Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

In the evening Webster ate half a pizza, drank whisky and felt like a stranger in his empty house. The thought struck him, while he was listlessly watching television, that he might never see it full again. He considered calling Elsa, but decided against it; spoke to George Black, and heard that nothing of any interest was happening around his parents’ house; tried Ava and got her voicemail. Then he phoned Qazai, and told him that he should send Senechal an e-mail letting him know that the money would be paid, and that they should meet at St. Pancras Station the following afternoon to agree how it would be exchanged. Qazai bristled, and Webster explained to him with greater patience than he deserved that this may be the only way to get Senechal to break cover.

That was all he could usefully do. In the end he called his parents’ phone, deciding that if Elsa answered fate had meant them to talk. His father picked up.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Ben. Hello. How are you?” His father’s voice was gentle and rich. It was like Oliver’s in one respect: it made you want to confess.

“I’m fine. Fine, thank you. I was just calling to see how you all were.”

“We’re all well. The children are having stories.”

“Everyone happy?”

“Everyone’s happy.” A pause. “When do you think you might be able to join us?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. Saturday, maybe. Let’s see.”

“And everything’s OK?”

“It’s all fine.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Webster closed his eyes and shook his head. He longed to talk about it but it wouldn’t do any good.

“Not now. Soon, maybe.”

“I understand.”

Both were silent for a moment.

“Always remember,” said his father, “that you’re not wholly responsible for everything. Others play their part. You have a tendency to forget that.”

“Some of us are more to blame than others.”

“Perhaps. But only because you bear all the weight you can. That’s a good thing. Not everyone does.”

Webster nodded. He couldn’t speak.

“It will fall together again. You’ll see.”

Webster didn’t respond.

“Hope to see you at the weekend.”

“OK. Thanks, Dad.”

He put the phone down, his head full of an unsettling sense of being young and old, his father’s son and his children’s father, fatigued and childish at once.

WEBSTER TOOK NO PAINKILLERSthat night and when Constance called hadn’t slept for longer than an hour.

“Ben. Fletcher. You sound unwell.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine thirty here. A little earlier where you are.”

“Jesus, Fletcher.”

“I thought you’d want news when I got it.”

“I do. I do.” Reaching over to his bedside table, he fumbled in the half-light for his glass, drank water awkwardly through the side of his mouth and slumped back. “You in Beirut?”

“No. I’m back in paradise. They gave up when they saw what a pain in the ass I was about to be.”

Webster grunted.

“I know a thing or two about your new friend,” said Constance.

“About Rad?”

“About Mr. Zahak Rad.” He paused. “Now you’re awake.”

“Go on.”

Constance gave a low whistle. “You picked one evil bastard to fuck with, my friend.”

“Tell me.”

“Well. Up until a couple of years ago he was a big cheese in VEVAK, an intelligence guy all his life. Joined when he was a teenager, as far as anyone can tell, right at the beginning. There’s a story that he was in prison when the revolution happened, a political. Been trying to blow up the Shah or some shit. Anyway, seems he blossomed. Spent the eighties and nineties in Europe assassinating dissidents. Or helping to. He crops up in the file of some poor fucker who got shot eating his breakfast in Paris. He’s the go-to-guy for foreign ops, basically. Doesn’t spend much time in Tehran, he’s in such demand, until the last five years, when it looks like he’s recalled to center and given some new, nasty job doing intelligence for the Revolutionary Guards. Keeping an eye on dissidents. Suppressing uprisings. Seems he’s mainly in Dubai.”

Webster was sitting up in bed, his head clear.

“Do we know what he’s like?”

Constance laughed. “He’s a regular charmer, Ben. Family man, head of the local Rotarians, gives to charity. What the fuck do you think he’s like?”

“Come on.”

“Sorry. You have to understand, there’s not much on him. Most of it comes from one source. And it’s patchy. But he’s good. Obviously. He’s been doing what he does for a very long time and that Paris job is the only time his fingerprints are on anything. And he’s old school. He’s an Ayatollah guy rather than an Ahmadinejad guy, apparently. The new regime isn’t sure about his spending all that time abroad, prey to the thousand seductions of the West. Man might lose his revolutionary fervor. I get the impression they shouldn’t worry.”

“That it?”

“That’s your lot, my friend. And it comes at a price.”

“Go on.”

“My friends would like to talk to you about Darius Qazai’s pot of gold.”

“With pleasure. But they’d better be quick. I may not be around.”

Constance scoffed. “There’s no percentage in killing you. They just want you scared.”

“It’s working.”

Zahak Rad. Webster could see him clearly, a knot of energy and malice, making his murderous, unstoppable progress across thirty years.

TUESDAY PASSED; WEDNESDAY CAME.The Americans were due to land early, and in something of a posse: a chief executive, a chief financial officer, a chief legal counsel and a large pack of lawyers just behind all the chiefs. Qazai would meet with his own lawyers at ten, with his conquerors, as he undoubtedly saw them, at midday, and at eight with Webster, who had insisted that they go to Tabriz together for no other reason than he didn’t trust Qazai to go through with it all.

At Mount Street Webster pulled the bell and chimes sounded somewhere in the center of the house. The door opened immediately, and there was Qazai’s new security guard; Webster made to go in, but the guard narrowed the gap and stood in it, filling the space with his bulk.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Webster paused a moment before answering, looking up an inch or two into the guard’s steadfast eyes. “I’m here to see Qazai. He’s expecting me.”

“Mr. Qazai is not at home at present, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back when he is.”

Webster shut his eyes and gave the slightest shake of his head.

“I have a meeting with him at eight. It’s eight now. He’ll be back any minute.” A pause. “Now let me in. Please.”

“I’m not authorized to admit anyone unless Mr. Qazai is on the premises, sir. That is my brief.”

“When did he go out?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Did he take the car? Is his driver here?”

No response. Webster stared a little longer at the man’s block of a face and did his best to control his irritation.

“I want to speak to Ava. Miss Qazai.” The guard didn’t react. “Can you call her for me, please?”

“I’m not authorized to admit people without an appointment, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Then call her,” Webster said, slowly, as if to a child, “and she can come downstairs, and we can make an appointment, and then you can let me in. How’s that?”

The guard looked at him squarely before answering. “Miss Qazai is not here. Sir. It looks like you’re on your own.” He closed the door, with irritating composure.

Webster swore under his breath, took the phone from his pocket and rang Qazai’s number. After a second the voice of Qazai’s secretary was in his ear, telling him that this was the voicemail of Darius Qazai and asking him to leave a message.