pushed himself upright and shuffled around to face his captors. The tall man kept the gun on him while his colleague wrapped a strip of dirty white material around Webster’s head, adjusting it so that it covered his eyes and tying it tight. Then he pulled his arms behind him, tied them at the wrists, and putting his hand on Webster’s shoulder started to lead him away. The tall man stopped him. Webster felt a hand go into the back pocket of his jeans and come back out again.

Then a hand between his shoulder blades was pushing him roughly forward, through the doorway, down a long bright corridor into a larger space. He put out his hands to feel his way but they found nothing, and after another shove from behind he heard Qazai’s voice say something sharply in a language he didn’t understand and felt a hand on his upper arm, guiding him forward. After half-a-dozen yards the hand brought him to a stop.

By tilting his head back he could see a yard or two of the floor around him. Qazai was there, next to him; Senechal was by his side; two other pairs of black shoes, dusty and scuffed, faced them.

Someone said something in Arabic, or Farsi, or whatever it was they were speaking, and Webster recognized the harsh croak of the man who had beaten him. A dozen words, no more, but in his chest there rose a shameful mix of fear and feeble rage. Then the same voice came closer and spoke in English.

“Now you go to airport. You go home. One week, I have my money. You say anything about me, about him, you die. Your family too. You are not safe. Understand?”

Webster understood.

“You think you know. Things about me. You don’t.” He reached down, put his hand around Webster’s thigh and squeezed, hard, on the center of the bruise he had left. Pain sprang up, ending in a ball of nausea in Webster’s throat. “I will watch you. Always.” He stepped back. “We drive you to airport. Now. You two. Clear?”

No one said anything. Webster felt a hand on his back, but then Senechal spoke, and his voice after the other’s sounded refined, thin, anxious.

“My baggage is at my hotel.”

“We will get. You go now.”

“I can get it myself. It is not a problem.”

“You go now. Both of you. Qazai stays here. I talk to him more.”

“This isn’t…”

“You go. Now.”

Senechal chose not to break the silence that followed, but Webster could sense his fear.

They climbed stairs, a single flight. Webster was being guided, as before, and ahead of him, as far as he could tell, were Senechal and another man. A door opened, and the change of air—the slightest breeze in the heat—let him know that they were now outside. It was still dark, and he could hear sporadic traffic some way off, the drone of a car, the thundering of a heavy truck. There was dusty tarmac underfoot, and after perhaps twenty yards the hand on his arm brought him to a stop. From under his blindfold he could see the wheel of a car and two pairs of shoes, Senechal’s and one other. A car door opened and he felt a hand on his head pushing him down and onto a leather seat: he was in the back, on the left-hand side, behind the driver. The leather was cream and the car smelled new. That was all he could make out.

Two doors opened and shut again; Senechal was beside him; the engine engaged with a barely perceptible bass note and Webster felt fresh pain in his ribs as the car accelerated hard and his body was pushed back into the seat. Over the noise he heard another car start up a little distance away.

From what he could tell they were on a main road, almost completely straight, and no longer in Marrakech: there were no street lamps, and the only light came in flashes from passing cars. Occasionally they slowed for a moment before switching lanes and surging past slower traffic. No one spoke, but the car was so quiet, even at speed, that he could hear Senechal taking deep breaths, deliberately, as if calming or collecting himself, and in between them his own, rasping and tight. His ribs hurt so much that he struggled to take in enough air.

“ Ils vont nous tuer .” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.

Senechal said nothing.

“ Ils nous suivent. Ils sont derrière nous . See for yourself.”

Senechal twisted in his seat to look out of the back windscreen.

“ Vous devez liberer les mains. Mes mains .” Webster turned his back toward Senechal, pushing his hands toward him as best he could.

The driver said something sharp in Arabic, or Farsi, and Senechal replied in the same language, the words faltering, his tone ingratiating.

“ Ils ne sont pas vos amis .” Webster tried again. “ Vraiment . Do it now. Untie me, for fuck’s sake.”

“I will look after myself. Thank you.”

Webster made a leap. “If that’s what you’ve been doing, your usefulness may just have run out. Don’t be sure it hasn’t.”

Senechal was silent for a moment, and then Webster felt a cold touch on his forearm in the dark as two hands began to work quietly at the coarse fabric around his wrists. The knot was tight, and the fingers pulling at it weak and unskilled. Webster willed him to hurry.