Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

Webster found a young woman in a suit with a name badge and told her that they would be back to check in later and would she please put these bags in Mr. Qazai’s suite. Qazai looked troubled.

“We have to go now,” said Webster. “You have to go now.”

“I need to freshen up.”

“You’re perfectly fresh. I can’t have them see we’re not both in your car. Go now,” he addressed this half to Qazai, half to his driver, “and drive to Timur’s house. Like we agreed. Stay there for ten minutes, then leave for this address.” He handed the driver a slip of paper. “Do you know it?” The driver nodded. “Good.”

Over Qazai’s shoulder he saw Constance’s face, beaming. How he wanted a cigarette.

“Have you got that?” Qazai nodded. He looked scared. “Don’t worry. They’re not about to try anything. And if they do you’re sitting in an armored car. They can’t shoot you and they can’t blow you up. You’re going to be fine. If they do something, just drive at a reasonable speed to a busy place. But they’re not going to.” Qazai took a deep breath, looked Webster in the eye and turned toward the car. “You’ll only have to come all the way if I need to flush them out. Chances are I’ll have found Rad before you get there and shown him what we’ve done. Then this will all be over.”

Without looking up Qazai nodded, opened the door of the car, nodded again and got in. Webster turned and watched the Mercedes drive in a loop around the concourse and then slowly out into the dusk, its rear lights glowing red. He tried to will the future into being. The Audi would follow Qazai, first to Timur’s and then to the rendezvous, where Rad and his men were surely already waiting. There were three places they might be: on the roof of the restaurant or the building next door; in a car on the road outside; or hidden in the darkness of the wasteland opposite, keeping low. All Webster had to do was find Rad, and talk to him before Qazai arrived.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder but he barely glanced around.

“Evening, my scheming little British friend. All going to plan?”

Webster took his cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Constance, who took it and, producing a lighter, lit Webster’s and then his own, his gray beard illuminated by the flame.

“Such as it is,” said Webster.

The Mercedes was now in the middle of the bridge, two hundred yards away, gliding slowly behind two other cars. Then its rear lights shone brighter and it came to a stop. For a moment it sat still in the middle of the road.

“Fuck,” Webster said, as he saw the rear door open and Qazai get out, looking down at the palm of his hand. “What’s he doing?”

“His e-mail, by the look of it,” said Constance.

Qazai looked back toward the hotel, frozen, in shock. He ran his hand through his hair, turned to look along the bridge toward the shore, and started walking away, fast and with purpose.

“Oh fuck.” Webster flicked away his cigarette and began running, past the taxis and the limousines and the guests, out from under the canopy of the Burj and across the bridge, clutching his envelope, hardly noticing the curious faces passing him and not taking his eyes from Qazai, who was now a hundred yards from the guard’s hut and still marching, arms swinging, like a man who has finally had enough.

“Darius!” Webster shouted, his shirt instantly patched with sweat, gaining but too slowly. The word sounded strange on his lips. “Darius! Stop!”

Webster was over the bridge now; the guard by his hut looked for a moment as if he was going to try to stop him but in the end just watched, more puzzled than anything else, as he ran by. Ahead, Qazai was turning into the parking lot, just yards in front now, ignoring his shouts.

“Darius, would you fucking stop? What is it? What are you doing?”

In the near corner of the parking lot, facing them and the road, its lights off, was the Audi, its black windows impenetrable. Webster drew level with Qazai and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Stop.”

Qazai glanced around at Webster, handed him something, and carried on walking toward the car. It was his phone. Webster looked down at it, and saw on its screen an image that at first made no sense: a photograph, all dark colors and indistinct forms. He blinked, took it in again and it became clear. It was Ava. She appeared to be lying down; her hands were behind her back, and black tape was wound tightly around her mouth.

For a moment the grainy horror of it held him, until a sharp noise brought him around. Qazai was banging on the window of the Audi, first with his knuckles, then with his fist. He began to shout in Farsi.

Webster ran to him and grabbed his arm.

“Wait.”

“Enough waiting.” Qazai shrugged his arm free and hammered once more on the glass. “Enough fucking waiting.”

Webster looked around him. The hotel guard had appeared at the entrance to the parking lot and was watching with professional interest.

“Darius.” Webster stopped his arm again, speaking in a low voice now and leaning in to Qazai. “Darius, stop. People are watching. This is Dubai. In a minute we won’t be able to do anything.”

Qazai’s arm fell by his side and he looked up, his eyes burning with a passion and a noble fear that Webster had not seen there before.

“What do I do?” he said. “Tell me what to do.”

Webster checked on the guard, who was standing with his arms crossed waiting for the next development. A colleague had joined him.

“Tell them,” said Webster, thinking hard. “Tell them to take us to Rad, or I’ll tell that guard that they’re armed. Tell them that before their boss kills anybody we have something that he will want to see.”

Qazai bent down to the driver’s window and said some words in Farsi, just loud enough to get through the black glass. He repeated them, but got no response. As he straightened up, looking to Webster for the next idea, the car’s engine started and the central locking clicked.

Webster tried the door, and held it open for Qazai.

THERE WERE TWO MENin the car, both young, both bearded, both silent. As they drove through the evening traffic neither responded to Qazai’s questions, which he repeated in Farsi over and over, obstinately refusing to give up.

How in God’s name had they taken Ava? He told himself that when Rad saw how the game had changed he would quickly understand that he was beaten, as perhaps he was; but all along they had been gambling that he understood logic, and with a cold sinking fear Webster saw with great clarity now what the price would be if they had miscalculated.

“Darius,” he said, putting his hand on Qazai’s arm. Qazai turned to him, and in the yellow light from the street lamp Webster could see that his face was tight with fear. “It’s OK. We’re still in charge.” He tried to look convinced.

They headed toward Deira along Sheikh Zayed Road, and Webster guessed that they were being taken to the original meeting place. Why change a perfect plan? Now that the circumstances had changed he cursed himself for choosing somewhere so perfect for Rad’s purposes.

Soon they were crossing the bridge over the creek. Webster watched the other Burj, the immense tower, rise up above the water and resisted the temptation to turn in his seat and look for Constance. Either he was following or he wasn’t, and in any case there was little he could do.

Away from the edges of the sky the stars were coming out, weakly reflecting the glitter down below, and as they drove into Deira the roads began to narrow and to clear. Webster remembered the route from his time here with Constance, and he watched the buildings shrink and grow dusty with a sense of inevitability that was nothing like calm. Finally they pulled off the main road and within a hundred yards they were in darkness, sparse street lamps casting only narrow white pools of light.