Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

On the street ahead Webster could see four or five cars parked; he scanned the area for signs of people or movement but could see nothing. To his left were the two low brick buildings, the further hung with the red banners that marked the entrance to the restaurant. On the other side of the road there were two hundred yards of sand and gravel before the bright line of the main road. There could be anybody out there. The driver said a few words to his colleague that Webster couldn’t understand and pulled in at the back of the row of cars.

“Wait here,” he said, in English, and both men got out, shutting their doors behind them.

Webster watched them walk casually away, not looking at each other, their jackets creased and identical.

Why had they both gone? Did they know they wouldn’t run or were they clearing a space? “Get out,” he said to Qazai, who looked at him blankly. “We’re better out. Come on.”

The driver glanced behind him at the sound of the car door shutting, returned Webster’s defiant look without expression, and carried on walking. Webster waited for that familiar crack, for that flat, dead sound, but none came; just the sound of traffic way off and an engine being killed somewhere in the dark behind them. He looked at Qazai across the top of the car, and in that moment they were the same: taut, every muscle fixed, afraid. Qazai was shaking his head.

“They won’t let her go.”

The men had stopped by the last of the parked cars and the driver was bending down to talk through the window. For an age he stood like that, dimly silhouetted against some distant light; then he straightened, the car doors opened, and two men got out, one tall, one short.

The short man closed his door without looking behind him and started walking, ahead of the other three, toward Webster, who moved around to the front of the car, beckoning Qazai to follow him.

He knew it was Rad, but as he drew closer, he realized how accurate his recollection of him had been, in his dreams, in every waking moment: the small, solid frame; the unshaven jaw jutting slightly; the widow’s peak of slick black hair. And the sunglasses, which he was wearing even now, making his way surely toward them with a boxer’s quiet strut. As he drew close Webster felt his body tense, felt pain—a memory, but real—shear through his thigh, and only with concentration resisted the urge to back away.

Rad stopped a yard away, took off his glasses and stared up into Webster’s face, his head cocked ever so slightly on one side. He didn’t look at Qazai. In the darkness his eyes glowed pale gray and cold, and Webster again felt possessed by them.

He heard Qazai’s voice, sensed that he had stepped toward Rad. “Where is she?”

One of Rad’s men moved forward; Rad held Webster’s gaze for a last moment and turned to Qazai, taking him in before answering.

“Where I want.” He let the words hang in the dark, then looked back at Webster. “Show me.”

Webster collected himself. He was now in charge.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“No. Here.”

Webster shook his head. “You need to see these. And they don’t.” He looked over Rad’s shoulder at his henchmen.

Perfectly still, Rad thought. Then he held his hand up, and without looking around said something in Farsi. The three men hesitated a moment, turned and walked back the way they had come. When they were twenty yards away Rad held his arm in the air, clicked his fingers and they stopped.

“Show me here.” He took a phone from his pocket, and lit up its screen.

Webster handed him the documents, watched as Rad took them from the envelope, got them steady in his hand and moved the phone over them. In the greenish light his eyes flitted quickly across each page, scanning them; understanding them.

When he reached the last he put it to the back of the pile and looked up, his lips pressed together. His head turned from Webster to Qazai, then back.

“I am rich.” He had lowered his voice; it sounded clear and scratchy in the night air.

“If you want.”

“No one will believe.”

“They’ll believe. The next thing is we start spending it. There’ll be a house in the Caribbean with your name on it. Works of art. A very unrevolutionary Ferrari.”

Rad’s forehead creased but somehow Webster knew that he understood.

“The thing is,” he went on, quietly, leaning forward, “that’s real money. Sitting there. Everybody believes money. Even your superiors. His clients.” He nodded at Qazai. “They all understand how it works. You made a rational decision. You chose to sell what’s yours. That’s what we all do, surely? Your power over his life. Over my life.” He paused. “But they won’t like it, will they? No one likes to see a fellow revolutionary making the most of his opportunities. How do you think they’ll do it?” Rad’s eyes were fast on his. “Hang you from a bridge? Drive you up with some other enemies of the revolution and leave you dangling in space? Or shoot you while you’re having a coffee in Paris? Is there anyone else who does that sort of thing? Or is that just you?”

He was talking loudly now, and he felt Qazai’s hand on his arm.

Rad snorted, a sort of laugh. He looked off into the darkness, shook his head, and turned back to Webster, rubbing his chin with his hand, squeezing the skin hard as if it wasn’t his own.

“I need him.” He glanced at Qazai.

Webster shook his head. “No. You let Ava go, we walk away, and you get to keep the money. It’s yours. This is a good day for all of us.”

Rad’s thin lips tightened into a smile. “Understand. He is ours. If not me, someone else take him. If he lives, I die anyway. And someone will come for him.”

In the meager light Qazai’s face was ghostly.

“I need him,” said Rad.

“No,” said Webster, his chest tight. “That isn’t the deal. You don’t negotiate.”

Rad breathed a deep, satisfied breath, filling his lungs. He handed the documents to Webster, and spoke to Qazai with the air of someone who isn’t about to say more.

“You. Or her.”

Qazai turned his head to Webster, not in appeal but simply to confirm that there was nowhere left to go. Webster had never felt so helpless. He thought of Lock, just after he had been shot, lying in the snow on his back, a clean black hole in his coat over his heart. He had no ideas. No schemes. But Qazai’s eyes told him he didn’t need any; that this was the end.

Qazai took a step forward.

“I need to know she’s safe.”

Rad looked at him for a moment, then took his phone from his pocket and dialed a number; in the quiet Webster could hear it ring once. After a few words in Farsi, Rad passed it to Qazai.

“Hello? Hello?” He held the phone away from his ear and was about to say something to Rad when a voice, thin and distorted, sounded on the line. “Hello? Ava? Ava. Where are you? Are you OK?” Webster watched Qazai listening to his daughter, his spare hand pressed against his ear to hear better. He looked old, drawn, dignified. “Where are you?… Oh, thank God. Thank God… Find a taxi. Get home… No, I’m in Dubai… I don’t know, my angel. I don’t know.”

Rad took the phone from him and ended the call. Qazai was a head taller than him, upright now, braced.

Rad gave Webster a final look. “Leave the money where it is,” he said, and making sure that they understood each other, turned and walked toward his men.

Qazai watched him go, and Webster watched Qazai.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No need,” said Qazai, and held out his hand.

“I’ll do what I can,” said Webster as they shook.

“There’s no need,” said Qazai, and with a single, deliberate nod followed Rad. Car doors opened and closed; headlights flared on; and Webster watched the blacked-out windows pass him into the night.