Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

So when his father told him—some time in April 1980, it was—that he had secured a little funding, it had felt like a deliverance, and he remembered wondering why he was the only one who seemed to be relieved. They had fifteen million pounds to invest, from one investor, whose name was never mentioned; ten of it conservatively, the rest with some imagination, a commodity that Qazai possessed in larger quantity than his father. They divided it accordingly, and the following year Qazai made his first real investment: an apartment building in Swiss Cottage. Within a year he had made a return of thirty percent, and his other decisions were coming good. He began to realize that he was a natural. He could see value. He could look at a complicated, scattered set of facts and know exactly where one could make money, and at what risk. The heady power of that realization had never really left him. Not, at least, until the last two months.

Anyway. The unseen investor entrusted the Qazais with more funds; they took an office in Mayfair, hired a secretary and a property analyst, and began to do well. Then his father became ill. He was a smoker, and his lungs were shot. When he found out how bad it was, he became unusually concerned, even by his standards, about the future of the business—started talking about the “legacy,” rather as if it was a curse and not an asset. All this seemed to worry him more than his illness, and one day, looking weak, he had flown to Paris to see their investor, whom Qazai had never met and whose name he still did not know.

Qazai was living in Kensington then, with Eleanor, and though they were not yet married she was pregnant with Timur. It was early on, and no one knew. It was a time of promise and excitement. That evening his father phoned to say that he had come back from Paris with the investor, and that they should all meet. Eleanor had been out with her sister, and Qazai suggested the meeting take place in his apartment. His father rather shakily agreed.

Nezam introduced himself that evening only as Kamal; it had taken Qazai another ten years to learn his full name. In a smooth, low voice like the drone of a wasp that unsettled Qazai straight away, he explained that the money they had in their care was more than usually precious. With it, great things would be done, all for the greater glory of Iran. At first Qazai thought that the money must be a fighting fund of some kind for the country’s opposition, but as Kamal explained, his tone growing more threatening, that just as keeping the money was a sacred trust that would be well rewarded, so losing it or betraying its whereabouts was an act of heresy that would merit acute punishment, it began to be obvious that he spoke for the enemy. He didn’t mention the revolution, or the Ayatollah, or the Revolutionary Guard, but he didn’t have to. Throughout this speech, Qazai’s father had looked down at the floor, stifling a cough from time to time and failing to meet his son’s eye.

And that was that. It was made clear to them both that what had begun as a family business could never leave the family, and that the younger Qazai would abide by the same, stark rules as his father: no fraud, and not a word out of place. Failure to observe these two simple precepts would result in death, for them and those dear to them. From time to time they would receive more money; from time to time withdrawals would be made, when funds were required elsewhere. Qazai hadn’t liked to ask his client how that money was spent.

So. Fifteen million had become twenty, thirty, sixty, a hundred. When the number was somewhere in the thirties Qazai’s father had died. But on the strength of his skill and his record, after three years Qazai had gone looking for other investors and found, some without difficulty, wealthy families who wanted a decent return. That was Shiraz, and it made him his first fortune. The Iranian funds continued to grow but were no longer everything, and when he founded Tabriz and let the real money pour in—the pension money, the insurance money, more cautious but vast—there were times when he could forget the mixed, poisonous inheritance his father had left him. Never for long, mind: they were an odd client, undemanding and incurious generally, but hard work nevertheless. Funds always arrived from surprising directions and had to leave by the most meandering routes, usually through companies incorporated in bizarre places by Qazai himself—or by Senechal, his loyal lieutenant.

The mention of the name seemed to stop Qazai’s flow, and for a moment he stared blankly ahead and said nothing. Throughout his monologue he had hardly once looked at Webster, and this was so unusual that Webster had no doubt of the truth of what he was saying. Nor was his tale incredible, for all that it was astonishing. Now that it was out, it made a grotesque sense; it fit.

IF YOU TOOK THEman Qazai wanted to be and inverted him, here he was. Not a great patriot but a paltry traitor, his weakness, after all, the same as his father’s: love of money, and a greater fear of there not being enough. While Webster was letting the story settle, alternately feeling sympathy and repugnance, the one thought that grew stronger and stronger was that Timur need not have died.

“So why didn’t you just sell the whole thing? I don’t get it.”

Qazai was silent.

“None of this need have happened.”

Qazai scratched at his beard. “Perhaps.”

“You know it.”

“I wanted to leave it for Timur.” He paused, stopped scratching. “I really did.”

“I’m not sure he wanted it.”

Qazai stared at Webster and in his eyes there was a suggestion of the old imperiousness. But it softened, in an instant, and he looked away, resting his forehead on his hand, pinching his brow.

“They never threatened him. They said they could destroy my life. I didn’t know they meant by taking his.”

“After what happened to Parviz?”

“I thought they were just trying to scare me.”

“If only they had.” Qazai glanced up and nodded, his eyes looking inward. “What about Mehr?”

“That was on their territory. I thought… I thought it was opportunist.”

Webster snorted. “They invited him.”

Qazai said nothing, and for a minute or two there was an exhausted silence between them.

“Who is Rad?” said Webster.

Qazai clasped his hands together and stared down at them.

“Does he have a first name?” said Webster.

“Not that I know.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s intelligence. I assume.”

“No shit.”

“That’s all I know. I’ve only met him three times. When Ahmadinejad came to power everything changed. After Nezam I dealt with the same man for over fifteen years. Mutlaq, his name was. I would see him once a year, always somewhere different.”

“How did you communicate?”

“We had a brass-plaque office in Mayfair. Just a letterbox. I checked it once a week.”

“Do you still have it?”

“A different one.”

“What if you wanted to talk to him?”

“We had emergency procedures. I never needed them.”

“Go on.”

“So. Two years ago I went to meet Mutlaq in Caracas and he wasn’t there. Rad was in his place. He told me that things in Tehran had changed, that they were concerned about the money. What I was doing with it. Investing it in Sunni businesses, in American companies. It was strange, but before that no one seemed to care where their money went. He told me from now on I would need to consider my investments differently. I told him I would see what I could do but it might be difficult to change. He just looked at me from behind those glasses and told me that I had better remember who had made me.” Qazai paused. “That was the first meeting.”