Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

For much of the journey neither Webster nor Qazai spoke. Quite simply, Webster thought, each had had enough of the other, and was waiting for the moment when they could finally separate. Each reminded the other of the faults in himself that he least wanted to contemplate: each depended on the other for some sort of redemption. No, redemption was not being offered. Seen in the best possible light, they were trying to ensure the safety of their families; in the worst, they were indulging in a grubby piece of blackmail to save their own lives.

Sitting in his leather seat, watching the clouds and occasionally reading a paragraph of Norman Mailer, Webster studied his client, studied himself and found it difficult to conclude that either life was worth saving. Qazai was vain, slippery, callously self-assured; a man who had no idea where his center was, and who had filled that hole with money; a bully, a sham and ultimately a coward. Webster liked to think he was none of these things, but wondered now whether the qualities they shared were as repugnant: a weakness in the face of temptation, a distorted notion of responsibility, an easy way of manipulating people when the cause seemed sufficiently important—or when it suited them. Neither was as distant as the other liked to believe. They had become a pair.

PAST THE BLACK SEAthe cloud that had covered most of Europe cleared and below them desert stretched ahead, a haze of heat blurring the horizon. For an hour all he saw was sand, sometimes criss-crossed with roads, and every now and then a city like a smudge in the distance. The sun had reached its peak and was beginning to hang lower in the sky as they approached the Persian Gulf, abruptly hard and black. Qazai, who had read a Financial Times and a Wall Street Journal with great concentration, and was now scribbling in a notebook on his knee (which Webster took to be a sign of undue confidence in their mission), happened to glance up to check on their progress, but instead of going back to his work as he had before, continued to stare out of the window, his expression suddenly rueful and detached. Webster watched him, guessing at the reason for this sudden change and wondering, not for the first time, whether it was sentimentality, or performance, or some real sense of his betrayal.

“That’s Iran,” said Qazai, without looking at Webster.

“I know.”

Qazai said nothing for a full minute, his face close to the glass.

“I haven’t served my country well.”

Webster didn’t reply.

BY THE TIME THEY TOUCHED DOWNthe sun was beginning to set behind the tallest of Dubai’s mirrored towers, glinting like gold in the yellow light, and the desert around the airport was turning a deep, dead ochre. As they stood by the door waiting for steps to be wheeled to the plane Qazai gave Webster a long, meaningful look, and then nodded, as if to say that after all this time, at the end of it all, he finally considered him to be a worthy cohort.

They breezed through the terminal—open only to private flights, and so obliging that even Webster’s spare passport, reserved for occasional trips to Israel, caused no delay—and found in a line of shiny cars outside a discreet black Mercedes that Webster had last seen parked at Timur’s house. While Qazai greeted the driver, Webster took off his jacket, draped it over his shoulder, where it hung heavy in the heat, scanned the road and wondered whether Rad was there to greet them.

Almost certainly not. He had one chance to stop the meeting taking place, and he had to kill two people to make sure. If he chose to intercept them on their way from the airport, he had all manner of unknowns to consider: their route, whether they would travel in one car or two, whether they would stop along the way, whether he would ever have the perfect opportunity to act. Given enough men he might follow them from the airport, just to make sure they went where they were meant to go, but otherwise he would surely do what he was being encouraged to do, which was ambush them at the meeting place, specially chosen to tempt a practiced assassin. They were returning to the restaurant where Constance had taken Webster, which was perfect for Rad’s purposes: a quiet, ill-lit road ran past it, and a gunman in a parked car or on one of the low roofs would have all the time in the world to take his shot. It would be dark, and it would be more or less deserted. Webster was certain that Rad had taken one look at it and known exactly what he was going to do.

Among the sports cars and the Bentleys he saw no obvious tail, and as Qazai’s driver pulled away he carefully checked the road behind them through the black glass. At first he could see nothing, but as they turned onto the main road that linked the terminals he saw a dark-gray Audi move out from the queue of cars and head in their direction.

“Anything?” said Qazai, twisting around in the seat next to him.

“Possibly. It doesn’t matter. We know what to do.”

Qazai was trying to look calm but his forehead was spotted with sweat, and more than once since getting in the car he had scratched absentmindedly at his beard.

“Do you think it’s him?”

“I don’t know. If I was him I’d want to be there waiting for us.” He shook his head.

“Why don’t we just lose him?”

Webster pinched his eyes closed. They had been through this. “Because whoever that is, if it’s anybody, we want them to think we don’t know they’re there.”

IT TOOK THEMhalf an hour to reach the Burj, and for all that time, with apparent skill, the gray Audi stayed six or seven cars behind. Webster couldn’t be sure, but nevertheless he knew, and he felt his heart quicken and his breathing grow shallow in his chest. All week he had been so taken up with planning and arranging that he hadn’t stopped to imagine—hadn’t dared imagine—how it might actually feel to be here, like this, driving slowly into a trap of his own making. He sat as calmly as he could, one hand on the documents beside him.

The bridge to the hotel was four hundred meters long; he had measured it from the satellite picture. At the end of its sweeping curve the great steel sail—still pristinely white, still unlikely—rose up into the blue-black sky. As they waited for the guard on the gate to talk to their driver, Webster watched the tourists coming and going in the faded sunshine. Through the open window came the sound of chatter and fleeting screams from the water park that overlooked the sea.

The guard nodded, the gate rose, the steel barrier sunk down into the tarmac and they moved off, driving over the water at a stately pace. Webster checked behind them. While they had been stationary the Audi had been out of sight, but halfway across the bridge he looked back to see it round a corner from the main road and draw into a parking lot opposite the guard’s hut.

“Is it there?” said Qazai.

Webster nodded, but as he glanced across at the strain in Qazai’s face he wished he hadn’t. It was important for this next stage that they both remain composed.

The car slowed to a halt under the canopy of the hotel, and as he got out Webster looked back along the bridge. He couldn’t see the other car, and at this distance in this light no one from the shore could be sure of seeing him, but they had to be quick. Chances were the Audi would stay where it was until it saw them leave, but one of them might try his luck at convincing the guard to let him cross the bridge.

Qazai’s driver was handing the bags to a porter; Qazai was looking about him with the lost air of someone who was used to buying hotels like this and who couldn’t quite believe that he was now reduced to playing such tawdry games in them. Beyond their car, its hood down and pointing toward them, positively rakish amidst all the glitz, was Constance’s Cadillac.