Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

“Then?”

“Then the world collapsed. Half of Shiraz was in the Gulf and half of that was in Dubai and property. We still haven’t recovered.”

“How much? How much did you lose?”

Qazai ran a hand through his hair. “Over half. Without what we owed the banks. And then Rad appeared again.”

“Appeared?”

“There was a letter. Asking to meet. This time in Belgrade.”

“Do you think they knew?”

“Probably.”

“And they wanted their money?”

“All of it.”

“How much?”

“Two point seven billion.”

Webster raised an eyebrow. “That’s enough. How much do you have?”

“Less.” Qazai sighed. “Until I sell.”

Astonishing though it was, Webster sensed that after everything Qazai was still reluctant to part with his empire. He fought his irritation.

“So. The Americans are ready?”

Qazai chewed his lip and sighed. “Yes. They’re ready.”

“Can it happen in a week?”

“At the price they’re getting we could do it in a day. They’re flying in on Wednesday. We’ll sign the papers then.”

Neither said anything for a moment.

“What happened to Yves?” Qazai asked finally.

That was an excellent question. Webster fielded it warily.

“They tried to shoot us. In the desert. Yves seemed keen to help them out.”

Qazai looked blank.

“He had a gun. I think he wanted me to sacrifice myself.”

“And?”

“I hit him. And left him there.”

The revelation seemed to give Qazai pause. He watched Webster closely, as if reassessing him.

“So he was in on it?” Webster punctured his thoughts.

“Yves?”

“Yes. He knew about your dark little secret?”

“Someone had to.”

“Was he blackmailing you?”

Qazai’s expression went dark. “No. But I paid him well.”

“So that was the hold he had over you.”

Qazai didn’t respond.

“Ava thought it had to do with your divorce but it wasn’t, was it? He was milking you.” He paused. “Did you know he was talking to them?”

“I’m sorry?”

“With this.”

Webster fished Senechal’s phone out of his pocket and chucked it into Qazai’s lap. Qazai looked at it, puzzled, working out what it meant.

“You did know really, didn’t you?” said Webster. “Deep down. He had two masters. And none.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, it does. If I was Rad and I wanted someone to keep tabs on you he’d be my choice. I’d pay him well for it, too. Maybe he threw in extras for them. Like Timur’s schedule. Like when your grandchildren swim.”

Qazai continued to stare at the phone. “Why kill him?” he said at last.

“Because he outlived his usefulness. Because they thought you no longer trusted him. Or just because it’s neat.”

The stewardess came and asked them if they wanted more drinks or anything to eat. Qazai asked for water, and as he was waiting for his glass to be filled Webster watched him closely. After everything, he wasn’t broken. A few minutes ago when he was telling his story he seemed to have given up on the notion of his greatness, and his unassailable sense of self seemed to have crumpled with the fiction that had supported it. But any shame he was feeling, Webster began to realize, was for the mistakes he had made, not for the lie he had spent his life telling. That deep, deep pride was showing signs of reviving.

Qazai sipped at his water. It was clear that something was exercising him, and Webster waited for it.

“If you’d just done what you were asked,” he said at last, looking away from Webster, the words bitter.

Webster blinked, frowning. “Are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious.”

“I did just that.”

“Nonsense. It was a crusade. Some sort of… obsession. And for what? What were you hoping? To expose the truth?” Qazai shook his head. “No. I do not understand. Who benefited? Who won?”

“I wasn’t prepared to lose.”

“Not to me.”

“No.” Webster said it quietly. “Not to you.”

“I thought for a while that you might stop for Ava’s benefit. That she might have power over you where Yves and I had none.”

There was a faint taunt in his eyes as he said it that made the blood rush to Webster’s head. With effort he checked himself.

“Then you were wrong about that as well.” He paused. “What will you tell her?”

Qazai closed his eyes, shook his head. As Webster had hoped, the thought clearly unsettled him.

“She can’t know.” He fixed his eye on Webster’s. “She cannot know.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure. If you tell her what you told me she might go for it. I wouldn’t mention how much of the money you made went on arms. Or how much ended up as rocket launchers in the hands of terrorists. Or how many assassinations of her friends it’s paid for over the years. If you leave all that out you might be all right. Until it dawns on her that you caused her brother’s death.”

Qazai’s eyes flashed with pain and scorn, and for a moment he said nothing.

“I should have left you in that cell.”

“You don’t have to like me. But I do need you to understand. We have a week. You sell Tabriz. You pay the Iranians their money. If you do that, I won’t tell everyone who you really are. Not even Ava. It will make me feel sick but I’ll do it. And I’ll work out how we stop them killing us afterward.”

Qazai was quiet for a moment; his frame relaxed and he sat back in his seat. He examined his hand, pulled his fingers back until the knuckles cracked and then nodded his head, the faintest movement.

“What’s your plan?”

“I don’t have one,” said Webster.

IT WAS EVENING BY THE TIMEWebster turned the corner into Hiley Road, still in Youssef’s suit, bruised and grimy from his long journey, body and mind exhausted. Everything was as he had left it two days earlier. Fewer cars, because it was Saturday, but he glanced inside them all nevertheless, even walking twenty yards beyond his house to make sure that he was unobserved. He had never had to do this before, and it made him feel sick.

Automatically he patted his pockets for his keys, found none, walked up the short garden path and lifted the heavy wrought-iron knocker, trying to find a rhythm that was positive but not jaunty. Inside he could hear voices and light skidding steps and through the glass he saw Nancy’s hand reaching up and struggling at full stretch to turn the Yale lock. The door opened and he crouched down to receive her and Daniel, who came at him so fast he struggled to keep his balance. Both were in their pajamas. Hugging them close, he looked up at Elsa, who was standing in the doorway, tried a smile, and watched her turn and walk down the long hall into the kitchen.

“Daddy,” said Nancy. “Have your trousers shrunk?”

Webster looked down at himself. He looked ridiculous.

“I’m just going to the loo, sweetheart. Tell Mummy I’ll be down in a minute.”

Upstairs in the bathroom he checked himself in the mirror. One eye bruised and spreading black, one merely tired, both bloodshot, neither confident nor particularly honest. He took off Youssef’s filthy shirt, stopping for a moment to examine the bruise that had settled on his side, struggled out of the trousers and put both in the laundry basket before taking a T-shirt and some shorts from the chest of drawers in his bedroom and hurriedly changing into them. In his own, clean clothes, the uniform of his weekends, he forgot for a short moment where he had been and what he had done.

Elsa had finished the washing up and had started wiping crumbs off the table.

“They watching something?” said Webster.