Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

As he came up the rain started, fat drops warmer than the pond water, and he turned onto his back to watch the sea-gray sky. It was like Cornwall here. Green and gray and wet, the earth and the sea and the sky at one. If he came through this he would never go to the desert again.

BY TEN HE WASoutside the Mount Street house and had made a number of resolutions. His head was clear, and he was no longer fearful. This might not end well, but at least he could make provisions.

A man he had never seen before answered the door. He was big, dark, his hair cropped short.

“Yes.”

“I’m here to see Mr. Qazai.”

“Your name?”

“Webster.”

The man moved aside, scanning the street before shutting the door.

“I’ll let Mr. Qazai know you’re here.”

Webster took off his raincoat and as he looked around for somewhere to hang it Ava came out of the sitting room. She was wearing a black sweater and black jeans, and she gave him a long, searching, uncomfortable look before she said anything.

“Come to plot, have you?”

“I’ve come to help,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair.

She held his eye for a moment and seemed about to leave when something changed her mind. She turned back to him, biting her lower lip, her hands on her hips.

“I want you to explain what’s going on. He won’t tell me anything. I have no idea.”

Webster took a deep breath and looked down. “I can’t. He has to tell you himself.”

She shook her head. “No. No. That won’t do.” Her voice was tight. “Everything’s a fucking mystery. On Saturday he calls me and says that I have to leave London for a week. Out of nowhere. He asks me where Raisa and the children are, and can I find a number for them in Croatia. Then he sent someone to bring me here, but won’t say a word. Except that I’m in danger.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not a bystander. I’m involved. Do you understand?”

Her eyes were pained and bloodshot, and as she waited for his response Webster could see her biting the inside of her lip, trying to keep control. Hammer was right. She should know; not because she could be useful, although God knows he would rather deal with Qazai through her, but because she was right. She was as much a part of this as he was.

Behind her came the brief rap of footsteps on stone. Ava turned, and there was Qazai. He stood for a moment, taking in the scene, imagining what had just been said.

“Ava. This is between me and Mr. Webster. Leave us, please.”

Ava looked at Webster meaningfully, as if she understood what he had been thinking, silently appealing to him to air it. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t throw Qazai off his fragile course.

“He needs to tell you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Staring at him, she gave a small, contemptuous shake of her head, turned, and walked away without so much as a glance at her father. Webster watched her climb the stairs and felt painfully mute.

“Let’s go to my study,” said Qazai.

BOOKS LINED THE SMALL ROOMon three of its walls from floor to ceiling; the fourth was all screens, all switched off. It was gloomy: a thin light came from a single sash window that looked out onto a brick wall six feet away, and a lamp on Qazai’s desk was unlit. Webster could smell the sweet smell of whisky in the air.

Qazai gestured for him to sit, and moved around behind the desk. Physically, his change was complete. There was no spring about him now, and his movements were ponderous. He was an old man.

“Have you heard anything?”

Webster frowned. “From whom?”

“From… from the Iranians.”

“No. Why would I?”

“No reason.” In the half darkness Qazai’s eyes were staring. He shook his head. “You never know. I just wanted to check.”

Not for the first time Webster sensed that Qazai was veering off course.

“You’re going to go through with this. You know you have no choice.”

Qazai looked at him, raised his eyebrows in resignation, and nodded, just once.

“I have good news for you.”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“It’s not remotely funny. Yves called me.”

Webster scratched the back of his head, harder than was necessary. He felt the strain in his neck relax a notch. “What… When did he call?”

“Last night.”

“What did he want?”

Looking down at his hands, Qazai thrummed his fingers on the top of the desk for several seconds. Eventually he spoke.

“Money.”

“True to form.”

“He wants fifty million dollars. A bonus at the end of the scheme, as he put it.”

“Or he tells all.”

Qazai let out a long, heavy breath. “You should have killed him.”

“Perhaps you should. I’m glad I didn’t.”

Neither man said anything for a moment.

“Can you find him?” said Qazai.

“I have better things to do. I could try to speak to him.”

“This is more than an irritant. He wants the money before the deal goes through.”

“Do you have it?”

“Barely.”

“You’d better find it.”

“I want you to stop him.”

“I’ll do my best. But I want something in return.”

Qazai leaned forward against the desk. “What?”

“For all my help. Two things. You tell the Italians to stop whatever it is you started.”

Qazai raised an eyebrow a fraction. “I don’t have anything to do with your problems in Italy.”

“Bullshit. You make that stop or so help me I will do everything I can to make it easy for Rad to find you and fuck you up.” Qazai, with an effort, held his eye. “I mean it.”

Qazai ran his tongue around his teeth. “Yves looked after that. I don’t know what he did.”

“Yes you do.”

“Not exactly. I don’t know who he spoke to.”

Webster laughed. “You know, I’m not sure I can rely on Yves. I’m not sure he likes me anymore. So you’re going to have to make some calls. Call your Italian lawyer, or your politician friend, or whoever you need to call, and sort it out.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

Qazai understood.

“The other thing will be easy for you. Provision for my family. If I don’t come through this, whenever that happens, I want money to be paid to Ikertu.”

“How much?”

“A million dollars. From your estate. Ike will add the interest to my life insurance payments as they go out. I don’t want my wife to know.”

“It’s not much.”

“It’s enough. Any more and she might think it was from you.”

Qazai nodded, thoughtful. “If you deal with Yves, yes.”

“No. Regardless. In writing.”

Qazai narrowed his eyes.

“It’s a million,” said Webster. “Even for a broken billionaire that’s nothing.”

THE REST OF THAT DAYWebster spent with Oliver, who was tired and becoming tetchy. The American Express card belonging to Rad’s alter ego, Mohamed Ganem, was registered in Egypt, and after a morning of frustrating calls to Cairo and easier ones to head office in New York—conducted in a highly plausible East Coast accent—Oliver had eventually established that in the last forty-eight hours it had paid Royal Air Maroc some three thousand dollars for flights, and withdrawn cash from a machine at Heathrow. So Rad was in London, and while that was no surprise it made Webster realize that the threats made to him and Qazai were not empty—not that he had ever been in any doubt—and that while the Iranians were making their plans he was failing utterly to find one of his own.

Senechal’s phone, meanwhile, remained switched off, and Oliver was able to see that no calls had been made on it since his call to Qazai the previous night. The last payment on his credit card had been for a hotel in Marrakech on Saturday night and a flight to Paris the next day. His office merely said that he was in meetings. It was impossible to know where he was.