Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

“Almost certainly.”

As the car moved off, waiting a second for traffic to pass and then accelerating sharply, Webster saw through the back window two men appear at the top of the hotel steps and look swiftly around. He lost sight of them when Driss took a sharp right, but by then they were skipping down the steps, and the doorman was pointing in Webster’s direction.

“How long to the airport?”

“Ten minutes,” said Driss. “There’s not so much traffic now.” He looked in the rearview mirror. “What are you doing?”

“Finding his fucking phone. Christ. This man has caused me a lot of trouble.”

“What will you do at the airport?”

“Get on his plane. God knows how.”

“But your passport.”

“I know, I know. I don’t suppose you know anyone who works there?”

Driss merely shrugged.

The phone, when he finally found it and had Qazai, with clumsy fingers, unlock it for him, showed five missed calls from the same number, a UK cell phone that Webster didn’t recognize, and a text:

Mr. Q. Trying to call. Will miss slot if not confirmed by 12:20. Paperwork filed. Please advise. Carl.

Webster called the number and told the pilot to prepare the plane for an unwell Mr. Qazai. Carl baulked at taking instructions from someone he didn’t know, but Qazai managed to frame a sentence or two of reassurance, and in the end all was set: they had ten minutes to be at the airport, ten to clear security, and another ten to find and board the plane. It could be done—or at least, it could be done by someone leaving the country with a legitimate passport and unimpeded by police. Then it could be done.

While Webster was wondering whether the police would suspect that Qazai was going to the airport, and deciding that on balance there was no way of knowing one way or another no matter how carefully you tried to think it through, the heat and the jolting suspension were taking their toll on Qazai, who was awkwardly slumped against a door with his eyes tightly closed. A mile short of the airport Webster felt a hand on his arm and knew immediately what it meant.

“Driss. Stop the car. Now.”

It was too late. Qazai leaned forward and a quick stream of watery vomit burst from his mouth, onto his trousers, the back of Driss’s seat, Webster’s shoes. Alcoholic fumes rose from it. As the car slowed at the side of the road Webster leaned across and opened Qazai’s door, trying to prop it open.

“Do it that way. Outside.” With his spare hand he pushed Qazai in the right direction as cars zipped past. “That’s it. Christ. May as well get it all out.” He had only ever done this for his children before.

Driss had swiveled in his seat and was watching with a look of pained regret.

“I’m sorry,” said Webster. “I’ll pay for it. Can you put it on my expenses?” Driss raised an eyebrow, sighed, and turned back to the road.

Webster patted Qazai on the back. “Are you done? You’re done. Let’s go. Let’s go.”

A little after twenty past, Driss pulled up onto the concourse of Menara and slowed to a stop by a door marked “Private Flights.” Webster didn’t really know what to expect inside. Nor, he imagined, would the airport staff: he and Qazai—bandaged, dusty, beaten, stinking—would have looked improbable catching a bus together, let alone their own jet.

“Driss,” he said, “thank you. I owe you.”

They shook hands.

“You do,” said Driss.

“You never know,” said Webster, “I may be calling you in half an hour from a cell downtown.” Driss didn’t know the word. “From jail. Thank your mother for me, and tell Youssef to buy himself some new clothes. He’s paying.” He nodded at Qazai, who had managed to get out of the car himself and was taking deep breaths by the curb.

Inside, all was cool and peaceful. There were no tourists, no baggage trolleys, no taxi touts: just a single check-in desk and two airport officials, a man and a woman, with little or nothing to do. Consciously standing tall, clearly trying to gather as much of his dignity as he could, Qazai told them in French who he was and presented his passport. The woman tapped at her keyboard, asked if there were any bags to check, and printed off a piece of paper that told him his plane was on stand twenty-three. She didn’t so much as look them up and down, and Webster realized that in his pessimism he hadn’t banked on the blanket entitlement conferred by money. If you had paid for your private jet you could fly in it naked for all anyone would care. She didn’t ask to see his passport either, and for a moment his heart rose hopefully in his chest.

But even billionaires, and their guests, need to go through immigration, and as they made their way down corridors to their gate they found their way blocked by a security scanner, and beyond that a glass booth with a Moroccan border policeman sitting inside it. As he emptied his pockets Webster counted his money—Senechal’s money, in fact—in preparation. Sixteen hundred dirham; a hundred and eighty dollars. That might do it.

Collecting his things he whispered to Qazai, “Let me go first,” and taking him by the upper arm led him up to the yellow line, where they stood for a moment waiting for the policeman to look up. At his nod they approached. Webster’s breathing quickened and he could feel his heart working harder. He couldn’t bring himself to think what would happen if this didn’t work.

“Passports.”

Webster tried his best, laughably, to look respectable.

“Good morning, ” he said, and got no response. “ Bonjour . I am this man’s doctor, and I need to make sure he is handed over to medical staff waiting on the plane. I do not have a passport but will not be flying.”

The policeman, slouching on his chair, stuck out his lower lip and shook his head. He didn’t seem to understand. Webster tried again, in his basic, unpracticed French.

“ Je suis un médecin. Cet homme est mon… Je suis avec cet homme. Il faut que je vais avec lui sur l’avion, parce-qu’il est très malade. Très malade, et il y a médecins sur l’avion qui lui attendent. Je n’ai pas de passeport mais je reste ici. Je ne vais pas voyager .”

Under heavy lids the policeman’s eyes gave him a long, searching look. Slowly, he shook his head.

“No passport, no entry.”

“ Mais c’est imperatif .” Was imperatif a word? He had no idea. He could feel the situation slipping from him. “ Mon …” God how he wished he knew the word for “patient.” “ Il est très malade, et je suis son médecin .”

The policeman raised his eyebrows and shook his head again, looking down at his desk.

“OK,” said Webster. “ D’accord. Je voudrais… non, je suis heureux payer un, un ,” Christ, what was “fee”? Droit —that was it—“ Un droit médical, pour votre cooperation .” God, that was horrible. It was a long time since he had tried to bribe an official, and somehow in Russian it had always felt easier. He produced Senechal’s cash from his jacket pocket, and put it on the counter. “ Un droit médical .”

The notes sat there for what seemed like an age while the policeman looked first at them and then at Webster, steadily in the eye. Whether he was making a moral or financial calculation wasn’t clear, but at last he shook his head, said a few words in French that Webster couldn’t make out, and reached for his phone.

Then Qazai spoke. In Arabic, with great authority and even greater seriousness, his voice clear and deep. The policeman straightened in his seat. Whatever Qazai had to say it was short, and when he had finished he waited grandly for a response. Without looking up the policeman reached up to the counter, took the money, and nodded them through.